“Perhaps you’ll remember that fact and not inhale so aggressively in the future.” Clara reattached the vial to her chatelaine and opened a small pouch hanging from a different chain, soon producing a clean handkerchief. “Here you are.”
Mum accepted the handkerchief, dabbing stray tears, beforegiving her nose a sound blow. “Thanks, ducky. I don’t know what I would do without you.”
“Get arrested, I expect, which is why I must insist we go home. Making your stand amid speculation of insanity is hardly beneficial to your cause.” She stepped closer to whisper, “And what of Fred?”
Clara met the spoiled ermine eye-to-eye, attempting to glower in censure, but the endeavor was undermined when his whiskers tickled her nose. She suppressed a grin. This adorable rascal, with his lame legs that trailed behind him when he scuttled about the house, was her favorite of all Mum’s disabled rescues. And the one that caused the most trouble. “Oh, Fred ... you don’t exactly defend Mum’s soundness of mind, you know.”
Vocalizing his pleasure with a softtook-took-took, Fred tilted his furry brown head and begged to have his chin scratched.
Clara obliged his request, scratching his tiny jaw ... until pedestrians with more perfume than politeness began to stare. She withdrew her hand from the “stole” and straightened her shoulders. “Please, listen to reason. We cannot afford for Fred to indulge in excursions at present.”
“Horsefeathers.” Puckering her lips to Fred, Mum stroked the top of his brow. “You needed fresh air, did you not, Freddy? Poor little dear. Besides, he’s a champion reformer. Nothing makes a lady reconsider the violent tendencies of fashion like admiring a beautiful stole only to have it nibble her hand.”
“Mother!” Clara glanced at a giggling party of shoppers.Please, God, let it be that no one heard that remark.
With a gentle yet determined grip, Clara guided Mum away from Petite Paris and endeavored to conceal them behind a lamppost. She took a breath to rid her voice of the fear and irritation churning in her stomach. “Mum, you know I love and support you, always. However, in our current circumstances, we must be cautious. If Fred nips one more hand—just one—theconstable warned you could be brought up on charges. Even arrested. Like it or not, you can’t help a single creature if our good name is reduced to refuse in the gutter, so please, promise me—no more protests or outings with Fred until our current predicament has been resolved.”
With a huff, Mum crossed her arms. “Such vain imaginings are absolute balderdash. But I shall agree for your sake. On one condition.”
Thank heavens.“Anything.”
“Get yourself out of the house more often.”
“Why ... I leave the house every day.”
“Popping into the clock shop to check on your grandfather hardly qualifies. Much of your time is spent stuffed up in the house, working. You work as your grandfather’s nurse. You work as your papa’s secretary. You work as our housekeeper and my very right hand. So much labor without any amusement is not healthy. You need to have fun, ducky. Attend the ballet. Meet people. Take a trip to the seaside. Have an adventure like you always planned.”
Like Rupert—Mr. Forrester—andI had always planned.
When they’d first met, she’d been a starry-eyed dreamer of twelve, and he’d been a furrow-browed planner of fifteen. Spending their time tucked away in the library with a stack of travel guides, an open map, and voracious wanderlust. Growing, planning, and dreaming together. Little Atlas and Buccaneer Bill off to tour the world ... until they weren’t. Until she’d discovered his duplicitous reasons for matrimony. Until she had given up the ring and any desire for adventure.
Pollutants in London’s atmosphere triggered a fine, stinging mist in Clara’s eyes. “If I attend a ballet with Papa’s escort, may we call a truce?”
“Very well.” Mum gave Clara’s arm a tender pat. “I probably ought to return home in any case. In my haste this morning,I neglected to give Cook instructions regarding tonight’s dinner party.”
Clara’s heart tilted on its axis. Society had been turned against them—spies had been sent amongst them—and Mum wished to host a dinner party? “W-with humans?”Please let the guests consist of feathered friends.
“Only a few of your father’s business associates. And some neighbors. And a couple ladies from my whist consortium. And a couple more from the Charitable Ladies League. I invited Emily and Bridgette, but they’ve yet to send a response, so I don’t know whether to expect them.”
Of course, her would-have-been bridesmaids hadn’t bothered to reply. Like the rest of her friends, they’d severed all ties once the rumors began and the scandal broke, lest they become tainted by association. Just last week, on her way to Grand’s shop, Emily and Bridgette had spotted her and promptly crossed to the other side of the street in a choreographedcut, as if they’d never known her and didn’t wish to suffer the misfortune. Only kindhearted Mum would take such a slight to be accidental and invite them to dinner in good faith.
“If the girls don’t pop by, we should only have sixteen guests, all told.”
A vein in Clara’s temple twitched. Sixteen people in the house, and any number of them might well be informants for Mr. Forrester. Lured by his coin. Armed by his spite. Dispatched by his command to scour their home for the leverage he sought to validate his claims and cement his revenge.
“How can you welcome outsiders into the house after all that transpired? After what happened just yesterday? Your room is still in shambles.” Drawers overturned. Chair cushions sliced. At least this latest spy, a chimney sweep who’d charmed Mum into giving him work, had been decent enough to look shamefaced when caught and confess by whom he’dbeen paid—a dapper bloke by the name of Forrester. A revelation that confirmed her mounting suspicions and worst fears.
Mum gave Clara’s cheek a gentle pat meant to reassure. “Things can be replaced, and the room can be set to rights soon enough. No real harm was done.”
But the potential for harm was all too real. She shuddered to think how differently things might have ended yesterday. “What if that man had taken his knife to you or Papa instead of the furnishings?”
“The man was a dishonest and destructive thief, I admit, but I can’t believe he’d have gone so far as to hurt anyone. People with dimples are rarely given to violence.”
Oh, Mum.How could she still be so naïve? “Call off the dinner party, please. Inviting people into the house poses too great a risk. As long as Mr. Forrester persists in his search, we should operate under the assumption that all outsiders are spies and we can trust no one.”
“Fiddle-faddle and twaddle. What did your Granny always say? ‘Don’t let the bite of one grass snake...’”
“‘...prevent you from enjoying the garden.’”
