Chapter Fourteen
She stifled a yawn and watched the darkness thin, the sky paling toward morning, before she pulled her cloak close.
The house breathed around her. Old timbers sighed as though even they resisted her leaving. Clara crept into the corridor, slippered feet soundless on the worn carpet. The sconces had burned low, their light little more than a glow licking iron. She pressed close to the wall, listening.
The air grew colder as she reached the side stair. Each breath drew a shiver through her, the chill waking her inch by inch. By the time she reached the lower hall, sleep had fallen away in tatters. She could not afford it now.
The door latch lifted with a soft click. The morning met her like a hand to the face—mist damp against her lashes, the air sharp with the scent of wet earth. The garden lay hushed, every leaf beaded with dew. The Hall loomed at her back, its windows shuttered, but she felt watched nonetheless.
The note had not even been sealed. Before dawn. The maze.
She had found it waiting on the carpet after dinner, slipped under her door in the space of a moment. One glance had stolen her breath. Anyone might have seen it. Sleep had come thin and broken after that, fear rousing her with every creak of the floorboards.
She crossed the flagstones, her slippers whispering through the damp. Mist hung thick as breath held too long. Clara drew her cloak tighter, steadied herself, and stepped inside.
The hedge maze loomed, its entry marked by dark yew slick with dew. Clara’s heart kicked, then steadied. She had no courage left to summon. What she had was resolve. She passed into the maze.
*
He emerged as if from the earth itself, a shadow peeled from the fog.
“Well, well,” he drawled. “The dutiful daughter.”
Clara halted mid-step. Her fingers tightened in her cloak. Her father stood with one hand tucked into his coat, the other fingering a sprig of ivy he had plucked from the hedge.
“You’re early,” she said, her voice even.
He grinned, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “And you’re dressed like you expect to run.”
“I came to listen,” she replied. “Not to run.”
“Did you think these grand walls would keep me out?” He stepped closer, fog curling behind him. “Even stone has cracks, my girl.”
She said nothing, only drew herself taller, chin lifted, cloak gathered firm at her throat. The mist beaded in her dark hair, but her eyes held steady on his. A flicker crossed his face, something sharp, sour, as if her silence nettled him more than any retort.
“I’ve seen the man,” he went on, circling like a crow eyeing a scrap. “The solicitor duke. Clean lines, unreadable eyes. Dangerous sort. He smells rot like a hound.” He leaned nearer. His breath grazed her ear. “Sooner or later, he’ll find out.”
Clara anchored her feet against the gravel, refusing to give him the satisfaction. “You’ve no right to be here.”
“I’ve every right,” he spat. “You’re mine. No vow to a duchess erases blood.”
Clara pinched a smear of dirt from her skirt and let it fall, as though his claim carried no more than grit. “You forfeited that claim long ago.”
For an instant, his mouth twitched. Not with triumph but with something unguarded before his sneer returned. He felt her slipping beyond his grasp, and he hated it.
“It was your mother who begged Eleanor to take you,” he said. “Keep her safe, she pleaded. Safe from what? From me?” His smile turned cruel. “And now look at you. Wreathed in silk, curtsying to dukes.”
Her chin held high, but her hand betrayed her, curling tight in her skirts. He saw it, and his smile widened.
“Lady Eleanor gave me dignity. You gave me debts.”
He laughed, sharp and cruel. “Debts? I gave you life. You hide behind another woman’s roof, another woman’s table, another woman’s silver.
Strip it away, and what are you? A gambler’s brat.
Do you remember that wooden horse you carried to bed?
Pawned before you could cry. Or your mother’s locket, gone to pay the tables?
You think Eleanor’s candlesticks make you different?
You’ll never be more than Willie Whitmore’s daughter. ”
The name struck like a lash. Her breath caught, memories pressing close, her mother’s weeping, the endless clink of dice. Her pulse roared in her ears. Still, she forced her shoulders back. “You cannot touch me here.”
“Can’t I? You carry my name.” His smile thinned.
She had never changed it. Had never dared.
Her mother’s voice whispered from long ago: The trick is never to lie, my darling. Only hope no one asks the next question.
At the time it had felt like love. Now it felt like betrayal. Nathaniel was precisely the sort of man who always asked the next question.
Her father’s tone dropped to a growl. “Do you think that solicitor won’t ask? He’ll tear at ledgers until he finds every stain. But ledgers aren’t the only place truths are written.”
He struck his fist against his chest. “They come to me. No debt is whispered, no wager struck unless I say so. And all I have to do is speak, and the tale spreads like fire.”
Clara flinched, a single step backward scraping gravel beneath her slipper. His eyes lit with triumph.
