27. Chapter Twenty-Seven

T he frenzied clamoring for Clara’s attention that had accompanied her last ball seemed to have faded, but she still never spent more than a moment or two on the side of the dance floor.

Every turn around the room, every glass of lemonade, every conversation seemed to clog Clara’s lungs until breathing was thick and difficult.

Mr. Pitt was standing at her aunt’s side, smiling and waiting for her after the fourth set of dances.

This was it. She would have to decide for herself if he was the person of integrity she thought him to be. After years of caution about gossip and hearsay, it didn’t sit right for her to allow such things to determine if she needed to abandon the man she’d spent weeks intending to marry.

But perhaps there was another reason to change her plans?

Her mind recalled a man with light brown hair, grinning at her over a partially finished project, scowling at her as he questioned her thoughts, and sighing before helping her find exactly what she needed to survive London with her sanity. He’d helped her find what she needed to make her days better, to give meaning to her life stuck in the city.

Was it possible she’d done the same for him?

Wasn’t that what Mother had said love was?

It wasn’t fair to Mr. Pitt for her to be thinking of another man while she was supposed to be weighing his merit. She was here, so she needed to cease all consideration of Hugh Lockhart.

Giving Mr. Pitt what she hoped was a soft, inviting smile, she asked, “How long have you been staying in London?”

Her dance partner appeared surprised by the question. “Four years, perhaps. I moved here after I finished my schooling.”

“That is a long time to be without purpose.”

He laughed and his hand tightened on hers as he led her in a circle. “I can see where you might think so, but I have a purpose.”

The air whistled into her lungs a little more freely. She hadn’t been completely wrong about him. “I’d love to hear about it.”

“There are many preparations that must be considered before I take up my living.”

This was why Father always told her to make up her own mind about people. “Such as?”

“A good shepherd needs to learn about the vices his people will face so that he can safely guide them away from them. No one wants to follow a man who has no idea what he’s talking about.” The wink he gave her made her stumble through the next three steps.

She’d never had a gentleman wink at her. She’d never had anyone wink at her.

“And, of course, I need to find a wife to stand by my side.”

“Of course.” Clara made herself stop to think about what the man was actually saying. Ever since she’d met him, she’d been taking his answers to mean something good, but was he actually saying anything of merit?

Perhaps the problem was that she wasn’t asking the right questions

“Mr. Pitt,” she said resolutely. “Are you a man of honor?”

The man looked so stunned by her question that it was his turn to stumble. “I beg your pardon?”

“It is a valid question.”

“But a very impertinent one.”

So it was. But Clara didn’t much care that she was being impertinent. This was her future on the line. Much better to be slightly off-putting than married to a wretch of a man.

“Why would you think I was anything but a man of honor?” His voice was low, ensuring that no one would overhear him. If anyone saw them, it would look like a scandalously intimate conversation was being had on the dance floor.

“I have heard rumors about you, and I wish to ascertain for myself if they are anything to be concerned about.”

His mouth hardened into a flat line. “It is rather bold of you to assume you’ve reason to be concerned at all.”

Wouldn’t a virtuous man understand the need to have such virtue verified? Especially if a woman was considering whom to trust with her future wellbeing. Clara was inclined to think his lack of an answer was all the confirmation she needed.

This entire business was ridiculous. She shouldn’t be here. She should be in a tiny drawing room listening to Hugh, a man who had shown more than once that he was indeed virtuous and noble and all the things a woman wanted in a husband.

Aside from being financially solvent.

Clara frowned up at Mr. Pitt, not caring who noticed. “I consider it rather bold of you to prey upon women too desperate to tell people that you play with affections and steal kisses for a thrill.”

His eyes widened, his shoulders straightened, and he glanced furtively around to see who was close enough to have heard her. Guilt was written across his features.

When his gaze dropped back to her, he looked down his nose at her. “You question whether I am a gentleman?”

“Yes.” She lifted her chin. “I, however, am a lady, so we shall finish this dance and then part ways.”

She ignored him as much as possible as they completed the required figures. Instead of grasping his arm whenever possible, she allowed her hand to simply hover over his sleeve.

