She squeezed his arm. “And have you?”
“Not yet.” She punched his chest, and he laughed. “You are not persuading me.”
He escorted her outside just as their carriage pulled up. A footman opened the door, and Michael helped her inside. As he settled, he reached for her hand again. “You know we will get you through this.”
Beth nodded. “The power of the Kennet clan, right?”
“Without a doubt. The Ashtons can withstand any storm.”
“If only,” she muttered, “we were not quite so adept at causing them.”
“Life, my dear sister, is nothing if not exciting.”
*
Wednesday, 3 August 1825
Beckcott Hall
Eleven in the evening
The countess exitedthe carriage without looking back at Clara, who gave her mother time to stalk into the house before she stepped down. The servants all cautiously kept their faces averted and their expressions still as stones. Even the footman waited patiently for her to emerge, offering his arm as she finally did so. She moved just as slowly up the stairs, with hopes that Honora Durham would have escaped to her own rooms by the time Clara got to the third floor where the family bedchambers were.
Without a fire in her grate—the summer was too hot, even at night, for a fire—Clara maneuvered by the silver light of the moon and the streetlamps outside. Her suite of rooms—her bedchamber, dressing room, and a retiring room—also held a small nook she had set up for reading and writing. Her slippers padded on the thick emerald-colored carpet, which matched both the silk wallpaper, with its swirls of vines in a lighter hue, and the curtains and bed covers, most of which were cotton for the summer.
She lit two lamps on her mantel, smiling as a soft mew sounded from her pillow, and the white cat with the black tips stretched, blinking in the new light. Clara paused to stroke the soft body. “Sweet Pockets.” The kitten wrapped her paws around Clara’s fingers as she set up an irregular and unbelievably loud purr for such a tiny body. “Miss me?”
Pocket nipped her thumb, and Clara laughed under her breath. She extracted her hand and reached for the bell pull near the fireplace. She then lit the lamp by her bedside and one on her dressing table.
Radcliff arrived quickly, breathless, her eyes wide.
“My lady, we did not expect you back so soon. I hope you had a good—” The girl stopped as Clara stepped closer, her gaze slowly sinking to the gown’s skirt. “Oh, my lady!”
“It’s lemonade.”
“Again?”
“Unfortunately. Ruining two gowns in one week is unexpected, even for me.” She turned her back. “Please.”
Radcliff rushed to her and began unlacing her bodice. “Ah. On that account.”
Clara sighed as the first bindings loosened. “Yes?”
“It seems that the scullery maids at Ashton House have some kind of compound they use on, um, the particular combination of mud and muck you fell in. Apparently, since Lord Michael’s return to the house, they have had to deal with a number of such stains on his clothes. Since your day gown was muslin and brown, they were able to remove the muck from it, with no lingering marks.”
“That’s... remarkable.”
“I know! I’ve asked for the recipe for the compound, given how often you traipse about hunting, and they said they would include it with the dress. They soaked the dress for a day, then scrubbed it. It’s in their drying room now, and they will box and send a note over as soon as it’s ready.”
“Did you take care of the dress Lady Rose sent me home in?”
Radcliff paused as she finished loosening the laces on Clara’s stays. “Well...”
Clara looked over her shoulder. “Yes?”
“Since there’s a compound that removes those stains, and you have always given me some of your older day gowns...”
“Do not tell me you like that awful color.”
