Chapter 31
Tap, tap, tap.
The sound was relentless, invading Clara’s slumber until she forced her eyes open. She had expected it to still be dark. Instead, daylight streamed through the gaps in the curtains.
She swung her legs out of bed, feeling slightly unsteady. What hour was it? She drew back the curtain, shielding her eyes against the sun, and saw the source of the sound at once. A red-crested bird sat on the windowsill, tapping insistently against the glass.
She remembered now. The previous morning, she had put out a few crumbs from breakfast, and it seemed the little fellow had returned demanding more.
She opened the window and looked at him. He did not retreat even when she leaned her head out. “Hello, little fellow. I have nothing for you yet. When you return later, I shall bring up some crumbs.”
He dipped his head left and right then fluttered away, apparently understanding her perfectly well and not at all pleased with the answer.
“I shall have to tell Julian about you,” she said to herself and laughed quietly. “Perhaps we ought to make some allowance for extra bird food.”
And then, as though it had been waiting for the smallest opening, her heart leapt.
The kiss. They had kissed, and he had not pulled away from it afterwards, had not gone cold the way he always did.
They had sat together on the balcony for some time after, hands clasped, neither of them in any hurry to go inside.
She’d rested her head against his shoulder, and they’d looked at the sky together, naming the stars.
What did it mean? Were they truly something now, beyond the arrangement? They would have to talk about the future, she knew that. But before she could settle into the newfound bliss of it, the rest of the evening came flooding back.
Sebastian Devereau.
At their ball. In their house.
He might know the truth about Arabella. He might also, finally, be the way to find her.
She rang for Nell, who appeared a little while later with a wash basin and a wash ball strung around her neck.
“You are awake. I am glad you rested. You had a late night.”
She felt herself color up and looked away.
“I did.”
“What a grand ball it was, My Lady. Are you pleased?”
“Very pleased. I enjoyed it greatly. And so many people came.”
“Indeed. I do not think we have had a ball this size here in a very long time. I heard His Grace had one at the Southampton house last year, but of course, he keeps his own staff there.”
“Have you ever been?” Clara asked.
Nell shook her head. “I have not had the occasion. Most gentlemen move their servants back and forth with them, but His Grace prefers to keep a steady staff at each house which means we get a fair amount of free time, but it also means I have never seen Southampton.”
“Well, if you should like, you may travel with me from now on. You are my lady’s maid after all.”
“Oh, that would be lovely.” Nell smiled. “Most of the staff find it convenient to have so much free time, but I haven’t any family here in town, you see, and—” she paused, coloring slightly, “I rather like Charles.”
Clara looked up with a smile. “Charles. His Grace’s valet?”
“Indeed. He is the only one who travels with His Grace no matter what as you know. We have liked one another for some time, but…” she shrugged.
“Then henceforth, wherever I travel, you shall travel. You are my lady’s maid after all.”
Nell beamed. “Shall I brush your hair, My Lady?”
“I should like that. And do you think you might braid it for me? I saw a style in Ackermann’s Repository I rather liked.” She took the paper from the desk and showed her. It was a pretty braided arrangement pinned around the head like a crown.
“Oh, this is quite simple. I can manage it.”
“Do you think it will suit me?”
“Of course, My Lady. With features as delicate as yours, I cannot imagine anything that would not.”
“Good.” Clara considered. “And perhaps a little rouge today. And a touch of charcoal about the eyes. Only a very little.”
Nell glanced at her. “Of course, My Lady. Is there a particular occasion? Are you expecting a caller?”
“I expect no one. I should simply like to look my best.”
She did not admit to Nell the real reason—that she and Julian had finally begun, after weeks of circling one another, to move toward true unity, and she wanted very much to look her best for him when they did.
“I suppose I could pass it off as still dressing for the ball,” she said with a small laugh.
Nell smiled and began on her hair. By the time she had finished, it occurred to Clara that she still had no notion of the hour.
“Is it still morning?” she asked.
Nell laughed. “It is well past, My Lady. Nearly eleven.”
“Goodness. I suppose His Grace has already breakfasted.”
“No, in fact, he rang for Charles only a quarter of an hour before you rang for me.”
“Good.” Clara knew perfectly well that Julian took an age to dress in the mornings which meant there was every chance she could still catch him at breakfast. “Has Mrs. Holt already seen to David?”
“She has. She was up early and fed him at six. He is sleeping in his chamber now. Mary, one of the maids, is looking after him. Mrs. Holt and Molly have gone out walking.”
Clara nodded. “Very well. I shall go down for breakfast.”
She did as she had said and found the breakfast room already laid, servants bringing in hot tea and chocolate.
A bowl of steaming porridge appeared in front of her, and her stomach growled with sudden, unmistakable hunger.
She had meant to wait for Julian. However, surely one spoonful would do no harm.
She took a heaping mouthful, closed her eyes, and let out a small, contented hum.
“Goodness, I shall never understand how anyone can enjoy salty porridge as much as you appear to. I have always thought it the most peculiar thing I have ever witnessed when a person likes it.”
She looked up. Julian had come in without her noticing.
“You ought to try it,” she said after swallowing.
