Clara shook her head. She folded the gloves neatly on the velvet cushion beside her.
"I am a maid, Your Grace. I poured the wine, I translated the words, and I played the part. But midnight has passed. The carriage is turning back into a pumpkin. I will pack my things before dawn."
Arthur's jaw tightened, but he didn't argue. He remained completely silent for the remainder of the ride.
The carriage finally shuddered to a halt in the courtyard of Ashbourne House. The footman opened the door, bowing low, his eyes widening slightly at Clara's gown before he quickly averted his gaze.
Arthur stepped out into the damp chill and turned, offering his hand. Clara hesitated, then took it. His grip was entirely uncompromising. He didn't lead her toward the servants' entrance: he pulled her up the wide marble stairs, straight through the massive front doors, and down the main corridor toward his study.
Mrs. Gable stood near the staircase, holding a ring of iron keys. The housekeeper's face went completely slack with shock as the Duke marched past, his hand locked around the wrist of the scullery maid dressed in midnight silk.
Arthur kicked the heavy oak door of the study shut behind them. The fire had burned down to glowing embers, casting long, dancing shadows across the maps and ledgers still scattered across the desk.
Clara pulled her hand free. She was breathing hard, the adrenaline returning in a harsh, jagged wave.
"You cannot keep me in this study! I stood in front of half the peerage tonight. I spoke. I made enemies of Westfall and the French envoy. They will ask questions. They will dig. And when they find out I am the disgraced daughter of a degenerate gambler, my father's creditors will descend on Ashbourne House like locusts! I am a liability. I have to run."
Arthur walked around the desk. He didn't yell. He opened a locked drawer, pulled out a thick envelope bound in coarse twine, and tossed it onto the polished wood. It landed with a heavy, definitive thud.
Clara stared at it. She stepped forward slowly, her hands trembling as she pulled the twine loose. The envelope was stuffed with papers: thick parchment covered in her father's sloppy, drunken scrawl. Promissory notes, vouchers of debt from underground gambling dens, threatening letters from loan sharks in the East End.
Every single piece of paper had a heavy red stamp hammered across the center: PAID IN FULL.
The air left Clara's lungs. The room swayed, and she felt entirely untethered. She touched the red ink, expecting it to smear, expecting it to be a cruel trick of the flickering firelight.