“That caught your attention, did it? You always had a proud streak,” he said, stepping close enough for her to smell the sour wine on his breath. “But pride won’t pay what’s owed.”
He seized her arm, his fingers biting through the fabric. “He’ll cast you out when he learns the truth. The duchess, too. And you’ll crawl back.”
Clara drew a breath, her voice low, deadly calm. “Take. Your. Hand. Off. Me.”
For an instant, his eyes flickered, confusion, perhaps fear, before his grip slackened and fell away.
“You’ll see,” he said. “That fine title of his doesn’t make him clean. He’s as buried in secrets as we ever were.”
“I’m not afraid of you,” she said, though her voice trembled.
“No?” His breath brushed her ear. “Then let’s test that.”
Clara jerked back, skirts twisting as she stumbled against the hedge. A thorn snagged her sleeve and tore it, the sound splitting the fog. She righted herself, heart hammering, linen burning where the sharp tip had grazed her skin.
Her father’s smile widened. “A little rent suits you, daughter. Always did wear your ruin well.” He stood his ground and smiled while mist gathered at his boots.
Footsteps sounded through the fog, steadily, drawing closer.
“Fletcher?” The voice was firm, measured, unmistakable. “Where the devil are you with that mare?”
Nathaniel. Relief and dread collided in her chest.
Her father’s eyes glinted. He stepped back into the fog with a crooked smile. “Next time, daughter. And next time, you won’t be able to lie your way out.” He took another step and vanished, the mist swallowing him whole.
Clara pressed herself against the hedge, heart pounding, willing the fog to cover her. If Nathaniel passed without seeing, if she could only remain unseen—
But his boots crunched closer. To hide would condemn her more surely than discovery. She dragged trembling fingers across her torn sleeve, smearing the blood as she tugged her cloak forward.
She bent her head, forced her breath even, and willed her steps to steadiness. She turned the hedge corner—
—and nearly collided with him.
He caught her arm to steady her. His hand brushed torn fabric and stilled. “Miss Whitmore?” His brow furrowed. “You’re out early.”
Clara forced her eyes up to meet his, though her pulse jumped. “I… couldn’t sleep.”
His gaze swept her. Her cloak askew, hair damp, sleeve torn and poorly hidden. His eyes narrowed. “You’ve been in the maze.”
Heat rushed into her cheeks. The rip was impossible to deny. She tugged her cloak tighter.
“You’re hurt.”
“It’s nothing.”
“Someone was with you.”
“No.”
“Clara.”
Her name from his lips struck harder than the thorn. “You don’t flinch from thunder or titles,” he said quietly. “But you’re flinching now. Who was here?”
“There was no one.”
“I heard voices.”
“I was speaking aloud,” she said, though the lie curdled on her tongue.
“In the fog?” His tone sharpened. “Your sleeve isn’t torn by chance. That cut isn’t from walking. I’ve seen this before—in courts, in alleys. Someone cornered you.”
Her mother’s voice echoed again: Never lie, my darling. Only hope no one asks the next question.
Nathaniel always asked the next question.
“I could help you,” he said. “If you’d let me.”
She forced defiance into her gaze. “And if I won’t?”
“Then I’ll find out another way.”
“That is your choice, Your Grace.”
He exhaled and tried once more. “Clara, don’t walk away from me like this.”
“You think I care for truth because it’s mine?” His voice steadied. “I care because you matter.”
Her throat caught. “Not every truth is yours to keep, Your Grace.”
“Perhaps. But if someone means you harm, I will not stop until I know who.”
She turned sharply, unwilling to let him see her crack. Each step away left her lighter in body, heavier in heart. The fog closed around her as if eager to swallow her whole.
Nathaniel watched her vanish into gray. This was no lover’s meeting. This was coercion. She was afraid and protecting someone.
He stood rooted for a long moment, every instinct at war. Patience and pressure broke walls; force only built them higher. And yet her voice clung to him. Not the words, brittle, desperate, but the tremor beneath them.
He strode back to the Hall, boots striking hard. The doors thudded shut behind him. Silence pressed.
Eleanor would know. She had taken Clara in, shielded her, never without reason.
He reached the corridor as Percival approached. “Her Grace?” Nathaniel demanded.
Percival bowed. “She has gone walking, sir.”
“Alone?”
“No, sir. With Miss Whitmore. They took the east rose walk some minutes past.”
Nathaniel stilled. “How long has Miss Whitmore been with her?”
“Her Grace returned from London with her five years ago. Surprised us all.”
London. Eleanor never acted without purpose.
He turned to the window. Mist clung to the lawns, two cloaked figures already swallowed by it.
“They’re protecting her,” he murmured. His jaw set. “And the answers lie in London.”