Chapter Thirteen
The front drawing room carried the importance of ceremony. A low fire burned steadily in the grate, its light fighting the gray that pressed against the windows. Candle sconces threw narrow bands of gold and shadow across the plaster walls, turning every carved flourish into something watchful.
Clara set a tray upon the low table, porcelain trembling faintly against porcelain.
She steadied the cups, her shawl sliding from one shoulder as she bent to arrange the spoons.
Eleanor sat straight-backed in her chair, silver-topped cane at her side, her gaze sharp enough to slice through the fog beyond the glass.
Nathaniel stood near the mantel, hands clasped behind him, every inch the duke. The precision of his stance did not hide the strain beneath it.
From the hall came the muffled thud of the knocker and Percival’s composed voice announcing the caller who had braved storm and mud to “pay respects” to Hartleigh’s new master.
The door opened, and with it came a gust of wet air and arrogance.
A man stepped inside with a bow too deep to be humble. His coat gleamed with London tailoring, his waistcoat too bright for country restraint. A fob chain swung like a promise made to be broken.
“Your Grace,” he said smoothly. “Permit me to offer my respects on your elevation. Hartleigh must be a burden as well as an honor.”
Nathaniel inclined his head. “You are kind, sir. You have the advantage of me.”
“Herbert Davenport, of London,” he replied, brushing a fleck of invisible dust from his sleeve. “I weary of the city’s damp and thought it my duty to ride out.”
He bowed to Eleanor with polished ease. “Lady Eleanor, time has not dimmed your grace. Hartleigh shines brighter for your presence.”
Eleanor’s mouth curved the smallest degree. “You ride far for compliments, Mr. Davenport.”
His smile thinned but held. Then his gaze found Clara. “And this young lady—Miss…?”
“Whitmore,” she said evenly. “I assist Lady Eleanor.”
Her calm drew a spark behind Davenport’s eyes. “Then Hartleigh is doubly blessed.”
Nathaniel’s jaw flexed once. Clara’s composure steadied him in ways he could not admit.
Davenport turned back toward Eleanor. “I cannot tell you, Lady Eleanor, how London still speaks of you, your discernment, your taste. I heard your name linked to one of the Morton auctions. A Vienna piece, was it not?”
Clara stilled by the tray. Eleanor’s fingers tightened on the cane. “Some treasures, Mr. Davenport, are wiser left to memory.”
“Restraint,” Davenport said, his smile thin as wire. “A rare virtue where fortunes are concerned.” His eyes flicked toward Nathaniel.
The barb slid clean, polished by civility. Clara felt the heat of Nathaniel’s silence beside the fire.
Davenport looked back at her, his tone softening. “Do you find Hartleigh’s halls lonely at night, Miss Whitmore? These old houses can be… drafty.”
His pause lingered too long.
Clara’s smile held. “Hartleigh’s halls are well kept. Even shadows know their place when Lady Eleanor rules the house.”
Eleanor’s cane tapped once, her approval, crisp as flint.
For a heartbeat, Davenport faltered before recovering with a laugh, a shade too bright. “Ah, quite right. Quite right indeed.”
He drew off his gloves slowly. “A household such as Hartleigh requires order. One hopes Your Grace brings the same discipline to its accounts. I seem to recall there were some unfortunate clients during your years in chambers? A dreadful business.”
The room cooled. Even the fire bent lower.
Clara’s hand froze over the teapot. Davenport’s words rang false yet poisonous. Eleanor’s gaze went to Nathaniel. He gave no answer, no sign.
Then Clara spoke. Her tone was soft, almost curious. “Davenport. Yes, I remember the name. There was a quarrel, was there not? Cards and coin? A hasty departure from a Covent Garden club?”
A single blink betrayed him.
Davenport laughed too quickly. “London gossip, Miss Whitmore. One should never trust such tales.”
“Except,” she said, pouring the tea with perfect calm, “when the tale fits too neatly.”
Eleanor’s cane tapped once more, the sound sharp and satisfied.
Nathaniel exhaled, the faintest breath of relief or admiration. Davenport’s polish had cracked; Clara had done what he could not.
When Davenport rose to leave, his bow was shallower. “Your Grace. Lady Eleanor. Miss Whitmore.”
Eleanor’s eyes glinted. “Some men make their living feeding shadows, Mr. Davenport. Mind that you are not consumed by them.”
His smile strained. The door closed behind him.
Rain whispered against the glass.
Eleanor turned to Clara. “There is the girl I know,” she said softly. “Welcome home.”
Clara’s throat tightened. Heat pricked behind her eyes. For the first time since she’d come to Hartleigh, the word home did not wound.
Eleanor rose with effort. “I will leave you young people to the fire.” The cane tapped once, deliberate, as she departed.
The silence that followed pressed heavier than Davenport’s malice.
Clara busied herself with the cups that no longer needed tending. Nathaniel watched from the mantel, the fire painting her profile in bronze. The grace with which she’d faced danger both shamed and stirred him.
“Was it true?” she asked suddenly. “What Davenport said about your clients?”
His jaw set. “Not in the way he meant.”
“Then in what way?”
He looked toward the fire. “I defended men who lied for coin. Some paid the price. So did I.”
Her breath caught. “Why not say so?”
“Because truth spoken to jackals only feeds them.” He faced her fully now, eyes shadowed, voice quiet. “You, however, seem to know a jackal’s habits very well.”
The remark struck deep. “Meaning?”
“Quarrels in Covent Garden clubs,” he said. “Strange knowledge for a lady.”
She stiffened. “And strange distrust for a gentleman.”
The air between them quivered, anger and want drawn tight as wire.
“You demand honesty,” he said, “yet guard your own.”
“Because honesty costs more to women,” she said, voice low. “We are ruined by truths men boast of surviving.”
His breath left him. Her words burned truer than the fire.
Neither spoke. Outside, thunder cracked above the house.
Clara turned, her shawl brushing his sleeve. “Excuse me.”
He let her go, but his eyes followed.
She crossed to the door, her pulse unsteady, the echo of his voice still at her back. If he believed her guilty, so be it. Love would find no purchase in distrust.
Nathaniel stood alone, the hearth’s light paling against the storm. His hand pressed flat to the mantel.
She had defended him before others and condemned him in private. And still, he wanted her.
The house groaned under the wind. Rain struck harder. The fire flared, guttered, and held.
Nothing else in Hartleigh felt half so alive.