Page 76 of A Legacy of Lies

“He broke his guard.” The man’s voice was raw with shouting, words tumbling fast. “We tracked him back toward the Hall. Lost him at the stream behind the garden wall. With this rain, the water’s risen, and the banks are washed clean. His trail’s gone.” His gaze darted between them, shame clouding his urgency. “He may still be near. We cannot say.”

Nathaniel’s blood jolted hot. “When?”

“Not half an hour past. We followed hard until the sky broke open. After that…” The magistrate spread his hands helplessly.

Eleanor’s face had blanched, her composure sharp as glass. “Clara.”

The name struck him like a lash. Nathaniel’s head snapped up, breath clamping tight in his chest. Clara, alone, beyond the walls. He had not seen her since breakfast. He had come this way, drawn as always to the morning room at this hour, expecting, no, needing, to find her with Eleanor. The seat by the window had been empty.

A hollowness opened in his gut. Rain battered the windows like fists. He could already see her in his mind’s eye, too far from help, the storm closing over her.

“She went to the garden,” Eleanor said, the words clipped, certain.

His body moved before thought could form. Cloak, boots, door. Motion was all that remained. He snatched his cloak from the stand, boots striking hard on the flagstones. The hall blurred around him, firelight, shadows, Eleanor’s cane tapping as she swept after him. All he could see was Clara’s face. All he could hear was the echo of her voice the night before, steady in defiance, trembling in need.

Not again. Not this time. He would not lose her to storm or shadow.

Rain lashed down as they crossed the terrace, the storm drumming at stone and iron. Chillington stood waiting at the garden wall, shoulders wet, lantern casting a wavering circle of light. His expression was grim, the furrows at his brow deepened by rain.

Nathaniel reached him in a stride, seizing the lantern before Chillington could speak. Fury and fear drove him forward. “Clara?”

Chillington’s mouth tightened, but he only jerked his head toward the opening. “Inside. I heard voices. I was about to go after her.”

“You won’t need to.” Nathaniel’s grip tightened on the lantern. His voice was low, dangerous. “I’ll go.”

Chillington stepped back without protest, the trust between them silent but sure. Eleanor moved close to Nathaniel’s side, her skirts heavy with rain. Together they plunged into the passage, wind driving them forward like fate itself.

*

The lantern’s glow pushed back the shadows, trembling across the rough stone. Clara held it high as she stepped into the small chamber. The air was damp, close, carrying the slow drip of water through the cracks. A bench leaned against the wall, scarred and worn by years of use.

She had only set her basket down when a scrape of movement froze her breath.

From the far corner a figure straightened. Willie stepped into view, clothes torn, eyes wild, his breath hitching like a man half drowned. His hair clung in wet strands to his face. His chest rose and fell as though each breath cost him.

“Clara.” His voice rasped like stone breaking. “So he’s brought you back.”

Her fingers tightened on the lantern’s handle, but she steadied her voice. “You should not be here.”

“Where else?” His laugh was jagged, empty. “The world has no place for me. Charles saw to that. Every field I tilled, every coin I earned, he took. Left me nothing but ash.”

“You ruined yourself,” Clara said, her chin lifting. “You gambled and drank. Whatever Charles did, you chose your path.”

His face twisted, pain breaking through before rage smothered it again. “Do you think I don’t remember her weeping? The hunger in her eyes? The shame that near killed me?” He struck the wall with his fist, the sound dull against the stone. “But it wasn’t my fault. It was never my fault.”

“Whose then?” Clara asked.

His gaze locked on hers, fever bright. “Yours.”

Her heart clenched, but she did not look away. “I was a child.”

“You were the mark of him!” His voice rose, echoing in the chamber, thick with venom. “Not mine. His. You bear his blood, his curse. You are Charles’s child, not mine.”

The words struck like a blow. For a heartbeat the floor seemed to shift beneath her, her breath caught hard in her chest. Was this all she was to him, resentment given flesh? She had borne his coldness all her life, but never the words. They scalded. They hollowed. But she would not let him shape her with bitterness.

She would not let him define her, not again.

The lantern trembled in her grip, but she forced her shoulders square. She would not bend to his bitterness. She was more than the ruin he made of himself, more than the shadow of Charles Ashcombe.