23. Chapter Twenty-Three

C lara prodded her eggs with her fork, testing to see how many times she could graze the edge before the soft yolk broke, sending the inner yellow ooze sliding across her plate.

The answer was five.

She proceeded to sit in silence, staring as the river of egg drifted toward her untouched piece of toast.

Hugh Lockhart had kissed her last night.

Or had she kissed Hugh Lockhart? She honestly didn’t know. Everything had happened so fast, and they’d been so invested in their passionate disagreement that one moment had seemed to slide seamlessly into another and then his lips had been on hers.

And she’d enjoyed it.

Hugh Lockhart was not the sort of man she intended to marry, so wouldn’t it follow that he would not be the sort of man whose kisses she enjoyed?

Voices and footsteps beyond the breakfast room door gave her only a moment’s notice before Ambrose and Marmaduke strode in, still dressed in their riding clothes and fresh from their gallop through Hyde Park.

Not wanting them to know she’d been staring at her breakfast instead of eating it, she quickly stabbed a bite of egg and shoved it into her mouth.

Then nearly gagged as the white glop of cold, congealed egg hit her tongue.

“Good morning, Clara,” Ambrose said as he settled into his seat. “I’m not accustomed to having your company for the morning meal.”

“Didn’t you stay in last night so you could go to bed early?” Marmaduke smiled at the servants bringing in plates of food and a fresh pot of tea for the men.

One of the footmen gave Clara’s plate a quick look before purposefully avoiding another glance in her direction.

Clara sighed. She was certain to be the talk of the kitchens in a few moments. Only girls with troublesome secrets had difficulty eating their breakfast.

Ambrose leaned over and ripped the corner from her toast. He held it up, inspecting it like a Bow Street runner. “How long has this toast been sitting there?” He looked to Marmaduke. “Cold enough to dip out a chunk of butter without melting it.”

Clara rolled her eyes and snatched the corner of toast from her cousin. Resolutely, she bit into it. Cold toast was far preferable to cold eggs.

When Ambrose examined her face, the normal cover of easy charm was gone and true concern had taken its place. “Is everything quite all right?”

“Of course.” She nibbled at the toast and her stomach turned. “I am simply not very hungry.”

It was Duke’s turn to frown at her now. “You haven’t been not hungry in the morning since you were born.”

“That isn’t true.” She dropped the toast onto her plate and gave her brother the haughtiest glare she could manage. “I hardly ate at all when I suffered that grippe last year.”

“So you are unwell.” Ambrose picked up his fork. “Should I send for the doctor?”

“I am not in need of a doctor.” Not even the finest surgeon in London could produce a tonic to straighten out the mess in her head at that moment.

“A malady of the mind, then?” Ambrose nodded. “Perhaps a listening ear would be of help.” He paused in the act of cutting a bite of his own eggs. “Holding everything in will not make it better.”

Clara narrowed her gaze at Ambrose. She could simply abandon her plate and depart the breakfast room, but Ambrose was just stubborn enough to follow her. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t request another plate of freshly prepared food later.

“I am holding in nothing.” The lie tasted bitter on her tongue. Might as well toss in another one to potentially quench his curiosity. “My mind is as clear as it has ever been.”

Ambrose coughed out a laugh. “Your head is as foggy as a London morning.” He took a bite and chewed slowly, his eyes holding hers the entire time.

Very well, if lies weren’t working, she would simply cut the conversation off by force. She cleared her throat and sat up straighter in her chair. “I believe this conversation is over. As this month’s Commander, I demand the subject of my dilemma be dropped immediately.”

Marmaduke frowned. “So something is troubling you.”

Ambrose smiled in victory as he set his fork down and sat back, steepling his fingers in feigned thoughtfulness. “I believe, dear cousin, you are forgetting the rules of engagement. A command may only be issued after a question is evaded or unsatisfactorily answered.”

“Very well.” She smiled, knowing that in this war of words, at least, she would have the upper hand. “Shall I ask about your exploits the other night? Or perhaps I should inquire of what troublesome thought you are keeping to yourself that makes you so aware of unease that arises from not discussing one’s problems.”

The strike felt victorious enough to allow her to pluck a berry from her plate and eat it without a revolt of her insides. She smiled sweetly at her cousin’s dark frown. “Which shall it be?”

He slowly took a drink of tea, maintaining eye contact the entire time.

A trickle of unease wormed through Clara. Was he weighing the merits of revealing his own secrets in an attempt to gain hers? Would he sacrifice himself that way? He could pull some tale from thin air, and she would hardly be able to refute him, after all.

Duke looked from one of them to the other. “I am not usually a slow-witted man, but would one of you possibly tell me what I’m missing?”

“Clara, I’m afraid the mantle is to my back,” Ambrose said, as he slowly lowered his teacup to the table. “Would you mind telling me what time it is?”

Heat flooded Clara’s body as her gaze flew to the clock on the mantle behind Ambrose. He couldn’t possibly know, could he? No. He was only guessing that it had something to do with Hugh. Or was her guilty conscious the only one associating any and every clock with the tradesman?

She cleared her throat and looked to the clock. “It is half past nine.”

He pulled the watch from his pocket and frowned at it. “Seems to be a little off. I’ll ask Hugh to set it when he is here next.”

Drat the man. She still didn’t know if he truly knew anything or was simply fishing around for information. Either way, she was finished with the discussion. “As you have refused to answer either question, it is my prerogative to issue a command, and I insist the topic be dropped immediately.”