Despite his manners, his upbringing, and his social position, this man was not a gentleman. How long it had taken her to realize that actions meant far more than honorifics and monikers. She’d thought she’d understood that, but she hadn’t truly.

Now it was nice to know that while she didn’t want to spend the rest of her days traipsing through ballrooms, didn’t want to dress in fine satins or purchase three identical bonnets, she did have the qualities of an actual lady. Aunt Elizabeth might be exasperating at times, but in these nearly two months in London, she’d helped Clara see what it meant to be a lady in the important sense of the word.

After the dance, she begged her aunt and mother to take her home early. Once there, she made her way to the back drawing room.

But he was gone.

It appeared he’d been gone a while, because the servants had already been in the room, cleaning and dusting and rearranging furniture.

The pang in her heart was the only remaining proof he’d ever been there at all.

Clara couldn’t seem to settle into her own company the next morning. Mother and Aunt Elizabeth had left to go calling on friends. They had, of course, invited her along, but Clara was too restless to pretend she didn’t mind sipping tea and having the same inane conversations over and over again.

That was not a part of being a lady that she was ready to embrace. It was probable that she never would. How many times could Aunt Elizabeth truly enjoy discussing what everyone was wearing at last night’s ball? Or trying to put together a list of everyone a particular suitor danced with? The answer was apparently at least four because she’d already done it once over breakfast and she intended to make three visits while she was out.

Clara shuddered at the thought as she wandered through the house, desperate to find something to do with herself that didn’t make her insides itch.

She needed to talk to Hugh. Without his gears and springs and tools in residence, though, she didn’t know how to make that happen. Likely not today, as Marmaduke had left the house early this morning for a cricket match. Those could last for days. Clara didn’t want to wait days.

Ambrose was still around, though. Did she dare approach him?

She had to admit, their relationship this Season had not been what she’d hoped. Why had she thought that living for an extended period under the same roof again for the first time in years would remove the contention that had grown up between them over those years?

Restless and unsure of what else to do, she went in search of her cousin. His study door was partially open, so she stuck her head in to see if he was inside.

He was.

It was a picture she’d actually seen numerous times while living in his home. Ambrose, seated behind his desk with a serious expression on his face. Normally, a ledger of some sort was open on the desk in front of him, but today it was a chessboard.

No pieces.

Just the board.

“Ambrose?” she asked, suddenly concerned by the dark, pensive expression on his normally jovial face. He had his serious moments, of course, but had she ever seen him look like this?

Yes, she had. In the breakfast room, when she’d tried to pry his secrets from him, this same tortured look had briefly crossed his features.

He didn’t look up when she called but used one hand to beckon her into the study.

She slid in, pushing the door back to its position of almost closed, and crossed the room. “What are you doing?”

He glanced up at her then, the crooked smirk she’d seen so often on his face, but this time it looked sad instead of arrogant. “Contemplating my mortal existence, you’ll be happy to know.”

Clara almost fell into one of the chairs near his desk. “You’re what?”

He opened the top drawer in his desk and began setting out playing pieces on the board. He stopped before there was a full set. After closing the drawer, he scooped up a piece and set back in his chair.

Clara leaned forward to examine the set. The pieces were elegant in their smooth simplicity, the wood grain seeming to flow along the lines.

Chess had never been a popular game in their family. Her father had a chessboard, but she hadn’t seen anyone use it since they’d been children.

Ambrose placed the piece he was holding back down on the board. It was a bishop. He pressed one finger top the pointed top of the piece and began tipping it to one side and then the other, tilting it onto its rounded base. “Have you ever made a mistake, Clara?”

“I, well, yes, of course I have.” Who hadn’t made a mistake in their life?

“I don’t mean like putting too much salt in the pie crust or wearing the wrong shoes with a dress. I mean a real mistake. With consequences that changed someone’s life?”

Clara started to toss off the question with a dismissive assurance, but something in his tone made her stop and reconsider. Had she ever made a hugely significant mistake? Life-changing consequences were rather drastic to consider.

