Chapter 9

He had pressed the carved wooden rose on the corner of the desk. A tiny drawer had slid out from underneath, hidden where nobody would ever think to look. Inside were lumps of sugar."For the horses," he had whispered with a wink. "Don't tell my wife. She thinks I spoil them."Clara walked slowly to the corner of the desk. The carved rose was still there, dark with age. Her hand was trembling as she pressed it.Click.The tiny drawer slid out. There was no sugar inside now, only a single folded sheet of paper, yellow with age. Clara looked over her shoulder at the closed door. The house was quiet. She unfolded the paper with careful fingers. It was a letter, or the beginning of one. The handwriting was large and bold, but it grew messier as it went on, as if the writer had been very upset:

My dear Margaret,
I must tell you something that will cause you great pain, and I am sorry for it. For many months, I have suspected that money has been taken from the estate. I did not want to believe it. Tonight, I found the proof.
It is E.V. He has stolen from us for years, thousands of pounds. I have protected him for the sake of our long friendship, but I can no longer protect him. Tomorrow morning, after my ride, I will go to him and tell him that he must—

The letter stopped there, in the middle of a word.Clara read it again, and then a third time. Her hands were shaking so badly now that the paper rattled.After my ride.The old Duke had gone riding the next morning. His saddle strap had broken at full gallop on the hill above the lake. He had been thrown and killed instantly. He had never finished this letter. He had never gone to E.V., because E.V. had made sure he would not live long enough to do it.Edmund Vane.Clara pressed her hand over her mouth to stop herself from crying out. Fifteen years. Fifteen years her father had been called a murderer, and the proof that someone else had a reason to kill had been sitting right here inside a drawer meant for sugar lumps."What are you doing?"Clara spun around. The Duke stood in the doorway.There was no time to think. Clara slipped the letter into the pocket of her apron and pushed the little drawer shut with her hip. She grabbed her duster from the desk. "Cleaning, Your Grace. Mrs. Pratt sent me."The Duke did not answer at first. He was not looking at her; he was looking around the room: at the sheets over the chairs, at the books, at the desk in the sunlight."I haven't been in here since I was 15," he said quietly. "My mother locked the door the day we buried him. I told myself I didn't want to come in." He gave a short, sad laugh. "I suppose the truth is that I was afraid.""Afraid of what, Your Grace?""That it would still smell of his tobacco. That I would see his coat on the chair and think for one second that he was coming back." He walked slowly to the window. "It doesn't smell of anything now. Only dust."

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