The words of her note hovered in her mind as she organized the rest of her correspondence. There were three invitations from friends, asking her to tea on a variety of afternoons, and several letter from acquaintances she had met in previous seasons, who were now married and settling into their own homes and estates. She would need to show the invitations to her mother and gain permission to go, since she would need her parents’ approval to secure the transportation. Their city grooms had strict orders from her father not to obey requests from Lady Clara about any vehicle, especially the curricle, not after an unfortunate incident in the park earlier this year.
While it was most definitely not Clara’s fault that her horses were startled by a pack of wayward squirrels, she had been going, perhaps, a bit too fast. It had cost her yet another maid, and Clara had spent a great deal of time acquiring Radcliff. Apparently, word among the servants traveled quickly.
A knock on her door broke her reverie. “Enter!”
A young maid, a tweenie by the look of her, opened the door a mere crack. “My lady?”
Clara stood and motioned her to come in, which the maid did not. She did open the door a bit farther. “My lady, I was sent to let you know your father would like to see you.”
“Thank yo—”
The door shut, and Clara heard the rapid patter of the young girl’s footsteps heading down the hall. “Am I that terrifying?” she asked the closed door.
Apparently.
Clara checked her appearance in her looking glass. The hair, of course, had started to creep free of its bondage, but she was otherwise appropriately attired in a dark green day gown of muslin and cotton. Day boots instead of slippers, to cut down on the risk of tripping.
She turned to Pockets, who had made a nest in a shawl at the foot of the bed. “Want to go out for a bit? Chase a few butterflies in the garden?”
Pockets stretched all four legs, then began to knead the shawl. Clara snatched her up, untangling the tiny kitten claws. “Oh, no, you do not want to do that. That is one of my best shawls.” She tucked the little cat into the pocket of her gown and headed down the servants’ staircase at the rear of the house. In the basement, she passed the kitchen, giving Cook a pleasant wave and greeting, then exited into the side yard. She skirted the remnants of the morning’s deliveries—empty crates, discarded burlap sacks, and a variety of bottles—and made her way into the house’s back garden through a side gate.
Clara sat on a wooden and wrought-iron bench near one of the paths that led a circuitous route through the plethora of rose bushes and hollyhocks. She inhaled deeply, closing her eyes, relishing in the fresh scents of the flowers and blooming shrubs. Trees shaded several areas, and an Italian-style pond shimmered near the greenhouse that provided vegetables, spices, and flowers for the household year-round. The Beckcott Hall garden was smaller than that of similar houses, but Clara knew their gardeners had tried to compensate by crowding as much foliage as possible into the limited space.
She eased Pockets out into the sun, once again extracting kitten claws from fabric. She pressed the warm cat against her cheek and was rewarded with that juddering and rapid purr typical of young cats. Grinning, Clara set the kitten on the ground and watched as Pockets disappeared underneath a thick patch of sage, which was part of Cook’s summer herb garden.
“Well, at least you will smell pleasant.” After one previous outside excursion, Pockets had returned bearing the distinct odor of a horse’s stall, which had netted her a quick exit from Clara’s bedchamber and a bath—both unwelcome, as far as Pockets was concerned. An experience repeated after disappearing into the Kennet stable this week.
Pockets did not care for water. And she had a surprisingly loud voice for such a miniscule creature.
“Don’t think you’ll have my comfortable pillow for a bed if you return with the aroma of horse.” A flash of white told her Pockets had found new game and would be occupied for a while.
Clara stood and brushed off the back of her dress. She entered the house via the garden door, which led through a small conservatory and out into a rotunda, from which several rooms and hallways extended. To her right, an arched doorway led into the home’s entrance hall, which also gave access to the grand staircase leading up to the second-floor ballroom. To her left lay the library, her father’s study, and a hallway to the breakfast room, her mother’s boudoir, and two receiving rooms.
She knocked on the door of her father’s study and waited for his welcome. She took a deep breath and entered, easing the door closed behind her. She stopped, watching as he finished a bit of correspondence, folded the letter, and set it aside. He peered at her over the top of his spectacles as he replaced his quill in its mount.
Jerome Durham, the eighth earl of Beckcott, had once had a regal bearing, and Clara well remembered his strong, straight body in the saddle at many a hunt. A big man, her father had once been almost sixteen stone, standing well over six feet tall. His powerful bass voice carried weight in Parliament and caused more than a few servants to quake. His had been a respected and admired presence in Society.
All of which changed two years ago after a disastrous fall from his stallion and a long bout of pneumonia afterward, from which they had not thought him to survive. He did, but with a substantial loss of weight and ongoing ill-health. His breathing remained labored; his voice a rougher version of what it had once been.
Although he was barely fifty, he seemed shrunken to Clara, like a ripened apple left too long in the sun. She took another steadying breath. “Papa.”
Durham took off his spectacles. He rubbed the bridge of his nose then leaned back in his chair. “I have determined,” he said slowly, his low voice the now familiar sound of wheels on gravel, “that it is impossible for you to leave this house without creating a calamity intended to give your mother a heart attack.”
Clara’s chest tightened and she stepped closer. “Papa, I did not—” She stopped as she realized a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and a gleam appeared in his eyes. She clasped her hands in front of her. “It truly was not my fault.”
He nodded. “I know.” He gestured at the chair in front of his desk. “Please sit.” As she perched on the edge of the chair, tucking her skirts around her feet, he went on. “But your mother still had to resort to her laudanum again last night in order to sleep.”
Laudanum. Again. An all-too common occurrence. She swallowed, looking down at her hands. “Papa—”
“And what is this I hear about Lord Michael Ashton?”
Clara’s gaze shot up. “Um...”Did he know about the letter?
“That he came to your aid?”
Ah. “He did, sir. And the Marquess of Aldermaston. Lady Elizabeth Ashton was with me. I suspect it was more for her than—”
“You do know his reputation, do you not?”
