Chapter 18

18

CLARA

C lara couldn't move. All she could manage was to stare. But the duke was right. John's features grew more distinguishable the nearer he drew. And the hat…he always wore that hat. She should have recognized it.

"There ye are," John said in a voice that was jarringly loud.

The duke's fingers tightened slightly on Clara's arm as John came to stop in front of them.

"Been waitin' an age," John said.

"What are you doing here?" Clara hissed.

His gaze dropped to the duke's hand on her arm. "I could ask the same of you."

The duke released his grip slowly.

"I am employed here." Clara forced calm confidence into her voice, but inside, she was quaking. John could have no reason for coming to Rushlake that boded well for her.

"And what interestin' work it looks to be." His eyes shifted to the duke again, and Clara's cheeks flamed.

The duke stepped toward him. "How you come to be on my property, I do not know, but I trust you can find your way off of it again. You have no business here."

John's brows drew together. "With all respect, Your Royal Graceness, I'm not here to speak with ye but with the woman beside ye, who is my wife."

"A wife you sold to me. She is no longer your concern."

Clear as if she was holding it in her hand, Clara's mind went to the guinea the duke had paid John for her. How she hated the memory.

Her heart raced, her gaze flitting between the two men. Why John was here, she hadn't the slightest idea, but whatever it was, it had nothing to do with the duke.

"Ah," John said with a wry chuckle. "But that's where ye're wrong. I have it on the authority of the vicar who married us that, in the eyes of God and in the eyes of the law, she still belongs to me."

She took a step forward, coming even with the duke. "I belong ," she said, "to no one. Speak with me if you must, John, but waste no more of the duke's time. I myself have but a few minutes to spare."

"I'm agreeable," John said.

Clara turned to the duke, wondering if it was possible she had been in his arms just minutes ago or if it had all been a dream.

He frowned deeply as he met her gaze. "I cannot leave you here with him."

His concern for her warmed her anxious heart. "He is not dangerous, Your Grace."

The duke's eyes swept to John, and he grimaced, then returned his gaze to Clara. "Are you certain?"

Clara nodded, but her heart twinged. This was not how she had envisioned parting with the duke. The next time she saw him, whenever that proved to be, things would be different. But what had she envisioned?

He hesitated another moment, as if he might say something else, then turned away and walked toward the stables, his horse trailing behind.

Clara shut her eyes and took in a breath. How had her dream turned so swiftly to a nightmare?

"I'm impressed, Clara," John said behind her.

She turned toward him reluctantly.

"Carryin' on with a high and mighty duke," he said, his voice tinged with both surprise and a hint of blame. He was not as drunk as he had been the last time she had seen him, but it was clear from the smell hovering around him that he had been imbibing.

"Why are you here?" Clara asked flatly. She hadn't the patience to deal with him.

"Ye're my wife, Clara."

"You sold me, John," she retorted, her nostrils flared. "Perhaps that detail escaped your inebriated memory, but I assure you, I remember it very well."

"'Twas my only option," he argued. "And I told ye I'd buy ye back, didn't I?"

"And is that what you have come for?" It was a rhetorical question. No part of her thought John wanted her back. He had married her for money, and he had sold her for money. He would not willingly pay anything for her now—not when that money might be used for drink or in pursuit of more money at the card table.

"Aye," he said proudly. "I 'ave."

Her confidence wavered. "What?"

"I promised ye."

She stared at him, unsure what to make of what he was saying. She was under no illusion he wished to be married to her. Then why had he bothered to journey all this way to buy her again?

"The duke will not allow it," she said, hoping she was right. "How much do you have?"

His proud stance faltered slightly. "Well, I haven't got the money. Not yet, at least."

Clara let out an incredulous laugh. "Just one wager away, no doubt. If you have no money, how do you come to be here?" Even a journey to Rushlake on the mail coach would be beyond the means of someone like John. If he ever had two coins to rub together, it was only for as long as it took him to walk to the nearest free house or gambling hell.

"I stowed away," he explained.

"Very well. But if you haven't the money to buy me, what is your game?"

He took a step closer, and his expression turned pained. "I be in trouble, Clara."

"That is hardly news," she said softly.

He shook his head. "I've no work and no money."

"There is work to be had. You know horses. You have a valuable skill with them. But no one will keep you on if you insist on drinking and gambling away your days and nights."

"I know that. But even if I find a place to take me on…the wages aren't enough."

"Enough for what? Plenty of people survive or even support a family on an ostler's wages. It requires discipline, though, and not spending every last penny the moment you lay hands on it."

"Ye don't understand, Clara. I've debts. More than I could pay on a decade of wages."

She clenched her eyes shut. There it was. The real reason he had come. The pleading in his voice was pitiful. "I am sorry, John, but I have nothing to offer you. You already took my savings."

"Savings ye never should've hid from me," he said with more frustration than he was wont to show.

"Perhaps not. But given what you did with them, can you blame me?"

He grimaced. "Ye serve in a duke's household, Clara."

"Yes. But you know as well as I that I am paid only on quarter days, and I have been here but a month."

"Aye. But wages ain't the only thing of value in that fancy house." He nodded toward Rushlake.

"What do you mean?"

"Ye know what I mean."

She did know, and she shook her head vehemently. "Absolutely not."

"Why not?"

She stepped toward him, her face inches from his. "You are honestly asking me to steal from the duke?"

"'Twouldn't be the first time ye'd done somethin' like it."

