Page 17 of A Legacy of Lies

That gaze had passed to Clara. And it hadn’t flinched.

She remembered the last letter he’d sent, years ago, after her mother’s death. A single line and a stain she’d never wanted to identify. He had forged their mother’s name once, to sign over the last of Clara’s dowry before she was even of age. He never apologized. Not for that. Not for anything.

This time, he hadn’t bothered with a seal.

She unfolded the page with careful fingers.

I see you’ve risen in the world, Clara.

A companion to a duchess. A place at Hartleigh.

How proud your mother would have been if she could stomach the cost.

You owe me. Do not pretend you do not.

Refuse again, and it will not be you who pays. Let Lady Eleanor learn what it costs to harbor the disobedient.

You have until Michaelmas. After that, I will collect.

The page fluttered in her hands. The folds were sharp, creased with the kind of care he only gave to threats. Her breath left her in a rush.

She didn’t hear the step until it was too close.

A shape emerged from the mist, cloak damp and boots caked with mud. The smell of mold and ash and something older, unwashed wool, stale tobacco, the remnants of his last lie clinging like perfume.

Her father.

“Did you think I’d wait for the holiday?”

She didn’t answer. Her throat refused it.

He smiled. Thin. Crooked. The same smile he’d worn the day he left with her mother’s brass pin on his cravat, the one Clara had found at the bottom of a pawnbroker’s case a few months later.

“You look well, Clara. Hartleigh agrees with you.”

For a moment, she was a child again at their Wrenforth Lane home in London, waiting for him at the end of the day.

“Where are my girls?” he would call as he stepped through the door, arms full of flowers.

She had run to him once, flown into his embrace, laughing as he spun her around. He kissed her mother’s cheek and whispered something that made her blush.

“Not in front of Clara,” her mother said, swatting him gently. “Put the girl down and come to the table. Supper is ready.”

He took an exaggerated sniff and turned to her with a wink. “Your mother has made magic happen in those pots. I smell a stew and fresh bread.” He kissed her forehead, set her down, and they sat together at the table. The flowers went into a vase at the center, their scent as fragrant as the steam from the bowls.

“I’m going out tonight,” he said.

Her mother’s smile faded. “I thought you promised.” She set down her spoon, her hand tightening on the tablecloth. “With whom? Davenport again?”

That was the moment. The line. Everything changed after that.

Clara’s grip tightened around the letter. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“But I am.” His voice dropped, silk over glass. “And so are you. Fancy that.”

The fog thickened. The steward’s office behind her remained dark, no light, no witness.

“You’ve had time,” he said, gaze roving over her coat, her gloves, the neatness of her collar. “More time than I expected. But we both know what’s due.”