Chapter 8

8

CLARA

O ne door to a room was not sufficient for a ducal estate like Rushlake. Each of the rooms on the main floor was fitted with two doors, separated by a small vestibule in which was located a closet for storage or shelves to display trinkets of value. The set of doors allowed for more privacy and for heat to be kept more efficiently in the rooms requiring it. The servants there, Clara had found, referred to this space as "the in-between" and would speak of "the drawing room in-between" or "the library in-between" when explaining where certain supplies were stored.

She balanced the broom and dustbin in one hand and opened the door leading to the library in-between. She contemplated organizing the closet, for once she put these supplies away, she would be obliged to go speak with Mrs. Finch in the housekeeper's room below stairs. She was under no illusion that would be a happy conversation.

She placed the broom and bin amongst the other cleaning supplies and shut the cupboard door. The door to the library was ajar, and she grasped the handle to close it, halting at the sound of her name.

"You believe I should dismiss Clara, then," said the duke from within the library.

"I do, Your Grace," Mr. Cartwright replied.

Clara stiffened. In her time at Rushlake, she had learned that Mr. Cartwright acted as a sort of personal secretary and advisor to the Duke of Rockwood. The other servants thought well of him, but Clara couldn't help resenting him a bit. He seemed to have taken a dislike to her from the beginning.

"It would be terribly cruel, Edmund," the duke said. "She has done nothing wrong."

"That is arguable."

"How?"

"It was her decision to marry a drunkard. That choice put her in the position in which we found her."

Clara couldn't move, but her stomach turned, perhaps because she felt a grain of truth in his words. But if she had truly known John's vices, she would not have entertained the thought of marriage to him.

"She says she was a lady's maid before," Mr. Cartwright continued. "Why, then, had she stooped to performing the duties of a common inn maid? And now a housemaid? Why not continue as a lady's maid elsewhere? To me, the situation seems suspect. But the point is, Your Grace, that there are any number of people who could perform the work she is doing here, so I struggle to think of any reason for keeping her on when her presence causes such harm to your reputation."

There was silence, and Clara could barely breathe as she waited for the duke's response. But it was Mr. Cartwright who spoke again.

"Do you understand the harm it does?"

"Yes," the duke said quietly .

Clara's heart twinged. What had she expected? For him to rise to her defense? Her mind seemed to be concocting absurd fantasies of the duke, thrusting him into the role of a chivalrous knight who had come to her rescue. And yet, her heart hurt all the same.

"I cannot in good conscience dismiss her, Edmund. I told her I would provide her a position, and I am a man of my word. Surely, you can make an effort to quell the gossip below stairs. Mrs. Finch ought to have put a stop to it already."

Clara let go of the handle and slipped out into the corridor, shutting the door as quietly as possible behind her. She put a hand on her stomach and forced herself to breathe. Mr. Cartwright was desperate for her to be gone. And the duke? It was pity that kept him from having her dismissed.

Well, given her destination, they might soon have their way.

Clara batted the gathering tears away from her eyes, took a breath, and made her way to the servant staircase. Brushing at the lingering soot on her apron, she tried to prepare herself for the meeting with the housekeeper.

How would she defend herself? What would she do and where would she go if she was dismissed? The mere thought sent her nerves into a frenzy.

Mrs. Finch was seated at the desk in the large room allotted to her as both living and working quarters. Some evenings, various servants would be invited to take tea with her in this room. Clara had not yet enjoyed that honor.

The housekeeper looked up, her gaze settling on Clara in the doorway. "Come in."

Clara obeyed and came to stand in front of the desk.

"Have a seat," the housekeeper said, her voice colorless.

Clara sat in the wicker chair opposite her and waited as the housekeeper scribbled a few more words on the page in front of her, replaced the quill in the inkstand, and sat back to look at Clara.

"Your work here at Rushlake has been satisfactory, Clara. Indeed, if circumstances were different, I would be quite happy to keep you on, for you are thorough and quick in your tasks. However…"

Clara kept her gaze on the housekeeper, refusing to allow herself the luxury of showing any emotion.

"Strict rules govern our conduct at Rushlake. Particularly our conduct as it relates to His Grace." Her gaze grew more intense and condemnatory, her lips thin with displeasure. "I cannot have those under my stewardship crossing—nay, leaping—over the lines of proper decorum."

