Chapter 2

2

CLARA

C lara Quinn shut the door of the private parlor behind her, her heart rapping a quick rhythm against her chest as she held the doorknob behind her back. She had nearly asked the duke to help her when he had offered repayment for her service. He had seemed so genuine in his gratitude. He had kind eyes too, and it had been some time since she had known kindness from a man.

But he was a duke, and a simple maid did not ask for anything at all from such a figure. Men of substance took and gave as it served them. Her current situation attested to that fact.

Besides, what would the Duke of Rockwood think if he knew she had considered keeping the ring? It could have been the solution to most of her problems, of which there were many. It could have provided her with not just money but perhaps a means of clearing her name—a letter attesting to her innocence, signed with the duke's seal? Who would doubt such a thing?

But using a stolen ring to exonerate herself from the accusation of past theft…the irony was undeniable. She had already been branded a thief, though; she might as well obtain something valuable to continue deserving the name.

And yet, she had not been able to bring herself to keep the ring.

Her father's words had inevitably come to her: "The world be an unforgivin' place, Clara, but with hard work and a kind heart, ye're bound to come out all right."

She only wished she had lived up to his words better.

The man who had accompanied the duke appeared at the base of the staircase, followed by the innkeeper, Mr. Trumble, and Clara hurried away from the door. She kept her head low as she made her way to the kitchens, trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible. She had little hope her husband had returned, but if he had, the kitchens would be his destination. He was always famished after days of drinking.

"Clara." Mr. Trumble's voice brought her up short in the corridor, and she shut her eyes for a moment before facing him. "What were you doing near that parlor?"

"The duke dropped something," she said. "I merely returned it to him."

Mr. Trumble's lips pressed into a thin, displeased line. "You should have given it to me. You have no business so much as looking at the Duke of Rockwood."

She gave a curt nod, grateful he didn't know that she had looked at the duke a number of times—and met his eye more than once. "You were otherwise engaged, sir, and I thought the duke would wish for his property to be returned to him without delay."

Mr. Trumble looked unconvinced, but Clara was no fool; he was annoyed he was not the one afforded the opportunity to render the duke a service.

"Is your husband recovered?" he asked .

"Unfortunately not." When John had not returned for his duties two days ago, she had told the innkeeper he was ill. It was not entirely untrue, for only a man who was unwell had the insatiable appetite for drink and gambling her husband did. "But I assure you both of our duties will be carried out to your satisfaction, sir."

"And yet, Clara, it is not satisfying to me or to anyone who witnesses it—much less a duke—to have a dirty maid carrying out the duties of an ostler."

The description of her state made her blush furiously. She was still not accustomed to the grime that found its way onto her person over the course of her long, busy days at the inn, and there were few mirrors to inform her of the fact. She had always taken pride in her neat appearance as Lady Redgrave's personal maid, and in her mind's eye, she was still that person—someone in whom her mistress could take pride.

A quick look at her soot-covered apron was enough to remind her how low she had fallen since then.

"I understand, sir," she said. "I am confident John will return to his duties shortly."

"He had better, or I will have no choice but to dismiss both of you."

With a clenched jaw and a quick curtsy, she made her way to the servants' quarters to clean up. She was not angry with Mr. Trumble. In fact, she sympathized with him. To have his new ostler disappear for days at a time was not something most innkeepers would tolerate. If Clara—also new to her position—had not been there to plead her husband's case and shoulder his responsibilities as well as her own, he would have had no position to return to.

But she was exhausted. In the three weeks since their wedding, she had seen precious little of her so-called husband. He had immediately set to spending her hard-earned money—now his money—on gambling and drinking.

The money he knew of, at least.

A quiver of uncertainty shook her as she brushed at the soot on her apron. It had been nearly a week since she had looked in the hiding spot.

She laid aside the rag she was using and rushed to their bed—a bed they had shared but one night since their wedding. On the rare night when John returned for sleep, she had moved to the floor.

She ran her hand along the stones on the wall until she felt the familiar one that jutted out slightly. Hooking her fingers on the top, she wriggled it out and set the rock on the bed.

She had felt guilty for keeping this money a secret from John, for when she had hidden it, she had not known she was marrying a man given over to becoming intoxicated or losing money. Dismissed from her prior position without a character or reference, she had been desperate for someone who could offer a stable future. With his quiet demeanor, his promises to care for her, and his offer to help her find work, John had seemed just that when she had sat beside him on the mail coach. For weeks, she had been seeking work, experiencing rejection after rejection, doing everything she could to preserve her savings.

Meeting John had been her first glimmer of hope. He had helped her find a roof over her head and, days later, a position at The Coach and Lantern. They had been married two days after.

If only she had known she had met and married him during the short period when he had been abstaining from his vices. That abstention had lasted until the festivities the night of the wedding when his refusals of drink had been stubbornly overridden by friends .

Three weeks later, Clara hardly recognized the man she had married. Neither did she have much opportunity to, for he had been gone whenever he was not required at the inn—and when he was required, as well.

Thus it had been mere instinct—blessed instinct—that had led her to keep the existence of this money to herself.

She reached her hand into the hole and grasped the silk of the reticule hidden within. Her heart skidded to a halt. There was no jangling of coins, no weight to the bag beyond its worn fabric. It was limp. Empty.

