Chapter 22

22

CLARA

R ushlake was almost unrecognizable now that guests had begun arriving. Many more would do so today, and Clara could hardly imagine how it would be then. She was accustomed to walking empty corridors and working in rooms that had not been slept in for months.

The energy in the servant areas below stairs was high and somewhat tense as everyone tried to adapt to this new style of serving. Mrs. Finch and Mr. Thurston gave order after order and answered question after question, both of them with cheeks ruddy from exertion and stress. Their tempers, however, were kept under admirable control. This was not their first time overseeing such an event.

Clara waited as patiently as she could for the orders the duke had promised she would receive. As guests began to arrive at midday, however, she began to wonder whether the instructions had been communicated to the housekeeper—or whether Mrs. Finch had decided to send one of the other servants to assist with the Yorkes' arrival.

Of course, there would be footmen to carry the heavier items, but it had been an hour at least since Clara had last seen the maid Mary, and Clara wondered if the housekeeper had decided it would be best for Clara not to be near the duke's family. She was resigned to the fact that every single Rushlake servant thought her laboring under the weight of unrequited love.

And they might as well be correct, for what good were the duke's feelings for her when they could not be pursued?

The more pressing question was this one: what would happen if Mary arrived at the lodge and found Mr. Silas Yorke?

The possible answers to this question were enough that, in her abstraction, Clara tripped over a bucket and mop sitting in the doorway to the servant dining room. Apologizing profusely, she set to cleaning the spill with the help of Eliza.

"Your finger," Eliza said with concern as they cleaned. "What happened?"

"I accidentally cut it," Clara said brusquely. The bandage was a reminder of her conversation with the duke every time she looked at it.

They had managed to mop up half of the water when Mrs. Finch strode in, the keys on her waist jingling, a small basket in hand.

"There you are," she said to Clara as her gaze moved to the mess on the floor. "What in the name of the good Saint George?"

"It was my fault," Clara said, eager to absolve Eliza of any responsibility.

Mrs. Finch sighed and pressed her lips in a tight line. "You are needed at the lodge. His Grace's family will be arriving within the next half hour, and I wish for you to assure everything is in readiness. This will be their first impression of Rushlake. It must be perfect."

"Yes, ma'am," Clara said, her nerves immediately taking flight.

"Eliza will finish cleaning this mess," the housekeeper said.

Clara shot Eliza an apologetic look, but Eliza only smiled understandingly.

"Take this," Mrs. Finch said, handing Clara the basket in her hand. "His Grace's aunt is partial to cherry tarts, so enough have been made for the four of them."

Clara nodded, secretly wondering if the tarts would be forgotten entirely in the excitement of the Yorkes seeing their long-lost brother.

"I will send the two footmen in ten minutes," Mrs. Finch said, "but they will return immediately to assist with the next arrival. Go on, then."

"Yes, ma'am." Clara hurried out of the dining room and made her way to the lodge, basket of cherry tarts in hand. The day was warm but gray, and she kept a quick pace—until her eyes strayed to the log she and the duke had sat upon the other night.

Had she imagined it all? It certainly felt like a dream—too good to be true. Would he have kissed her if he had known then what he knew of her now?

Seeing his disappointment when she had confessed everything to him had stung deeply. And yet, he had not dismissed her or even recoiled. In fact, he had insisted on helping her even more than he already was. It was what she so loved in him: he was principled and loyal, giving him every right to be harsh in his judgment of others. But he was not.

When she neared the lodge, she looked in vain for any sign that the duke might have arrived in advance of his family. He was likely attending to his other guests. Guests like Lady Cassandra.

She opened the front door and stepped inside, the smell of the cherry tarts in her basket making her mouth water. "Mr. Yorke?" Generally, he was quick to appear at the top of the stairs when she arrived.

She set the basket on the table in the entry hall, then retied the lace on her boot, glancing up the stairs. But there was no sign of anyone. "Mr. Yorke?" she called a bit louder.

Still there was no response. It was possible he was sleeping in his bedchamber, but it seemed unlikely given how much he had been anticipating the arrival of his family for the last week and more.

With a hint of concern, Clara made the rounds of the lodge, looking into each room and calling for him. Even his bedchamber sat empty, though.

The hint of concern shifted to something resembling panic, and she looked through the window of the principal bedchamber, from which she could see the area behind the lodge where Mr. Yorke often spent his time outdoors. But he was not there, either.

Clopping hooves sounded in the distance, and Clara hurried out of the bedchamber and down the stairs. Two footmen were taking their places near the front door as a carriage approached. There was no doubt at all to whom it belonged, and yet there was no sign of the duke.

Clara felt entirely unprepared to receive the Yorkes without him—and with no notion where Mr. Yorke was. What if someone had discovered his presence and taken him to the authorities?