"Mrs. Finch," Clara said, "there has been a great misunderst?—"

The housekeeper put up a hand, silencing her. "I have no desire to know the particulars of your connection"—she said the word with distaste—"to the duke. As those employed by the Duke of Rockwood, it is our task, first and foremost, to seek his good, for his successes are our successes, his failures our failures. Do you want what is best for His Grace, Clara?"

"Yes," Clara responded, entirely earnest. She also wanted what was best for herself. She couldn't imagine she would find a situation better than upper housemaid at a ducal estate.

"If that is true," Mrs. Finch said, regarding her intently, "you will not remain under this roof."

Clara swallowed. "You are dismissing me."

"No. You would be leaving of your own volition."

Clara stared, waiting for her to expound. It certainly felt as though she was being dismissed.

"The duke has shown himself reluctant to dismiss you, and I will not cross him. But I encourage you in the strongest terms of which I am capable to leave his service immediately. "

Clara's heart thumped, and her mind whirred. No one wanted her at Rushlake. For the past two weeks, she had convinced herself that the duke, at least, did. But the conversation she had overheard proved otherwise. He was keeping her here out of pity. How could she stay somewhere she was so unwanted, so despised?

Mrs. Finch watched her carefully. "Because of your satisfactory work, I am prepared to provide you with a reference so that you may seek employment elsewhere."

Clara's gaze flew to hers.

"However," the housekeeper continued, "I absolutely insist that you leave all thought—any thought at all, you understand—of carrying on with a future master in the way you have done here. Do I make myself clear?"

Clara's cheeks flamed. "I have not done anything untoward with the duke—or with any master, Mrs. Finch." Indeed, it was her refusal to do so which had led to her dismissal from the service of Lady Redgrave.

"If what I observed in the duke's bedchamber today does not strike you as untoward , Clara, we have a serious problem."

Clara clenched her jaw to keep her mouth shut. She could defend herself and say it was the duke who had asked for her wrist, but her conscience balked at casting the blame upon him.

The blood in her veins thrummed at the memory of his touch. But it was not his fault she had reacted to it. He had been thinking of his mother.

"Can I trust you to behave yourself with decorum wherever you find work?"

"Yes," Clara said firmly. With the reference Mrs. Finch promised, she could leave Rushlake. But she needed more than that. She required money. "I will leave Rushlake, but in return, I ask that you give me wages for the short time I have been here."

Mrs. Finch nodded. "What I am asking you to do is not easy, so I will do more than that." She opened one of the drawers of her weathered desk and took out a coin purse. From it, she extracted three coins and held them on her outstretched palm.

Clara stared at the three gold sovereigns and glanced up at the housekeeper. Those coins were just over a quarter of her annual wages. For just two weeks of work.

It was either a testament to Mrs. Finch's generosity or evidence of how desperate she was for Clara to leave. Either way, Clara was grateful for it. Along with the reference, it would make all the difference.

And yet, as she waited for Mrs. Finch to write the reference, her heart felt heavy at the thought of leaving.

By the time Clara had finished her evening duties and was ready to leave, dark was falling. Mrs. Finch had assured her the mail coach passed by the nearest inn at half-past ten, which meant Clara should arrive in plenty of time. It would be a long night—and an early morning when the coach arrived in London. She had decided upon London as her destination, for it seemed most full of opportunity.

With the small sack of belongings she had acquired in the past two weeks hanging over her arm, Clara descended the servants' stairs from the top floor. She slowed as she reached the landing for the main floor. It looked toward the principal corridor, with its long, thick rugs, tall windows, and high, plastered ceilings. The sight brought a lump to her throat. Rushlake was beautiful .

She wished she could say goodbye to the duke, but it was an absurd thought. What would such a thing accomplish? Part of her was undoubtedly hoping he would ask her to stay. Her! A housemaid. The presumption was unprecedented and would only confirm what Mrs. Finch had said: she had no sense of proper decorum. She did not belong there.

One last walk down the corridor would have to suffice. There were a few candles still lit, signifying the duke had not yet gone to bed for the evening. The door to the study stood halfway ajar, candlelight pouring from it.

Clara stopped just shy of it and peeked inside. The duke was there, seated at the desk, one hand supporting his head as he read over the paper in front of him.

She felt a tug pulling her toward him, urging her into the room. It was the tug of kinship, the desire for friendship. But she was neither friend nor kin of the Duke of Rockwood. They occupied different worlds: maid and duke, servant and master.

