Page 35 of The Lady’s No Angel

“You’re not a cat,” Milly retorted.

Angel shrugged. She might as well be; she wanted nothing more than to be a cat under Mr Cleaver’s big, caressing hands.

Returning to the table, she poured Mr Cleaver a cup of coffee, adding several lumps of sugar, which was apparently how he liked it.

Angel waited until he’d finished one cup and poured him another before she sat back, folding her arms.

“Well, then? We know they hanged Jenny at Maidstone, the gallows on the heath. Did you find out anything else that was useful, or did you just enjoy the local ale and the view down the barmaid’s cleavage?”

Mr Cleaver gazed back at Angel, a speculative glint in his eyes. “Are you jealous because I wasn’t staring down your cleavage?”

“Certainly not,” Angel replied, a touch aggravated because that was probably a lie.

“Hmmm. Well, I know she was tried before the Kent Assizes in Maidstone and was hanged on Penenden Heath.”

“We told you that,” Angel pointed out, though admittedly he had more detail than they’d got from Ruth.

“And I know where she’s buried,” he replied coolly.

Angel sat up with a gasp. “You do?”

This had been what had worried her the most. The authorities did not bury executed criminals in parish churchyards but in unconsecrated ground, often in shallow, unmarked graves.

Mr Cleaver nodded but then looked a little regretful. “Well, perhaps not precisely where,” he admitted.

Scowling, Angel folded her arms and waited.

“She was buried on the heath. Close to the gallows. That’s all anyone knows.”

Angel threw up her hands and muttered a curse.

“Well, it’s close enough, isn’t it?” Mr Cleaver demanded, dropping several more lumps of sugar into his coffee despite her already having done so. “You can put your roses on the heath. Isn’t that close enough? It’s the thought that counts.”

Angel turned to glare at him, but noticed the curiosity glinting in his eyes, the sense that he was testing her. “I suppose so,” she said with a tight smile, and left it at that.

Chapter 11

A Game of Consequence

Little Valentine, Kent, 9th April 1816

Clara put down her pen and regarded the letter she had written dubiously.

“It’s too conversational,” she told Benny, who raised his head from his position curled before the fire to look at her. “But then again, writing to an unmarried duke is beyond the pale, anyway. I suppose I might as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb.”

Yet still she gazed down at her words, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth.

Benny huffed and put his head back down again.

“I know, I know. I should either put it in the fire or post it.” Clara sighed, wishing she could be decisive for once in her life instead of dithering over every little decision. Eustacia would not hesitate to put the letter in the post, she suspected. “I shall read it to you, Benny dear. And if you do not think it too excruciating, it shall go directly to the post.”

Benny, apparently conscious of the weight of his responsibility, got up and wagged his tail before sitting expectantly at her feet.

Clara cleared her throat. “Dear Duke—you know I’m still uncertain that’s correct, but anyway—” She started over. “Dear Duke, thank you for the letter you sent me. Please rest assured that I am scrupulous in my care of the pianoforte, and no candles are ever placed upon it. No tea-tray, dish or glass has been or will be set upon its gleaming surface. I am careful to always replace the cover and return the key to Howard. I hope that this will put your grandmother’s mind at ease.”

Pausing, Clara glanced down at Benny. “So far, so good?”

He gave a soft woof.