The carriage came to a halt, and Clara shut her eyes and took in a breath, grasping for calm. She ran her hands down her apron and straightened herself. She would welcome the Yorkes, then go in search of the duke.

She blew out a breath and opened the door just as one of the footmen unlatched the one on the carriage .

It was the duke who stepped down, looking over his shoulder at the remaining occupants with a laugh on his lips.

"Make way," said an older female voice. "If I have to endure another second of Frederick's gabbing, this carriage's next destination will be Bedlam." A woman straddling middle and old age emerged from the carriage door, wearing a traveling dress of deep blue with a matching bonnet.

The duke offered her his hand and helped her down.

"Very pretty behavior for a duke," she said crossly, "stopping carriages at the gate and hopping inside when there is clearly no space for you."

"I was impatient to see you," he said with a twinkle in his eye. "Is that so unforgivable? Now allow me to give you a proper greeting."

"Let me look at you first." She took a step back and looked him over from head to toe. "Hmph. The title suits you. I had hoped it might dwarf you, but alas. You look the part of a duke."

"On the shady side of fifty, gout-ridden, and with a belly rounder than a keg?" The next occupant of the carriage emerged, a man with dark features and lines between his brows that suggested he often wore a frown. He was handsome, however, and bore a subtle resemblance to the duke.

"A pleasure to have you here, Anthony," the duke said, wrapping his brother in an embrace.

Mr. Anthony Yorke submitted to the embrace, then turned to assist his wife, a handsome brunette who held herself with a confidence Clara envied. The duke offered her a warm smile. "Welcome, Charlotte." He kissed her gloved hand just as the last traveler emerged, holding his top hat in his hand.

He wore a genial smile and a lightness of expression in stark contrast to Mr. Anthony's. "Do not let Aunt Eugenia fool you," he said as he was wrapped in an embrace by the duke. " She was the one who broached the subject of politics. She simply happens to be wrong on a few crucial matters."

The woman barked a laugh. "The confidence of youth! You had better not seek election in my borough, Frederick, for I shall tell everyone to vote against you." The smile she failed to suppress sapped these words of the bite they otherwise would have held.

Frederick only grinned and turned to look at the lodge.

Clara took a few steps toward the duke, nervous to draw attention to herself. "Your Grace?"

The duke's head came around, and his gaze landed upon her. "Clara. I hadn't seen you."

"Forgive me." She tried to ignore the eyes upon her, keeping her head low. "May I have a quick word with you?"

"Of course." He looked at his family. "Give me but one moment."

Clara took a few steps to the side for more privacy, and the duke joined her.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Your brother," she said in a low voice.

"Which one?" he said with a hint of amusement.

Rather than say the name aloud, she permitted herself to meet his eye. His amusement faded immediately.

Her eyes darted to the other Yorkes. They were congregated together, but his aunt and Mrs. Anthony Yorke seemed curious about the conversation happening between the duke and a housemaid. "I cannot find him," Clara whispered.

The duke's gaze became more intent. "Have you looked outside? He has been spending more and more time by the river."

"I looked, Your Grace—or as much as I could from the window upstairs. Then I heard the carriage and… "

He nodded, his face paler than usual. "We will take my family inside, then search for him."

"Do they know yet? About him?"

"No. And we will wait to tell them until we can locate him."

"Yes, Your Grace." Clara stepped away, head down submissively. She hated not being able to meet his eye, hated having to act so differently depending on the situation.

The duke returned to his family while the footmen carried another trunk inside. "Shall we go in?" he asked his family. "You must be fatigued from the journey."

"That is putting things lightly," his aunt said in annoyance. "Are my cherry tarts here?"

The duke looked at Clara, his expression pleading with her to have an acceptable answer to this question.

Clara took a step forward. "Yes, Mrs. Ashby. They are just inside."

"Cherry tarts?" Mr. Frederick repeated. "As in more than one?"

"Yes, sir," Clara said with a smile. "Enough for the four of you." Her gaze shifted briefly to the duke, who feigned disappointment.

"Capital." Mr. Frederick moved toward the lodge, but his aunt stopped him with a hand.

"Not so fast," she said. "I can eat four cherry tarts without your help, thank you very much. Though, if filling your mouth will stop you from talking anymore, I will gladly spare one."

"That should do the trick." Mr. Frederick shared a conspiratorial look with his brothers.

The duke led the way inside, and Clara followed at the back of the group. Their trunks awaited them in the entry hall, and Clara was obliged to explain which bedchambers were for which guests, while the Yorkes instructed the footmen which trunks and valises belonged to whom .

Within a few minutes, the hall had been cleared of belongings, and the footmen left, the door thudding closed behind them.

"Now for those tarts," said Mrs. Ashby.

