Page 47

It was not enough to smother the fear that followed. She lived alone on the small annuity granted to her by her father’s estate. The new earl who had succeeded him, a cousin who was decent enough but had no interest in anything outside of horses, would not increase her allowance. And he would not shield her if word got out of what she secretly did for a living. She would lose her income, her reputation. Her house. Everything.

She knew all too well what could happen to women in London.

She had thought she would get a reprieve by leaving. But had the blackmailer followed her? Was he here even now? A tremor of dread made her feel queasy. She crumpled up the note, considered tossing it onto the fire, and tucked it into her cuff instead. She might need to investigate them further, inspect the handwriting again.

She did not have five thousand pounds. It was an exorbitant amount. A desperate amount.

She would investigate the marquis. Then her own problems.

First, breakfast. It was not much of a plan, admittedly, but it was better than sitting in her room and giving in to the rising panic. Anything was better than that.

She’d clearly forgotten what it was like to have breakfast with a roomful of bored and hungover aristocrats. More fool her.

The breakfast room dripped gold and crystal, which, if the squinting was anything to go by, was not ideal the morning after overindulging. Spoons clinked against cups, the strong scent of coffee and tea mingling. Miss Abernathy looked like she might weep if the footman took any longer bringing her a cup. She nearly took off one of his fingers when he finally moved to set the coffee in front of her, and she did not look the least bit sorry over it.

“Did you hear?” someone murmured. “There is a new Nightingale chapbook on sale this week. I am sorry to miss it. That odd little bookstore always reserves a copy for me.”

Clara paused at the sideboard, then went back to scooping eggs onto her plate. She added an extra pastry to give herself time to compose her expression. Especially when she could not stop her mind from wandering back to the dark niche under the garden wall where Bram had stroked her to pleasure.

Her. Lady Clara Prescott, spinster and wallflower.

When she turned around, she was as placid as a morning pond. And just as interesting.

“Do try to keep your morning sermon to yourself,” a lady sniffed when Clara sat down. “Not that I expect you even know who the Nightingale is.” No less than four gentlemen smirked in response.

As Clara had no intention of talking to her at all, never mind pontificating, she did not reply. Although she was very, very tempted to memorize the longest, stuffiest passage from the oldest, stuffiest book in the house library for the next morning’s meal. Something with lepers. Possibly boils.

“The moon goddess herself,” Lord Howell sang out when Selene joined them. She wore a dark green dress, very plain but with a neckline that hinted at far more interesting pleasures. The other women from her house of ill repute did not join her. That would have been beyond the pale. Clara was fairly certain Selene was only welcomed because she had the confidence and the audacity to assume she would be. To demand it.

Clara…not exactly.

“The Nightingale,” Selene muttered, taking the seat next to Clara in a cloud of perfume bright with notes of fruit. Not at all the sultry scent one might have expected.

“Do you know her?” Clara asked carefully.

“I only know her books, like everyone else. And the fact that she has caused me no end of trouble.”

“How so?”

“Bodies do not quite bend in the way she assumes, and yet no one will believe us, marching around the henhouse waving her chapbooks around.”

Clara honestly did not know what to say to that.

Thank you? I’m sorry?

What she wanted to say was: How do they bend, then? Which parts did I get wrong? May I visit you just once? Because I have a thousand follow-up questions.

She couldn’t say any of that, of course. Instead, she made some vague noise of commiseration.

“Tell me, how is it a courtesan is better received than an earl’s daughter?” Selene said, perfectly unfazed with all of the glances being thrown her way, covert and obvious, complimentary and judgmental. As if she had not spent the night cavorting in the grotto with several of the gentlemen here.

As if Clara had not done the same.

“You are very beautiful and witty.” Clara spread butter on her toast very evenly. “The ton forgives most foibles if you are pretty enough. Or rich enough.”

“Pish.”

Clara put her knife down, angling it precisely. “It’s not flattery,” she said. “Well, not only flattery. It’s the truth.”