Page 8 of A Legacy of Lies

Thunder cracked overhead, the windows trembling in their casements.

She curtsied, retreating down the corridor, her heart racing.

*

He left the gallery slower than he intended, the burden of painted eyes following him. But when he reached the stairwell, Clara was still there, waiting with one hand on the banister. She turned at the sound of his step, her face caught for an instant in the white blaze of lightning beyond the window. Something shifted in him. Not accusation this time, nor wariness, but the sudden recognition that she judged him more than all the dukes upon the walls. Her gaze held more judgment than any portrait and more possibility. The realization unsettled him more deeply than any ghost or ledger. The house had not merely given him ghosts and ledgers to face. It had given him her.

*

Clara straightened too quickly. The movement jolted her ribs, but it was better than letting him see her falter. She fixed her gaze ahead, not on him, not on his silence. But the thought scraped along her spine anyway—

He will dig until he finds what should have stayed buried.

Not just the ledgers. Not just the debts. Her.

They walked in step now, side by side, toward Eleanor’s summons, their silence louder than the storm outside. The house was listening. She could feel it in the floorboards, in the hush between their steps.

A timber groaned above them, deep and low. The sound slithered through the corridor like a voice not yet finished speaking.

Clara’s breath caught. She didn’t look at Nathaniel. She already knew the truth. The storm hadn’t passed. It had only begun.

Chapter Four

By morning, the rain still beat on the tall drawing room windows, and the fire in the hearth fought to drive the damp from the air. Candlelight softened the paneled walls, though the wind pushed and sighed in the chimney as if the house itself were weary of the weather.

Eleanor sat straight in her chair, her cane within reach, the severity of her mourning gown sharpening her presence. The black silk drank in the light and gave nothing back. Lace lay flat on her cuffs. When she lifted her hand, the faint glimmer from her rings caught and went dark again. Clara kept close, her workbasket idle, alert to the duchess’s smallest need. The needle she had threaded earlier waited in the cloth and would wait a while longer still. The room smelled of damp wool and smoke, of rain that had come in on coats and would not quite leave.

Nathaniel stood at the mantel, one hand on the carved stone, the day’s strain resting across his shoulders. The clock on the shelf marked a slow, steady beat. He watched the flames as if they were a problem that would yield if studied long enough. The light drew a firm line beneath his mouth and threw a pale gleam across his eyes. He had spoken little since entering the room. The quiet suited him, like a well-cut coat.

The Penroses had arrived earlier to offer condolences, surprised to find a new duke already within Hartleigh’s walls. Eleanor kept them in the warmth while the rain worsened, a practical mercy no one could question. Regis sat a little forward in his chair, hat and gloves on his knee, his gaze fixed on nothing. His wife spoke for them both.

“Michaelmas is never kind to the roads,” Verity said. “I told Mr. Penrose we would sink to the axles before we reached the turnpike. This house is fortunate to sit high.” She smoothed her skirt and let her glance move around the room. “The wind hunts for every gap in old windows. One feels it even with a good fire.”

At the word old, she tucked her hands deeper into the folds of her gown. Her rings clicked faintly together, a sound smaller than her sigh. The draft did find its way through cracks, no matter how often Edith had the maids pin the curtains close. The flames lifted and fell, throwing gold along the frames of the family portraits and leaving their faces in shadow.

Verity had not finished, her voice smoothing itself for sympathy. “So many callers for condolences this week,” she went on, her voice soft as if to spare the duchess. “Black crape sold out by noon in the village. The laundress swore the dye stained her hands through her gloves. Everyone speaks of how long proper mourning should last during this season. Some add extra weeks. It feels right, with the days drawing in.”

Clara kept her gaze on the basket in her lap, as though it might spare her from hearing more. The thread had twisted while she wasn’t looking. She smoothed it straight and set it down again. Verity’s words drifted like ash, light and gray, landing where they would.

“Your Grace,” Verity said, turning her smile to Eleanor, “you have managed the week with a steadiness that would shame younger women. The household has not missed a beat. One can tell when a hall is well kept, even when times are hard.”

Eleanor gave no answer beyond the smallest incline of her head. It was the kind of stillness that commanded more than speech. The cane rested against her chair. The hand that might have reached for it did not move.

Verity’s attention turned, at last, to the hearth. “And to find Hartleigh’s new master here already. How swift you have been, sir.” Her voice held nothing but courtesy. “You must have had very little warning.”

Nathaniel did not look away from the fire at first. The light caught the edge of his jaw, hard and thoughtful. “Enough,” he said. “More than some have.” He moved a small coal with the poker, a brief, clean motion, then set the iron back on its rest.

Clara watched the way the light climbed up his coat buttons and fell away again, a flicker that reminded her of a door that had opened and closed too quickly to see what lay beyond.

Verity folded her hands. “London cannot spare its clever men, so everyone tells me. Yet here you are, in Hartleigh of all places.” She let the next remark settle like dust before breath disturbed it. “You will find the county quiet. It asks for different talents than the city.”

The clock ticked. The rain drummed. Clara drew a breath that filled her only halfway, as if the air waited.

Eleanor’s gaze shifted to Percival’s usual place by the door. The butler stood in the shadow, waiting for a sign. He received it in the faint movement of her hand and stepped forward with a bow. “Dinner is served, Your Grace.”

Regis rose and reached for his hat. “We will not impose further tonight,” he said. “You have carried enough for one day.”

Verity gathered her skirts, the silk whispering against the chair. Her eyes had brightened. She was already half turned toward the hall, story in hand.