"Ah, yes." Clara hurried to the entry table where she had set the basket. She stared at the empty tabletop in confusion. "They were here," she said, disbelief and embarrassment swirling in her chest. "I swear they were."

"So they were."

Everyone in the room turned toward the new voice.

Mr. Silas Yorke stood in the doorway to the sitting room, a nonchalant smile on his face and the basket of tarts hanging over his arm. He took a bite of a cherry tart, shutting his eyes and vocalizing to show his satisfaction with it as a few crumbs spilled down his front.

Utter silence permeated the entry hall, but Clara and the duke's eyes met in mutual relief.

"Silas?" Mr. Anthony said in disbelief.

Mr. Silas's smile widened, but it wavered slightly with emotion.

Mr. Anthony took three large strides over to him and wrapped his brother in his arms, burrowing his face in his brother's shoulder.

Clara blinked quickly to dispel the stinging in her eyes. A glance at the duke showed him doing the same.

When the brothers emerged from the embrace, both their cheeks were wet.

"How?" Mr. Anthony asked, wiping the tears impatiently and looking to the duke. "Did you know?"

The duke nodded. "He has been here at Rushlake."

"For how long?" Mr. Anthony asked, a hint of betrayal in his voice and a frown on his brow .

His wife took his arm and leaned toward him. "Let us enjoy our reunion first, Anthony. Will you not introduce me?"

Clara had the distinct impression she was intruding on a moment that was not hers to share, and she quietly turned around and slipped into the morning room. The room was already tidy, but she tidied it again, hoping to give the Yorkes time.

Within ten minutes, however, the door opened, and the duke led the way into the room. Mr. Anthony's displeasure had dissipated, and the four brothers were smiling, while Mrs. Yorke and Mrs. Ashby walked in arm in arm.

"I will leave," Clara said in an undertone to the duke.

"Not just yet." He turned to his family as they took their seats. "I would like everyone to meet the person who has made Silas's safety possible. This is Clara. She is one of the upper housemaids at Rushlake and has been making twice-daily journeys to the lodge to ensure Silas's enormous appetite and his need for exercise are both satisfied."

Clara curtsied, her cheeks warm.

"In short," Mr. Silas added, "she has saved my life and His Eminence the duke's sanity. I consider her a friend, and so should you."

One by one, the Yorkes and Mrs. Ashby rose from their seats to offer her their gratitude. Clara's cheeks were aflame and her throat thick by the end. She had expected to find the duke's family too refined to take notice of her. Instead, they clasped her hand and treated her with respect and their sincere thanks.

"It has been my pleasure," Clara assured them. "Just as it will be my pleasure to fulfill any tasks you might have for me before I leave you to enjoy one another's company."

Two or three of them reassured her simultaneously that they required nothing .

Clara smiled. "Then I will leave you in peace."

"I need a quick word," the duke said softly. "I will walk you to the door."

Clara nodded, though she was not oblivious to the curious glance Mrs. Ashby and Mrs. Yorke exchanged. It was not a normal occurrence for a duke to speak directly to a housemaid, much less to walk her to the door.

The duke waited to speak until he had closed the door behind them. "What time did you arrange to meet John in the village?"

"Your Grace," she pleaded as they made their way to the front door, "you cannot abandon your guests."

"What time, Clara?"

She hesitated, then stopped in front of the door. "Eleven o'clock. I wanted to ensure I would not be obliged to leave any of my duties."

He nodded. "Good. It should be easy enough for me to slip away at that time."

She wrung her hands. "This is not your affair, Your Grace. I can manage."

"And how will you do that?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "Attempt to reason with him?" It sounded pathetic even to her. Reason played such a small part in John's life.

"I am sorry, Clara, but I insist. I will speak with John myself."

She was too relieved to fight him on the subject, though she hadn't any idea how he intended to manage everything.

"One more thing." His eyes searched hers. "I want to be certain I am not acting against your wishes. If there is any part of you that wants to mend things with John…"

She shook her head adamantly. "No. "

The look of relief on his face was tangible. "Very well. I will find a way to tell you the result of the conversation."

Their gazes held for a moment, as though neither of them wished to part ways just yet.

He turned away, and Clara reached for his hand.

Stopping, he looked down at their hands. His fingers suddenly tightened around hers, and she returned their pressure.

A nearby sound startled them, and their hands dropped. But the door to the sitting room remained closed. The duke faced her, and it took a moment for her to remember why she had stopped him.

"Please take care, Your Grace," she begged. "John believes he is being followed by the men he owes his debt. He seems to think they will harm him if they find him. If something were to happen to you…" She swallowed with effort, unable to finish.

"Nothing will happen to me," he assured her. "I promise."

She nodded, and they parted ways.

But Clara would not rest easy until she knew the duke had returned safely.