Chapter Three

The sparkling luster of the ballroom had certainly kept Clara distracted for a time, and while she had hoped to be asked by at least one gentleman while waiting for her dear Dilworth to return, none had approached her. But as melody after melody played, Clara grew tired as boredom settled into her restless heart. Where had Dilworth gone to, and why hadn't he returned? She had moved throughout the manse with her mother for the better part of half an hour, hoping to find him, but they hadn't had any luck.

"Ah, there are my loves," her father's voice sounded from behind Clara and her mother, causing them to turn. He frowned upon seeing their faces. "What's wrong, my dears?"

"Lord Dilworth has gone missing," Mary said, her brow knitted together in worry.

"Missing?"

"I'm sure there were some gentlemanly pursuits he needed to attend to before he could give us his full attention," Clara said with a bleak smile, not really believing her own words. "I'm sure he will appear momentarily."

"Yes, of course," her father agreed with a nod, though from the way his face scrunched up, it was evident that he believed otherwise. "Would either of you care for a refreshment?"

"No, thank you," Clara said.

"Yes, please," Mary said, turning to her daughter. "Stay here, dear, in case Dilworth comes back. It is the best spot in the ballroom to catch his eye should he come searching for you."

"Yes, Mama."

Her parents headed towards the refreshments table and Clara's shoulders dropped. She was trying hard not to feel sorry for herself, but it wasn't easy. She had expected this night to be magical. Tonight, she would be getting engaged. She was supposed to be dancing and smiling and being congratulated by people, for goodness' sake. And yet so far, she had been utterly ignored.

Feeling rather glum, she took the very unladylike position of leaning against one of the marble pillars that lined the ballroom as she scanned the room once again. After confirming that there was neither hide nor hair of Dilworth in sight, she sighed. Her head gently tilted against the cool pillar and her eyes drifted to the ceiling above. A very detailed mural of celestial beings had been painted above the ballroom, and Clara found herself staring at the elaborate artwork.

It was a beautiful scene from Greek mythology, but one Clara didn't immediately recognize. A bearded god who held a lute and was dressed in dark robes had his hand outstretched to a beautiful woman set before a starry sky. It was unusual, considering most murals painted skies set during the day, but it was enchanting nonetheless. She was somewhat mesmerized by the visual when she heard the dowager countess's distinct voice from behind the pillar.

"Where are your brothers, Alfred?" she asked, her tone annoyed. Clara turned slightly so that her ear was turned to hear better. Surely the viscount was with the other brothers—the answer to the dowager countess's question might lead her to find her erstwhile fiancé at last. "Derek has been missing for nearly an hour, and I haven't seen Fredrick since the first of our guests arrived."

"It's the game," the young lord said as if that was all he needed to speak to explain.

"That foolish game," the countess said with an exaggerated huff. "When will Derek learn that life is not all fun and games?"

"It was at your hand that we first learned to gamble, Mother," her son replied with faux chastising.

"Oh, hush," the countess replied without making the slightest attempt to deny it. "I never taught you such bad manners as to hold a tournament in the middle of the ball."

Clara couldn't help but smile.

"No, you didn't. And Father certainly wouldn't have approved, but then he never reined in Derek's behaviors, did he?"

"No," the countess said, her voice suddenly soft and wistful. "Your father always rather enjoyed you and your brothers' antics. He always said there was plenty of time to… To…"

A stilted silence followed while a mixture of guilt and sadness crept into Clara's heart. She began to regret her eavesdropping. She'd had no intention of intruding on this family's grief.

"Yes, well," her son said, his tone uncomfortable. "I wouldn't fret about it. Derek is aware that he can't continue with his card games during events, particularly now that he has to take on the duties of the earldom and host these parties himself. He just wanted one more—and it has been interesting, to say the least."

"There's always an interesting match, Alfred. But we must remember there is a time and a place for such things. Can you please tell both of your brothers that they must come host to our guests?"

"They will very shortly, I'm sure. By the time I exited, there were only two gentlemen left playing."

"Who?"