She drew back, staring at him as her chest rose and fell. Would that she had never come upon him, never admitted the truth of her past to him.

He gestured toward the house again. "Only look at the size of the place. Full of things that'd never be missed—things that could change our lives."

" Your life, John. I do not wish for my life to change. I am happy here." That was not entirely true. After tonight especially, it was impossible to pretend she didn't wish for her life to change. But stealing from the duke was perhaps the one thing she could do to make the foolish impossibility of a future with him even more impossible.

"Happy, are ye? Because ye've caught the duke's eye?"

"No," she said forcefully .

His face drew nearer to hers, challenging her. "And how long do ye suppose those eyes will remain on ye, Clara? It won't last. He'll tire of ye, and then ye'll be dismissed to stop ye tellin' tales of his misdeeds, just as ye were last time. And then…" He looked at her intently, not finishing the thought.

He didn't need to. Her own mind was willing enough to supply the rest. She had stolen from Lord Redgrave to teach him a lesson. It had been her only means of evening the scales against him and the injustice of the situation. John clearly thought she would do the same again when the duke inevitably dismissed her.

The duke was nothing like Lord Redgrave, but what would happen when he inevitably began courting, became engaged, and then married? Would he wish to employ a maid who might tell stories of their kiss—stories which could reach the ears of his wife?

No man would wish for that, much less someone like the duke, who was so conscious of the feelings of others. It was entirely possible that, in allowing herself to kiss the duke, she had sealed her fate away from Rushlake.

"I shan't steal from the duke," she said firmly.

John cocked a brow. "No?"

"No."

It was silent for seconds as their eyes battled.

"Does he know?" John asked.

"Know what?"

"That ye're a wanted woman—a thief?"

Clara's muscles tightened, but she made no response.

John chuckled. "Of course not. No duke would knowin'ly employ a thief for a maid."

Clara turned away, hating how her body filled with shame. Shame and regret. She had felt the same things almost immediately after stealing the pocket watch—just as soon as her anger had faded.

She had stolen it with every intention of pawning it for money. But there was a reason she still had it in her possession. The shame and regret had been too strong for her to think of profiting from her crime.

She could give the watch to him. It might be enough to send him on his way again. But she was tired of giving him the means to destroy himself. And though she had stolen it, the watch was not hers to give any more than the things in Rushlake were.

"Perhaps he should know what type of woman he's employin'," John said.

Clara's head whipped around.

"Perhaps he'd be grateful for such information," he continued. "Grateful enough to pay whoever informed him of it."

"You wouldn't," Clara breathed. But she was far from confident of such a thing. John's desperation had taken him to very low places indeed. He had given her to the duke once—what was to keep him from giving her up to him in this way too?

"Or," John said, his gaze fixed on her, "he can remain ignorant."

If you steal from him . Those were the words he left unsaid—the unspoken words haunting Clara. Her stomach writhed at the thought of the duke's face if he learned the truth about her. She was a thief. In her anger, she had made herself into the very thing she had been unjustly accused of.

"And if I tell him the truth myself?" Clara quaked inside to think of doing such a thing.

"Then perhaps people will be interested to know what I saw with me very own eyes: the Duke of Rockwood comin' out of the woods after dark with his maid—a married woman and a thief. "

"No one would believe you," she said, but she was far from confident of that fact. Rumors of the market square had been passed around generously. White-hot anger scalded Clara's veins. "Your drink and your need to chase after money you did not earn has made you into a villain, John."

A flash of hurt crossed his face, but it was swiftly replaced by a mulish set to his jaw. "They'll kill me. If I don't repay them, they'll kill me."

"Then flee. You managed to come here without money; make your way north, away from those people. Start anew and make a life for yourself there. An honest one."

He was already shaking his head. "Ye don't know these men. They'll find me. I 'spect they're already onto me. But if I can pay the debt…"

Clara said nothing, her pity warring with anger at him for putting her in such a position. But he had managed to put aside the drink and gambling once. Perhaps he could do so again.

"How much do you owe them?"

He hesitated, his lips bunching in a grimace. "Nearly two hundred."

"Pounds?" Clara cried out.

"I was winnin', Clara. I went in with two pounds and made it into fifty! But…"

"Oh, John." She didn't need to hear a word more. It was the tale of every gambler sucked into a gaming hell. They were allowed to win, permitted to gain at the expense of the bank to whet their appetite for victory.

And then they were crushed.

"What do you suppose I could steal that would repay such a debt, even if I were willing?"

"It doesn't have to be one thing," John argued, sounding more pathetic than ever. "It could be several smaller things. "

Clara put up her hands to stop him saying anything else. "I need time. Time to think."

Perhaps there was another way out of this mess. There had to be. If she refused to help him now, though, he might well ruin everything.

"Very well. I'll return in two days."

"No. I will come to you. Where will you be?"

He was silent, which Clara understood to mean he had no answer, for he had no place to stay. He would undoubtedly find some barn or hayloft. Perhaps she should help him find a place to stay, but she was too angry with him.

"I will meet you in the village near the inn," she said. "The night after tomorrow."

He fixed his suspicious gaze on her. "And how do I know ye'll?—"

"I will be there," she said firmly. With a plan, she sincerely hoped. "Now go. I have work to do."

He turned away, then stopped again, his back to her. "Clara?"

"What?" she said, her patience at its end.

"I don't like to make threats against ye, but I'll have no choice but to follow through if ye decide to trick me." And then he walked away.