“You would use a game to prolong your own misery?”

Clara narrowed her gaze and leaned toward her cousin. “As you appear averse to discussing your own nocturnal pursuits, I must insist you refrain from poking into mine.”

“But you were here all night.” Marmaduke’s fork hit his plate with a clatter. “What sort of nocturnal pursuits could you indulge in?”

Ambrose grinned in triumph as Clara sat back into her chair with a wince.

“I was home all evening.” Not a lie. “And I did not pursue any particular activity of discussion.” Also not a lie. She had not intended to kiss Hugh, after all. “I was merely making a point.”

“The only point I am seeing is that both of you appear to be mired in your own problems and refusing to seek assistance in rectifying them.” Duke picked up his toast and pointed it at Ambrose and then Clara. “You are both fortunate it is no longer my turn as Commander.”

“My youthful discretions are years behind me and far too old for rectifying,” Ambrose said. “Dear Clara, however, is clearly newly troubled and therefore ripe for rescue.”

It was the first time Ambrose had ever admitted to a significant faltering in his past. The revelation was almost enough for Clara to completely forget her own predicament.

“It is never too late,” she rushed to say. “One can always change one’s ways. Just because you strayed from the straight and narrow as a young man is no reason to continue to dwell in a ditch of debauchery and sin.”

Duke groaned and Ambrose sighed. Her cousin’s gaze hardened toward her. “Clara, until you are willing to be transparent in your indiscretions, I would thank you to stay out of mine.”

“I have no—” She cut off mid-sentence as Ambrose lifted a single brow in her direction.

“Perhaps the two of you could take a moment to recognize that you both had valid points?” Duke picked up his teacup and drank deeply, giving Clara and Ambrose time to consider his statement.

It was far too reminiscent of Hugh’s comments to Clara. She might be too vulnerable to efficiently attack her cousin, but her brother was also fair game. “Pray tell us, then, what are you doing with your time? Should you not be off in Surrey, swinging a cricket bat? You hardly appear a paragon of responsibility.”

Marmaduke met her gaze, unflinching. Then, ever so slowly, he grinned like the cat who had successfully lured a bird into its trap. “As it so happens, no. I should not be in Surrey.”

As distractions went, Clara couldn’t have asked for better. Both she and Ambrose declared shocked concern at the same time.

Duke held up a hand to silence them. “Not to worry. I am still being obnoxiously paid for my athletic ability.” He shrugged. “I have moved to the club here in London, though. I’ve been paid for three different games already and asked to stay on as a regular participant.”

He frowned as he looked from Clara to Ambrose. “Did the both of you not realize I’ve been here for nothing but a few hours of sleep the past three days?”

Clara’s mouth dropped open. Ambrose was offering profuse congratulations, but she could not formulate the same sentiments.

“You are moving to London?” She swallowed. “Permanently?”

“As permanently as a cricket player can, I suppose.” Marmaduke shook his head wryly. “I’m not foolish enough to believe such a career is forever sustainable. Here in London, I should be able to find the connections and opportunities to have a life after I’ve played all my good innings.”

“What sort of connections?”

He shrugged. “Schools need coaches. The wealthy pay handsomely to train their sons. Many of the developers of bats and such have offices in London.”

“You speak of business.” She could not keep the bitterness from her words.

“I speak of provision.”

Clara didn’t know what else to say. There was, of course, a worldly wisdom to his words, but she’d always imagined him having a more virtuous plan for his future after cricket. He didn’t have the schooling to attain a living, of course, but surely there was something he could do to better the lives of others in a noble manner.

“You disapprove,” Duke said lightly.

“It is neither for me to approve or disapprove.” Clara’s voice was soft.

Ambrose snorted. “If only you had such an attitude toward me.”

Clara narrowed her gaze at him. “You, cousin, cross the lines laid out in the Bible. He is merely betraying the teachings of our father.”

It was Marmaduke’s turn to scoff. “I betray nothing.”

“Do you not?”

Clara and Marmaduke stared at each other for several moments before Ambrose broke the silence.

“Who do you think pays for those baskets you so nobly and sacrificially take to the poor?” He pushed his plate away. “Who pays for your father’s living? Who is making it possible for you to have a Season with the luxury of picking and choosing who you would like to set your cap for?”

He pushed to his feet, sending the chair screeching across the floor. “You can disapprove of those who work to gain financially in life, but you have no problem allowing those ill-gotten gains to support your righteous deeds.”

He threw his napkin onto the table. “If we all lived as you say we should, it would be the church who was in need of charity.”

Clara’s mouth dropped open, words and even full thoughts failing her.

“I, for one, am proud of you, Duke. The Marylebone Cricket Club is exclusive indeed. Should you wish to retire to my study with me, I would enjoy hearing more of your success and future plans. I might even have an idea or two for you.”

Marmaduke considered Clara solemnly for several moments before he stood, gently easing his chair away from the table. “That sounds like a fine idea.”

And once again, Clara found herself alone in the breakfast room, accompanied by quickly cooling tea and the unappealing remains of abandoned breakfasts.

Hugh’s words last night had put a crack in Clara’s view of the world and this morning Ambrose had sent words slamming into the same spot.

Both men were men of business, in a way, even if Hugh was in trade and Ambrose managed lands and investments. Of course they would formulate a view that protected the way they wanted to live life.

A quiet voice in her head nudged the idea that she might just be doing the same thing, and there wasn’t enough noise in the lonely room to completely drown it out.