Her hair was a ruin: short and ragged, sticking out in uneven tufts. In some places it barely covered her ears; in others it hung down to her jaw. She looked like a sick child or a girl just let out of a workhouse. Clara touched it with trembling fingers. And now, at last, alone in the dark, the tears came.
She cried silently, with her hand pressed over her mouth so Betsy would not wake. She cried for her hair; she cried for her mother's hands; she cried for the forty faces that had watched and done nothing. And she cried for the Duke, who had turned his back.
That was the strangest part: why did that hurt the most? He was nothing to her—a master, a stranger. One kind word in a library did not make him a friend. And yet...
Clara wiped her face firmly with her sleeve. Enough. Tears had never helped her before; they would not help her now.
She knelt beside her narrow bed and slid her hand carefully inside a small slit in the side of the mattress. Her fingers found what she was looking for: a folded letter, soft and yellowed with age, and tied with a faded ribbon. She sat on the floor by the candle and opened it. She did not need to read it; she knew every word by heart, but she read it anyway, as she had read it a thousand times before.
*My dearest Clara,*
*If you are reading this, then I did not live to come home.*
*Do not grieve too long, my darling girl. Take care of your mother and little Polly.*
*I want you to know the truth so that you will never be ashamed of my name. I did not steal. I did not forge anything.*
*The Earl of Marlowe borrowed 40,000 pounds from my bank, and when the time came to repay it, he swore the signature on the agreement was false. He swore that I had made it up to rob him. He had powerful friends; I had only the truth.*
*But the truth still exists, Clara. The original agreement signed in his own hand is safe. I gave it to the Duke of Ravenshire before they arrested me. He was there the day the Earl signed it. He saw everything.*
*The Duke of Ravenshire holds the truth. Go to him when you are old enough. He will help you.*
*I love you more than all the world.*
*Your Papa.*
Clara folded the letter again and held it against her heart.
Her name was not Clara Bell. Bell had been her mother's maiden name. Her true name was Clara Hartley, and eight years ago she had been the daughter of one of the most respected bankers in London. They had lived in a tall white house on a quiet square. She had worn silk ribbons and taken music lessons. Her father had come home every evening and swung little Polly up into the air until she shrieked with laughter.