He placed one hand on her shoulder and pressed a kiss to her cheek before taking his seat, as easily as if they were a true married couple who had done this every morning of their lives.
“I have tried it. It is dreadful. Like eating paste. One could take it outside and use it to build a brick wall.”
“You have simply not had good porridge.” She stopped then got up entirely and hurried into the adjoining drawing room. She heard him calling her name in some confusion. Two minutes later, she returned with a small box.
“I thought I had offended you so thoroughly with my dislike of porridge that you had abandoned me,” he said.
“Not at all. I had to fetch this.” She held up the box and opened it, withdrawing two pieces of marzipan which she pressed into her bowl. “The heat will dissolve it, and then I swirl it through, and it is even more delicious.”
“You certainly know how to ruin a perfectly good piece of marzipan. I had those sent from the finest patisserie in town.”
“I assumed as much. That only makes it better.” She took a mouthful and nodded with great satisfaction. “Divine,” she said, still slightly full-mouthed.
“How unladylike,” he said, laughing, and reached for a roll.
She filled her spoon again, but this time turned it toward him instead of herself. “Try a little.”
“I am not David,” he said. “May I remind you, I am a grown man, not an infant.”
“A grown man ought to be able to manage one spoonful of marzipan-infused porridge without making such a fuss about it.”
“I am not making a fuss.” He opened his mouth regardless, and she fed him the spoonful. He licked it from the spoon with the wariness of a man approaching a duel.
She watched his face carefully as he chewed. His visage was somewhat peculiar. He either loved it or despised it, and there was no telling which from his expression alone. She watched his throat move as he swallowed.
“That was odd,” he said at last. “I adore marzipan. I detest oats. For one moment, I loved it, and the next, I hated it entirely. I do not believe I should like to repeat the experiment.”
“Then I shall not make you,” she said.
He spread butter on his roll, followed by a generous layer of lemon curd, and took a bite. “Now,” he said, waving the roll about for emphasis, “that is a proper breakfast.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Lemon curd. I think not.”
“You do not like it?” He tore off a small piece, dressed it with more curd, and held it toward her mouth. “You made me try yours.”
She groaned and reached to take the piece from his fingers, but he shook his head, and so she simply opened her mouth and let him place it there himself.
She was not entirely certain whether it was the curd or the fact that Julian had just fed her bread by hand, which was a rather more intimate gesture than either of them had acknowledged, but she found, somewhat to her own surprise, that she enjoyed it.
“Very well. I grant you it is not terrible.”
“Good,” he said. “I shall convert you from oats yet.”
“I think not,” she said, and they both laughed, and the ease between them felt exactly as it had before Dover, before everything had gone wrong. Easier, perhaps.
“You know,” she said, “you might easily have scandalized your servants last evening.”
“Me?” He looked genuinely puzzled. “What in the world did I do? I confess I was somewhat in my cups by the end, but I had not thought it was quite so bad as that.”
“I meant at the end of the evening. When you kissed me. Anyone might have walked out and seen us.”
He waved a hand. “We are married. A husband can kiss his wife anywhere in his own house that he pleases.”
He said it so easily, as though it were the most natural thing in the world, as though the two of them had not married for an entirely different reason altogether.
“Julian,” she said and turned toward him.
He looked up and turned his chair slightly, giving her his full attention. “Yes?”
“I think there is something we ought to discuss.”
“I think there are several somethings,” he said, and there was a warmth in the way he said it that made her chest tighten pleasantly. But before he could say anything further, hurried footsteps sounded in the hall, and Marianne burst into the room.
She was dressed for outdoors, but it was plain she had been running. Her cheeks, usually so pale, were flushed deep red, and strands of hair had come loose and whipped about her face as she skidded to a halt. Her bonnet sat askew. Molly bounced on her hip, likewise windblown.
“I saw a carriage,” she said, breathless. “Going away at great speed. It may be my mind playing tricks, but I believe I saw Sebastian Devereau inside.”
Julian and Clara both rose at once.
“Coming from which direction?” Julian demanded.
“From here. It was coming from the house, going toward the London road.”
“David.”
“I have already sent Richmond up to check,” Marianne said. “I saw him as I came in.”
The three of them moved toward the hallway, ready to run up to the nursery, when Charles, the valet, and Richmond both burst in from the other direction.
“He is gone,” Charles said.
“The baby is gone,” Richmond confirmed, as though the first declaration had not been sufficiently clear. “The crib is empty.”
Clara pushed past both men and ran for the stairs. There had to be some mistake. Some misunderstanding. But when she burst into the nursery, the crib stood exactly as empty as they had said.
She rang the bell wildly. “Someone must ask the servants—perhaps somebody has taken him for a walk, perhaps—”
“My Lady,” Richmond said gently, coming up behind her. “When Mrs. Holt returned and said she had seen someone hurrying from the house, we immediately accounted for every member of staff. None of them had him. There is only Mrs. Holt and Mrs. Parker who tend to him, and both are accounted for.”
Clara turned to Julian. “He has been taken.”
Julian was at her side in an instant, his arms around her as she broke into tears.
“We will find him,” he said. “I promise you that.”