He didn't look angry. He looked entirely, dangerously awake.
Panic is a cold thing. It starts in the chest and bleeds down into the fingers. Clara felt the heavy silver ewer slip a fraction of an inch in her grip. She tightened her hands around the metal, knuckles turning white, and forced herself to execute a perfect, practiced curtsy.
"My apologies, Your Grace," she said, her voice reverting to flat, unaccented English. "I will fetch the next course."
She didn't wait for permission. She turned on her heel and walked out of the dining room. She didn't run, though every instinct screamed at her to flee. She kept her spine straight and her steps measured until she passed through the heavy oak doors leading to the servants' corridor.
Once the door swung shut, she leaned against the cool plaster wall and closed her eyes. Her lungs heaved.
"You stupid, arrogant girl," she whispered to herself.
Four years of anonymity. Four years of scrubbing soot from fireplaces and suffering the biting insults of the head housekeeper, Mrs. Gable, all to stay hidden. Her father's debts were still out there; the men he owed money to were not forgiving. A quiet life in a great house was supposed to be her sanctuary. Now, she was going to be thrown out onto the London streets without a reference.
Ten minutes later, the kitchen was in chaos. The bell for the dining room began ringing violently. Mrs. Gable, a woman who looked as though she had been carved from stale bread, grabbed Clara by the arm.
"What did you do?" Mrs. Gable hissed, her fingers digging into Clara's uniform. "The Duke's valet just came down. The ambassador is leaving. The Duke wants you in his study immediately."
Clara swallowed hard. "Yes, Mrs. Gable."
The walk to the Duke's study felt like a march to the gallows. The corridors of the upper house were heavily carpeted, muffling her footsteps. She stopped before the tall double doors of the library and smoothed her apron. She knocked twice.
"Enter," a rough voice called out.
Clara pushed the door open. The library was dark, lit only by the dying embers in the fireplace and a single lamp on the massive oak desk. Arthur stood by the window, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. He had discarded his formal coat; his waistcoat was unbuttoned, and he looked older, more tired than he had in the dining room.
He didn't speak right away. He took a sip of his drink, his eyes scanning her from her scuffed boots to the white cap pinned into her hair. Clara stood near the door, her hands clasped tightly in front of her.