He snorted a humorless laugh. “I didn’t think so.”

“Give me a moment. I’m still thinking.”

He shook his head. “If you have to give it that much thought, you’ve never stepped that far off your precious, perfect path.”

Clara screwed up her face in a fierce frown. “What do you mean?”

“What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done, Clara?”

She knew the answer to that because guilt still plagued her on occasion when she looked at the poor box at a church. “I once nicked money from the alms box to buy a doll. I’d been saving for months, and I had more than half the funds, but it seemed like it had already been forever to me as a child and I couldn’t wait any longer.”

His smile held a touch more life to it as he looked up at her. “Were you caught?”

“No, well, not that I knew of. I found out later that Father knew, but he didn’t do anything.”

“Where is the doll now?”

“I ended up giving it to a little girl in the family’s Christmas basket. I couldn’t stand the guilt anymore.”

“Uncle Paul had the right of it then.”

“I suppose.” Clara frowned. “What’s going on, Ambrose? You’ve made some type of mistake, I’m assuming.”

“A long time ago. Like you, I was young and foolish.”

And he was still thinking about it? “Did you make amends?”

One shoulder lifted. “I didn’t have to. Someone else offered to take care of it. All it took was money.”

What was Clara supposed to say to that?

“You see, that’s the thing of it, Clara. You can lecture me all you want about the right way to live, but the truth is, I haven’t seen anything that couldn’t be fixed with a coin in the right palm or a whisper in the right ear. Even your discretion was fixed indirectly by money and favors. None of your righteous piety was needed.”

“It isn’t righteous piety—”

“Isn’t it?”

Was it? She could see how maybe it would look that way to him, but she’d only wanted to save him from his own actions. “Perhaps if you’d heeded my warnings earlier, you wouldn’t be sitting in your study contemplating consequences from old actions.”

It was the wrong thing to say. She knew it the moment the words left her mouth. What had Hugh said? Maybe Ambrose needed a little of her care and concern?

Before she had a chance to correct herself, though, Ambrose was responding.

“Perhaps you are right.”

His agreement threw the thoughts from her head.

“But there’s nothing I can do that undoes what has already happened. I can’t remove the writing from a page with a quill.”

“Well, no.” Clara frowned. “Did you come up with that?”

One side of his mouth tilted up. “No. I heard it from . . . a friend.”

“Oh.” Clara lapsed into silence. He was correct, of course. No one could change what had already happened, but if he was considering a realignment of his behavior moving forward, wasn’t that a good thing? Wasn’t that what she’d been asking him to do for years?

She leaned forward a little in the chair. “It’s true you can’t undo the past, but you can do better today and create a different path for the future. That’s what—” She snapped her mouth shut mid-sentence, Hugh’s views of righteousness playing through her mind, but it was too late.

Ambrose blew out a breath as he raised his eyebrows at her. “That’s what you’ve been telling me? I am aware, believe me.”

Clara sat back in the chair, stunned at the bitterness threaded through those words. Her voice was small as she said, “I just care about you.”

He bit his answer out harshly. “Did you care about me or your comfort in being around me?” With a deep sigh, he carefully slid the bishop into its place on the chessboard. “Apologies.”

Clara swallowed. “For what?”

He raised an eyebrow at her.

“What are you offering apologies for?”

“A gentleman does not speak to a lady as I just did, Clara. You may think me utterly devoid of manner and responsibility, but I have been raised with a certain level of decorum.”

That it wasn’t the words he wanted to take back, but the manner in which they’d been delivered, hit Clara in the chest, driving the air from her lungs. Was that truly how he saw her care and attention? She’d been thinking of him, not herself. She’d been concerned about his relationship with God, the sin in his life, the path he was moving down. Why hadn’t it seemed that way to him?

She cleared her throat. “So, why are you contemplating your mortality now?”

“Because that’s rather important, don’t you think?” He picked up a queen and rolled it from hand to hand. “Do you know the last time I actually had a conversation with our esteemed Prince Regent?”

Clara couldn’t answer, as she couldn’t begin to follow this conversation.

