Page 59 of A Legacy of Lies

“Yes. Miss Whitmore. She’s the one who matters. And I think she sees already.”

Nathaniel rose slowly, pulling on a clean shirt. Pain settled deep, not only in his ribs but beneath them. He had defended Clara. Fought for her. But did she know he believed her? Did she believe herself worthy of it?

He looked away. The firelight wavered across the far wall, shifting with every breath.

A knock interrupted them. Not brisk. Not timid.

“Come in.”

Clara stood in the doorway, framed by lamplight. She seemed fragile and fierce in the same breath.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, but…” Her voice faltered, then steadied. “Lady Eleanor asked to see you.”

Nathaniel adjusted his sleeves. Edgar gathered the basin.

“I’ll see to the rest, Your Grace,” the valet said with a slight incline of his head. “You’re decent enough for Her Grace now.”

Clara offered a weak smile as Edgar took his leave. Nathaniel met her gaze, uncertain what lay in it, fear, relief, or fatigue. Likely all.

“I’m going to tell her,” she said softly.

He nodded. “Good. She should hear it from you.”

Clara hesitated. “You should know, too. The letter… it wasn’t the only time he’s been here. My father, I mean.”

Nathaniel’s jaw locked. “How many times?”

“He’s been here three times that I know of,” she said quietly. “Twice, he found me alone. And there were three letters. Each one worse than the last.”

A muscle ticked in his cheek. “He’s watching you.”

She wrapped her arms around herself. “He always was.”

Nathaniel reached out, then let his hand fall. He wanted to gather her close, to protect what the world had already bruised, but she needed breath more than shelter. “You should go to her. I’ll follow in a moment.”

Clara nodded. “All right.”

She turned away, leaving him with a whisper of the fire and a heart crowded with ghosts and unspoken vows.

*

She met Nathaniel in the corridor just outside Eleanor’s morning room.

He looked no less battered, but clean and composed. His cravat was neat, though a faint flush still marked the curve of his jaw where he must have shaved in haste. His eyes found hers and didn’t look away.

“Miss Whitmore.”

“Your Grace.”

The silence that followed was both familiar and unbearable.

She spoke first. “She’s waiting for me.”

“I know.”

“You cleaned up well.”

A small smile played at the edge of his mouth. “I had help.”