Page 57 of A Legacy of Lies

In the space between guilt and grace, he found courage.

He had let her go, but not completely.

Chapter Twenty-One

Clara stood just inside the servants’ passage, the heavy door closed behind her, her fingers still tingling from Nathaniel’s grip. She hadn’t looked back. Not once. She couldn’t bear what she might have seen if she had.

The torch sconce flickered low against the stone, its flame bowing in the draft and glinting off the polish of a boot mark on the flagstones. Voices drifted from the far end of the corridor, Edith, perhaps, and someone trying to keep pace. Clara faded into the shadows, waiting for the quiet to settle again. Her heart raced against her ribs, each breath shallow and defiant.

Nathaniel had taken a beating for her. That truth fluttered in her chest, fragile and fierce all at once. And her father, no, Willie Moore, had vanished into the night as he always had, leaving only wreckage in his wake.

When the corridor quieted again, she slipped forward. Not toward her room. Not yet. Her steps moved on instinct, drawn by something older than thought, need, perhaps, or courage remembered too late.

She slipped into the linen room and eased the door shut behind her. The air smelled of starch and lavender. She pushed her back to the wall and forced her lungs to obey. Once. Twice. Again.

She was not fine. But she was not broken.

Her gaze dropped to her hands, the same hands that had clutched his, knuckles bloodless, palms still warm from his grasp. He had held her as though she was a promise he refused to lose. He hadn’t flinched. Hadn’t looked away. Even when shame threatened to speak aloud.

He had stood between her and the past. Between her and the man who had once carried her on his shoulders and later left bruises instead of lullabies.

She had expected fear. She had expected questions. He had given her only steadiness. And something far more dangerous. Faith.

A sob rose and caught. She bit it back, shaking her head. Hope was a luxury she couldn’t afford, not yet, not even for him.

He had seen the figure in the corridor, the movement beyond candlelight, and he had known. Not guessed. Known. And still, he had chosen to shield her. It was too much. Too kind. Too undeserved.

Across the corridor, the back stairs creaked.

Clara straightened, her pulse jumped. The step was quiet, deliberate, not the shuffle of Mrs. Greaves nor the brisk rhythm of Percival. She slipped from the linen room, drew the door closed, and turned toward the main hall. Her skirt brushed the stone in a whisper, the sound small against the vast hush of the house.

At the corridor’s far end, lanterns glowed. She paused at the foot of the grand staircase, one hand on the baluster, and looked upward. Light spilled down the steps in soft pools, each shadow a question she wasn’t yet ready to ask.

*

Nathaniel did not return to the great hall. The dark had already taken enough from him.

The corridor beyond the steward’s office stood empty, its lamps turned low, the scent of wax lingering in the warm glass. He made his way toward his chambers. It was nearly nine when he entered. The hour still carried the hush of night, but the storm had finally relented. Only the wind kept vigil now, insistent against the shutters like a creature locked out.

He stripped off his coat and shirt, wincing as the cloth pulled at a scrape along his ribs. Blood had dried at the collar, more crusted along his jaw. He looked a state and felt worse.

“Your Grace,” came a voice from behind him. “You’ll want to sit before you fall.”

Edgar Chillingworth appeared, basin and cloths in hand, his movements quiet but certain. He set them down with practiced ease and gestured toward the chair by the hearth.

Nathaniel obeyed.

Edgar had served his uncle for decades, first as valet, then steward, then back to valet when Charles insisted on the old order. He had stayed on for the new master. A different sort of master.

“I thought you might need these, Your Grace.”

Nathaniel exhaled. “I expect I look worse than I am.”

“Then the other man must be unrecognizable.”

Nathaniel’s mouth twitched, but he said nothing as Edgar began his careful work. The fire crackled low, its warmth a faint comfort.

The first sting of cloth drew a sharp breath.