“I am an aristocrat, a peer of the realm, and it’s been weeks since I had a face to face conversation with the man and even longer since we discussed anything of great import. If I had something I wanted to discuss with him, I would have to send requests, wait, and hope for an answer.”

His gaze met Clara’s. “But the idea that I have an immediate audience with God because He sacrificed His son to make that pathway is rather worth a little examination of what is truly important in life.”

Tears rushed to Clara’s eyes. What conversations had Ambrose been having? What sort of revelations had gotten through to him? She couldn’t fool herself into thinking it had been her words to make him start thinking like this.

“I thought it didn’t matter anymore.” His voice was quiet as he lined up the chess pieces on the board. The gaps in the pieces were strangely disconcerting.

“Thought what didn’t matter?” Clara’s voice was a similar, reverent whisper.

“What I did. I heard you all those times, you know. Heard your admonishments and corrections.” He shrugged. “It seemed too late to begin living by them, though.”

Clara frowned. “Why?”

He nodded toward the chess set as if that would provide all the answers. “Because I’d already broken the rules. By the time I realized that came with consequences, it was too late to live by them.”

“No, it’s not.” Clara clasped her hands in her lap. “There’s forgiveness for all past indiscretions. Future ones, too.”

He shook his head. “So I’ve heard. You might want to lead with that next time.”

Clara felt cold and her skin seemed to tighten around her body. Had she never told him that? She had to admit she’d stopped telling him that. Especially in the past few years, when he’d seemed to mock her every attempt at correcting his wayward behavior.

Perhaps she should have been more concerned with his inward faith than the outward appearance of it. She’d just assumed, since he’d grown up with her father’s lessons, that he believed the same as she did. What if he didn’t? What if he’d thought church was merely a social obligation, like going off to school or visiting Almack’s?

Her throat tightened and her eyes burned with unshed tears.

He cocked his head to the side. “You might be interested to learn that I intend to conduct an experiment of sorts.” He lifted a folded piece of paper from the desk beside the chessboard. “If there’s forgiveness to be had from the Lord, one has to wonder if there is redemption to be had as well.”

“Of course, there is.” Clara swallowed. “God can change the path of any life, provide a way to right wrongs, and lead anyone into a brighter future. He doesn’t leave us where He finds us.”

He tapped the paper against his desk and then tossed it across the surface to land in her lap.

It was the invitation to the charity musicale. The words she and Hugh had so carefully worked out had been underlined.

“Remember that,” Ambrose said dryly as he rose, gaze fixed upon the chessboard, “because I have a feeling I know what you’re actually raising funds for.” He opened the drawer and swept all the chess pieces back into it. “I’m afraid I won’t be here for your grand party. I’ve made a donation, of course, but I find myself fully compelled to see if there could, indeed, be a way to redeem my past mistakes.”

Clara’s thoughts swirled into a dozen different directions, unable to clarify a single fact other than Ambrose seemed to be leaving. “You are departing from London?”

“I am.” He picked up the chessboard and tucked it beneath his arm before walking toward the door. “I’ve an eight-year-old child I believe it’s high time I met.”

And then he was gone, leaving Clara staring at an empty doorway, her mouth hanging slightly agape. He had a child? An eight-year-old child?

How was it possible she didn’t know that about a man who’d been like a second brother? Did Marmaduke know?

“Oh, and one more thing.” Ambrose’s voice preceded him sticking his head back into the room. “You should know that Hugh received an offer of marriage a few days ago. It comes with enough business connections and chronometer orders to open the business he’s always wanted.”

Clara’s fingers went numb and the invitation in her hands fell to the floor. “H-Has he accepted?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “It’s not my month as commander, but I rather think you should do something about that.”

And then he was gone again.

Off to meet a child he hadn’t seen in eight years.

Her eyes dropped to the invitation. A child he thought was somehow connected to the charity Eleanor was protecting.

Suddenly, everything Clara thought she knew about her life and how it worked, and even how God worked in it, seemed as useless as Ambrose’s partial chess set.

The assured steadiness she’d stood on all her life was gone.

And she wasn’t certain she’d ever get it back.