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“Clara,” Sara’s tone was soft but firm. “None will know your identity. I myself don’t know why you’re dressed as a lad. But I do know that if I had to don that hideous. . .”

Her voice trailed off.

“I’m so sorry.”

“Nay,” Clara interrupted. “It is I who am sorry. Arriving here, forcing you to serve me just so that I may remain in hiding.” She owed Sara for her kindness. “You don’t believe anyone will suspect?”

Sara’s face brightened. “Geoffrey’s sister will return any moment from an extended stay with my dear friend Gillian. We will celebrate her return, and I’ll say you’ve come home with her. Leave the details to me.”

Though it sounded divine, Clara was terrified of the prospect of showing herself to anyone, save Alex.

He was different.

But clearly Lady Sara would not betray her. How could she? None knew that she was the daughter of the disgraced lord of Barrington, whose only crime had been choosing the losing side in the bloody baron’s war.

Non ducor, duco.

Her father followed their family motto in earnest and had been killed for it.

A thought occurred to her. “Even if I wanted to—”

Sara bounded up from her chair, moved to the trunk at the foot of the canopied bed, and tossed open the lid.

“Here,” she smiled, pointing to its contents.

Clara pushed her chair back and walked toward the trunk. She noticed the elaborate carvings first, the heavy lock that was more ornamental than practical, and finally. . .

She gasped. “How did you know—”

“Well, you can’t very well present yourself as Lady Clara in that,” she said.

Lady Clara. It had been so long since she’d heard the title. “That I can never be again,” she said, wishing it were otherwise.

Peering at the folded gowns beneath her, Clara could not resist reaching inside to touch the fabric of the deep maroon one on top. Velvet.

“Well, Lady Alfred just won’t do.”

She pulled her hand away, laughing at the notion.

“Susanna,” she said.

According to her father, it had been her mother’s idea to name her after St. Clare of Assisi. Every year on the twelfth of August, she and her father had shared a special meal to honor St. Clare’s feast day. St. Clare had actually died on the eleventh day of August, only that day had already been declared for Saint Susanna.

Sara watched her, waiting.

“Lady Susanna,” she said. She ignored Sara’s smile, which looked more sad than triumphant.

“’Twould be an honor to wear your gown and—”

“Not mine,” she said, closing the lid. “Emma’s. This is Geoffrey’s sister’s bedchamber, and she is almost exactly the same size as you.”

Clara couldn’t help but be bolstered by Sara’s building excitement.

“You’re sure she will not mind? And, of course, I will move now that she is returning.”

Sara linked arms with her and guided her back to the table.

“She will be delighted. And will never consent to see you moved. Though I’ll need to tell her, of course, if that is acceptable to you.”