"Dilworth."

Clara's ears pricked up at the mention of her would-be fiancé. While she felt some relief to know where he had been, she felt a healthy dose of indignation as well. Had he been playing cards this entire time?

"That does not surprise me," the countess said. "Heaven help the poor woman who marries him the way he loses." Clara felt her heart drop and barely caught the woman's next words. "Who else?"

"Combe."

"Combe? I wouldn't have thought he'd have any patience for a man like the viscount. Why on earth are they playing together?"

"The tables were assigned randomly, I assure you," he said, sounding miffed. "Though next time, I will be sure to draw again, given how much grief I've been given over the grouping."

"It's fine, dear," the countess said. "Now, be quick and gather your brothers. I want them marching out here the moment the hand ends."

"Yes, Mother," he replied.

Seconds later, the countess passed by Clara, who pivoted quickly around the pillar so the lady would not see her. So that's where Dilworth had been this entire time! The indignation she'd felt at first was swelling into full, unchecked anger. He had decided that some foolish card game was more important than spending time with her. And what was all this about him having a gambling problem? To be sure, she had known that his finances were somewhat strained, but she had assumed that was because of a bad investment, or debt that had been inherited from prior generations. From the way the dowager countess spoke, though, it sounded as if his gambling was enough of a serious, persistent problem for his losses to be common knowledge.

Clara didn't know which bothered her more, his lack of manners or his lack of self-control. It had been at his request that they attend this ball together but he had abandoned her to gamble. It wasn't polite at best, and she shouldn't allow such behavior. What would he be like if they married? Would he try to gamble away her inheritance? He'd seemed so refined, so well kept. She'd never pictured him as a gambler. But now she had a new perspective on him, and she did not like the look of it at all.

A heavy dose of worry slid down the back of her throat. She needed to talk to Hubert to get to the bottom of this. If he wouldn't come to her, she would go to him.

Clara peered down the hallway to where a man was striding away. Intrigued to see if she could follow this Alfred to find her soon-to-be fiancé, Clara hurried down the hallway after him.

Large numbers of guests wandered throughout the main hallway, making it difficult to keep track of the gentleman. But the crowds worked in her favor in other ways. In the bustling rush of dozens of people seeking to find their friends, or reach the refreshments, or locate the powder room, no one paid any mind to her as she darted around, trying to keep the younger Trembley in her sights.

At the end of another long hallway, they had distanced themselves enough from the crush that Clara could see him lift the edge of a great tapestry hanging on the wall and slide behind it. The tapestry rippled gently before settling back into place. There must be an entrance or passageway of some sort behind it—she could think of no other explanation.

Clara quickly moved towards the tapestry. Hands flat against the rough fabric, she felt all around it until she discovered a bump against the wall. Moving her fingers behind it, she pushed the tapestry back to find a small wooden door with a cold metal latch. After a quick glance down the hallway, she pulled back the latch, pushed the door open, and hastened inside.

It took a few moments for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. She stood at the foot of a cramped staircase that led to a sliver of light at the top. Intrigued, Clara's hands went to the walls in search of a handrail, but when she found none, she skimmed her fingertips along the wood paneling.

Step by step she went, her heart thudded loudly in her chest. What a marvelous thing to have a secret passageway in one's house! Clara loved clever hiding places and wondered where this one led to as she climbed.

When she reached the top, she realized the sliver of light came from the other side of a heavy, velvet drape. Her fingers curled around the fabric as she gently pushed it aside and peered out cautiously, uncertain what she would find. The number of books on the far wall could only mean she had arrived at a library, or at least on a balcony in a library. There was no one up here. Besides a chair and some oil lamp sconces, it seemed rather a tight area, and she doubted more than two bodies could stand up here comfortably.

Coming out from behind the drape, Clara saw a small landing to her left that led down a tight spiral staircase. Clara noted that this room smelled heavily of cigars and books as her hand settled on the top of the railing. She was tempted to go down it when she heard voices from the room below.

"I suggest you leave now." A strong, masculine voice caught her ears.