Every last pence was gone.

Clara took the bridle of the horse and pulled it away from the trough full of feed.

"Come," she urged, pulling more insistently as the horse resisted. "Your master is waiting."

The horse finally surrendered, and she led it out of the stable and toward the cart waiting in the yard. She wiped her brow with the back of her hand. It was still morning, but she had already been awake for many hours, and the cloudless sky meant the July sun beat down without mercy.

Once the horse was attached to the cart, the driver handed her two copper coins.

"Thank you, sir," she said humbly.

As the cart drove away from the inn, she looked at the dirty coins in her hand and sighed. They were the only money she had.

With a quick glance around, she reached into the pocket beneath her apron and pulled out a pocket watch and its accompanying chain. She stared at it until her eyes began to burn and she was forced to blink. If she sold it, she could fetch fifteen pounds. That would be enough to buy her a place on the mail coach and keep her afloat until she could find work elsewhere. She wouldn't survive much more of things as they stood—fulfilling the duties of two people while her husband gambled and drank away their earnings. She was working hard, just as Papa had taught her, and she was trying to be kind to John. When would things come out all right?

A movement in the road caught her eye, and she glanced up. Her eyes widened as John stumbled toward the yard, the flat-brimmed hat askew on his head. He was flanked on either side by two men she recognized as Thomas and Samuel. They were the ones who had insisted John share a drink with them on their wedding night.

With a quick look around to ensure Mr. Trumble was nowhere in sight, she hurried toward John.

If the lumbering movements and loud laughter of Thomas and Samuel hadn't been enough to tell her what state the three of them were in, the stench would have. If Mr. Trumble saw John like this, her stories of his illness would crumble, and both of them would be dismissed.

She forced down a desire to retch and took John by the arm, guiding him to the side of the road where the bushes would block them from view. Thomas and Samuel followed like unwanted shadows.

John grinned at Clara like a fool. "There ye are," he said as though she was the one who had disappeared for three days.

Thomas surveyed Clara from head to toe as his own head swayed slightly. "She'll fetch a pretty penny, I'd say."

"John," Clara said, ignoring Thomas and holding John's arm more firmly to force his attention to her. "Where is the money?"

His good humor faltered, and a little crease appeared between his brows, as though he was hurt. "The money ye hid from me?"

"Yes." She was too anxious for an answer to bother justifying what she had done, though she certainly could have. Not to a drunkard, however.

Samuel shook his head and made a tsk ing sound, pulling a flask from his pocket. "Shouldn't have done that. 'Twasn't your money anymore."

"Where is it?" Clara repeated.

"Gone," John said.

Clara's hand dropped from his arm, and she stared at him, looking for any sign he might be having a laugh at her expense. But he wasn't laughing. In fact, his brows were pinched, as though the answer saddened him.

"A-all of it?" she asked, her voice weak. There had been thirty-five pounds in that reticule.

"Every last pence." Samuel sighed softly as he put a sympathetic arm around John's shoulders. His finger shot into the air. "But we have a plan. Don't we, John?"

Clara couldn't speak, she felt so ill. She covered her face with her hands. She had scrimped and saved for years for that money. How could it simply be gone? With nothing at all to show for it?

"We do," John said. "We'll get it back."

"And another three pints of grog besides," Thomas added, taking the flask from Samuel. He tipped back his head, shook the upturned flask, and the last few drops trickled into his mouth.

Clara turned away and squeezed her eyes shut, wishing she could wake from this nightmare, that she could return to those idyllic two years before Lady Redgrave had married and everything had gone so terribly awry. It was only two months since she had been dismissed, but it felt like two years.

"'Tis market day," Thomas reasoned. "That be in our favor. People'll be ready to spend the blunt."

"Aye," Samuel concurred. "And she be a fine talker, John."

Thomas grunted his agreement. "Mayhap we should see she's cleaned up afore we take her. She'll fetch us more that way."

"Us?" John said. "She's my wife. What she fetches be mine."

Their words began to filter through Clara's harried thoughts, and she turned toward them. "What are you talking about?"

"Don't fear, Clara," John reassured her. "I'll buy ye back as soon as can be."

"What?" Her frustration shifted to wariness. "What do you mean?"

"He's sellin' ye, wench," Samuel said with a large grin.

The breath in Clara's lungs vanished as she looked to John, her eyes wide. But the man she had married was not to be found in the vacant expression he wore.

"Selling me?" she repeated.

She had heard of the practice of men selling wives—everyone had—but she had never witnessed it herself. From her limited knowledge, the sale was usually done with the mutual agreement of the wife, and the purchaser was most often the man she had been carrying on with in private.

None of those were the case for her. She had no desire to be married to John, but there was a serious possibility that whoever she was sold to would be far worse than he. John, though addicted to drink and gaming, was not the type to lay a hand on her.

And yet, the burdens he had promised to share had not been shared. They had been multiplied .

"I'd buy ye meself if I 'ad the money," Thomas said. "I've always fancied a wife ta warm me bed."

"Come on, then," Samuel said, taking hold of Clara's arm. "Ta the square we go."

Clara hesitated a moment, then wrenched her arm away from him and ran.