Page 34 of A Legacy of Lies

“Because truth spoken to jackals only feeds them.” He faced her fully now, eyes shadowed, voice quiet. “You, however, seem to know a jackal’s habits very well.”

The remark struck deep. “Meaning?”

“Quarrels in Covent Garden clubs,” he said. “Strange knowledge for a lady.”

She stiffened. “And strange distrust for a gentleman.”

The air between them quivered, anger and want drawn tight as wire.

“You demand honesty,” he said, “yet guard your own.”

“Because honesty costs more to women,” she said, voice low. “We are ruined by truths men boast of surviving.”

His breath left him. Her words burned truer than the fire.

Neither spoke. Outside, thunder cracked above the house.

Clara turned, her shawl brushing his sleeve. “Excuse me.”

He let her go, but his eyes followed.

She crossed to the door, her pulse unsteady, the echo of his voice still at her back. If he believed her guilty, so be it. Love would find no purchase in distrust.

Nathaniel stood alone, the hearth’s light paling against the storm. His hand pressed flat to the mantel.

She had defended him before others and condemned him in private. And still, he wanted her.

The house groaned under the wind. Rain struck harder. The fire flared, guttered, and held.

Nothing else in Hartleigh felt half so alive.

Chapter Fourteen

She stifled a yawn and watched the darkness thin, the sky paling toward morning, before she pulled her cloak close.

The house breathed around her. Old timbers sighed as though even they resisted her leaving. Clara crept into the corridor, slippered feet soundless on the worn carpet. The sconces had burned low, their light little more than a glow licking iron. She pressed close to the wall, listening.

The air grew colder as she reached the side stair. Each breath drew a shiver through her, the chill waking her inch by inch. By the time she reached the lower hall, sleep had fallen away in tatters. She could not afford it now.

The door latch lifted with a soft click. The morning met her like a hand to the face—mist damp against her lashes, the air sharp with the scent of wet earth. The garden lay hushed, every leaf beaded with dew. The Hall loomed at her back, its windows shuttered, but she felt watched nonetheless.

The note had not even been sealed. Before dawn. The maze.

She had found it waiting on the carpet after dinner, slipped under her door in the space of a moment. One glance had stolen her breath. Anyone might have seen it. Sleep had come thin and broken after that, fear rousing her with every creak of the floorboards.

She crossed the flagstones, her slippers whispering through the damp. Mist hung thick as breath held too long. Clara drew her cloak tighter, steadied herself, and stepped inside.

The hedge maze loomed, its entry marked by dark yew slick with dew. Clara’s heart kicked, then steadied. She had no courage left to summon. What she had was resolve. She passed into the maze.

*

He emerged as if from the earth itself, a shadow peeled from the fog.

“Well, well,” he drawled. “The dutiful daughter.”

Clara halted mid-step. Her fingers tightened in her cloak. Her father stood with one hand tucked into his coat, the other fingering a sprig of ivy he had plucked from the hedge.

“You’re early,” she said, her voice even.