She gingerly peered over the railing, making sure not to lean too far forward in case someone saw her. But no one seemed to be looking in her direction at all. Everyone's attention was focused on the center of the room where a number of gentlemen were standing around a table. The tall, dark-haired duke she had bumped into earlier that evening was staring daggers at Dilworth.

Her breath caught in her throat.

Dilworth moved, coming around the table.

"Surely you don't mean to take Miss Woodvine from me? She's nothing to you."

"Nor you, apparently."

Goodness, they were talking about her. But why? What was happening? Why would Dilworth be conversing about her with a man she had never met before?

"But if I don't marry her, I can't pay you her dowry."

Oh dear, they were referring to her. But it had to be a jest…Surely Dilworth hadn't…bet her dowry? What right had he to do such a thing? They weren't even engaged!

"You don't mean to marry the girl," she heard Dilworth say. "She's practically an old maid."

Clara's mouth fell open as her cheeks grew hot with embarrassment. Old maid? Was that what he thought of her? After all his flowery declarations of how he adored her, was this the truth? Here she had believed they would make a fine match—that they had a good foundation to build a real and genuine love. Apparently she had been wrong.

Stupid, stupid girl. She scowled as tears came to her eyes. No, no, she couldn't cry. Not here, not now. It was mortifying to be the object of a bet, and she would surely die of shame later that night when she returned home, but she wouldn't give any of these vile men the satisfaction of seeing her shamed. Not after they had stood by and allowed such a disgraceful bet to be made in the first place. No one had interfered, and even now, no one spoke in her defense. It was indeed a mystery why anyone outside of the ton would wish to marry into the peerage.

Well, she had something to say about it. Taking a deep breath and feeling somewhat numb, she found the spiral staircase that led down to the room's main floor.

"Combe," the earl was saying. "You can't want the girl. Let Dilworth keep her and take what he has offered."

"I'm afraid that won't work." Clara's voice came out far louder and calmer than she felt.

She descended the staircase slowly, shaking with fury as she steadied her raging heartbeat with stable breath. Though these men were supposedly descendants of honorable men, she glared at them without any respect.

"Miss Woodvine," Hubert said, taking a step towards her, but she held up her hand, stopping him.

"Remain there if you would," she said coolly as her brow arched. "I've no wish for you to come any closer."

"Miss Woodvine—"

"And I would greatly appreciate it if you refrained from speaking to me. Ever again, if you can manage." She turned to see the Duke of Combe, whose dark hair and heated stare bore into her with unreadable scrutiny. "I'm sorry to inform you, your grace, but this man is a fraud. He does not have any claim to me or my dowry. And he never will."

Dilworth said, "But—"

"The lady told you to stop speaking," Combe growled.

Clara's eyes caught the duke's, and she felt her racing heartbeat to a different feeling. Was she grateful? Scared? Aroused?

Yes, to all those, but she couldn't let herself acknowledge any of those feelings. Not now, and certainly not in front of any of these men, particularly the duke.

She moved away from him to face the earl.

"I was unaware that the Trembley house held such vile games. Wagering away people as if they were cattle. Had I known, I would have refused your invitation a thousand times over."

"Miss Woodvine. You must allow me to apologize."

"Must I? Very well, then. Apologize, if you find it so necessary. But know that I do not accept." She stuck out her chin. She knew what she was about to say was social suicide, but she'd rather be dead to these sorts of people anyway. "Every man in this room is a dishonorable cad."

Her hands were shaking uncontrollably now as she took on their offending stares. Clearly, they didn't like to be called to task for their behavior. Well, she didn't like being wagered away, so it seemed that no one in the room had reason to be happy.

She tucked her hands behind her back so they would not see and clutched her gloved fingers together as tight as she could. She swallowed hard as she eyed every one of them, her eyes settling on Combe for some reason. She wouldn't give Dilworth the satisfaction of looking him in the eye, and while the others all appeared too stunned to know how to respond to the situation, Combe seemed, well, steady. There was a fire in his eyes that had no right being there, but she found herself focusing solely on him.