As Mrs. Finch had said, if Clara wished to truly serve him, all that was required of her was to leave him be.

"Goodbye," she whispered, then she turned and walked back to the servant staircase.

She hadn't bothered to warn the other maids she was leaving. Mrs. Finch would tell them, and just as assuredly, they would fabricate fantastical stories to explain her sudden departure.

She walked toward the servant staircase but stopped short just shy of the landing as a strange sound met her ears. Keeping still, she listened.

The scraping sound repeated, and she followed it.

It grew louder as she came to the short, dark wing where the billiard and gun room were. A figure moved outside one of the windows, and she doubled back with a quick intake of breath .

From the shadows, Clara watched as the figure reached for one of the sash windows and tried to open it. It was locked, however, and after trying to force the latch in vain, he moved on to the next window, located in the billiard room.

He was trying to force his way into Rushlake.

Heart beating frantically, Clara considered her options. If she confronted the man, there was a high probability she would be treated to violence for her pains. A person desperate enough to break into the estate of a duke was unlikely to listen to reason.

But she had to do something.

The housekeeper and butler had retired for the night—rousing them would take precious time. Instead, Clara turned, picked up her skirts, and ran toward the study, her hands trembling with anxious energy.

The duke's head whipped up at the sound of her entrance.

"Your Grace," she said breathlessly.

He rose to his feet, his gaze alert and curious. "What is it?"

"Someone is attempting to break in."

His brows snapped together. "What do you mean?"

"I saw him myself. Outside, trying to force the windows open."

The duke turned and strode toward a small shelf of books nearby, pulling one from the middle shelf. Letting it lie flat on one palm, he opened the cover. There were no pages within, however, and he pulled a pistol from the void left by them.

Setting the book aside, he strode toward Clara. "Show me."

Clara led the way down the corridor, staying just in front of the duke. "I last saw him trying the window in the billiard room, Your Grace. So far, all the windows have been locked, but I imagine it is only a matter of time until…"

The duke nodded, his gaze fixed ahead. When they had passed out of the candlelit corridor and entered the dark of the small wing beyond, the duke put out a hand, his fingers wrapping around Clara's arm and holding her back.

She halted, her eyes adjusting slowly to the dark.

He put a finger to his lips, and they waited, ears straining.

Then it came—a creaking and the distinctive sound of a window sliding in the casement.

The duke held up the pistol before him, then put a hand on Clara's shoulder to keep her in place while he slipped in front of her.

Clara's heartbeat galloped as she considered whether the intruder might have a pistol of his own. What would she do if the duke was shot because she had chosen to alert him rather than the butler or one of the footmen? Suddenly, her quick thinking seemed foolish and irresponsible.

The duke let his hand drop from her shoulder, and she grasped it.

His head turned toward her, his eyes questioning.

"Be careful, Your Grace," she pled in a whisper.

His gaze held hers for a moment, then he nodded and continued his soft steps toward the gun room.

Clara kept just behind him, every nerve in her body alert, every hair on end as the sound of the thief's movements grew louder. The slow sliding of the window told her he was shutting it as they crept along the wall toward the gun room door, which was open.

The duke stopped just shy of it, and their arms pressed against each other. He looked at her, nodded, then slid into the doorway.

"Stop!" he called out, pointing the gun ahead.

Clara came to stand behind him and watched as the man, his back turned toward them, lowered a sack to the floor and put up his hands.

"Do not even consider reaching for one of the guns," the duke said. "They are all unloaded, but I assure you, the pistol in my hand is not, and I will put a bullet in your head if you so much as move a finger."

"Is this to be my welcome, then?" the man asked, a hint of amusement in his voice. "A pistol pointed at my head?" Though his coat and breeches were dirty and worn and his boots caked with mud, his accent was far from the one Clara had expected. It spoke of someone gently bred—and evidently finding humor in the situation.

Clara glanced at the duke to see whether he was as confused as she, but he was entirely still, his eyes unblinking.

Hands still raised in surrender, the intruder's head turned enough to offer a view of his profile. The gleam of his smile, surrounded by thick facial hair, was nearly all Clara could see in the darkness that enveloped the room.

The duke's pistol slowly lowered, and his shoulders relaxed. Disbelief was etched in every line of his face.

"You know this man?" Clara asked.

The duke stared ahead, his expression slack with shock. It was a moment before he responded. "He is my brother."