"I am ashamed to have come to this house," she said. "If any of you feel an ounce of remorse for watching this disgusting act play out, I ask that you show your repentance by forgetting my family and me indefinitely. I shan't acknowledge any of you ever again. But I won't tell anyone about this either. It is my hope that it will be forgotten and that no one outside of this room will ever learn what has taken place," she said, barely noticing out of the corner of her eye as Dilworth grabbed something off the table and stuffed it into his pocket. She couldn't muster any curiosity over what he had swiped. Whatever he did was none of her business anymore. Her gaze stayed fixed on Combe. "I wish to be left alone," she said. "Forever."

When no one spoke, she nodded and turned to leave the way she came. She wondered if she had shocked them into a stupor, for she was up the stairs, down the hidden staircase, and in the hallway in a matter of minutes without anyone saying a word or making the slightest move to stop her.

Clara was eager to find her father and mother, and when she did, she told them that she had come down with a terrible headache and wished to leave immediately. Concerned for their daughter, the Woodvines said their goodbye and were soon on their way home, away from the glitz and glamour of Mayfair and back to their respectable neighborhood of Paddington.

Of course, after Clara's maids helped her undress and closed her door, Clara couldn't hold in the emotions any longer. Crouching down against the base of her bedroom door, pathetic tears streamed down her cheeks as her arms wrapped tightly around her bent knees.

How absolutely humiliating the entire evening had been! She had never been so furious before, and the shame of it all seemed to consume her. What an awful combination. When her anger eventually subsided, she was left with a terrible pain in her heart that she hadn't ever experienced before.

If Clara had ever doubted her place in society, tonight's events confirmed it. She had no business mingling and attempting to become friendly with the ton. No business aspiring to marry into their ranks. To be used as she had been, to be bet on and traded for…well, it had been far worse than any heartache that might have come from learning that the man she had hoped to be a help mate to had lost her in a gamble.

Clara squeezed her eyes shut tightly as tears gently fell down the sides of her face. Her hand came up to her forehead, and she tried to rub away the now genuine headache she felt. Miserable, she stood, made her way to her bed, and laid down with a thud. Surrounded in darkness, she wondered about Dilworth. He was not worth the aggravation, but she had pinned many of her hopes on him. Although she was sure she wasn't actually in love with him, she'd had hope of love growing between them once they were wed. She'd spent many hours picturing their happy future together.

But it was not to be.

Feeling dejected, Clara rolled to her side and gazed at the window. It was a clear night, and feeling restless, she pushed herself up and swung her legs off the bed.

Her bedroom commanded a view of the courtyard at the back of their house, and she made her way to it. A circular pond sat in the center of the green, with the square garden separated by four boxwood-lined yards, each with a pear tree planted in the middle. As she wiped away her tears, she saw the reflection of the stars in the water and lifted her eyes upward.

How fitting, she mused as she gazed up at the night sky. The stars had seemed so close, almost within reach, when it had only ever been an illusion. Just like she had had the illusion that there was a place for her among the glittering throngs of the ton. It had been not very reasonable to think that she might find her happily ever after so quickly but she had stubbornly believed it. Why shouldn't she find happiness and love? Her parents had been happily married for decades after having accidentally met in an apple orchard.

Now, though, she wondered if she was doomed to marry a fortune chaser just because she was wealthy. Even if she did marry someone who claimed not to care about her fortune, how could she ever trust her future husband's honesty? Her dowry seemed the most attractive thing about her, and she hated it. Perhaps she should run away and develop a new identity where she didn't have any money. Then she could see who was truly worth investing her time with.

Just then, a star shot across the sky, its shimmering tail disappearing just as quickly as it had appeared. For a brief moment, she contemplated making a wish, but then she didn't want to be the kind of foolish girl who believed in such nonsense anymore.

Looking back down at the reflecting pool, she frowned. Her breath fogged the window before her. She traced her index finger against the condensation, making a circle as she sighed.

"I wish someone would love me."