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Edward paused to consider this, running a finger along the rim of his glass. “Besides,” Jonathan added, “people clearly are not waiting on your valid information to talk. Why not inject a little of the truth into the chatter?”
Once again Edward blew out a long, noisy sigh. “All right. You really do not know when to quit, do you, Fletcher?”
“One of my less exciting failings,” Jonathan answered, rising to pour himself another glass of wine. “Come on, then, let’s have it.”
“Clara…” Edward searched his brain for any suitable words. “She is a kind person. Or she seems it, at least—hard as it seems to believe, I only met her just yesterday.”
He reviewed the memories of the previous day and a half, looking for some clue as to Clara’s character that he may have missed. On doing so, he was surprised that he had not taken stock of just how bright and hopeful her features were, then was further surprised to realize he was smiling at these recent memories.
And then that gloomy cloud of doubt passed before his eyes once again, full of suspicion.
“Of course, she is from a rather rough upbringing,” he found himself saying, his eyes cast down to the floor. “I do not know what she is capable of. London can be a very cruel city, in ways neither of us will ever understand, and only the hardest and most determined specimens of humanity survive on the streets. I would not think she is capable of any real deception or harm to the family…but then, I would not be able to truly rule it out, either.”
Could Jonathan have the right of it? Edward asked himself. Could it be that she is a common swindler, a pretender who has somehow made her way here to bring strife upon the Duke’s family or enrich herself at their expense?
He jerked as he felt Jonathan’s hand upon his shoulder. Edward looked up to see his friend gazing down at him with a bemused smile.
“Edward. My friend,” said Jonathan. “You have been killing yourself working for this family for so long you have lost sight of entirely the most important things in life. I only wanted to know if she is anything much to look at.”
Edward blinked, then the two friends erupted in laughter.
“God, I’m too bloody serious, aren’t I?” asked Edward, wiping away a tear.
“And it’s only taken me twenty-odd years of knowing you to convince you of that. Perhaps you really are as intelligent as they all say!” Jonathan chuckled.
Edward accepted another glass of wine with a grateful smile. “No extra limbs, no hunchback,” he said, recalling Clara’s features. “Coffee-coloured hair. Thin, but well-figured. Attractive cheekbones. Pretty, come to think of it, but not in the way your sort of girl normally is.”
“And just what is that supposed to mean, ‘my sort of girl’?”
Scoffing, Edward answered, “You know what I mean. Heiresses. Products of the ton. Raised from birth to make the best impressions, wear the finest clothes, carry themselves a certain way.”
“You realize by definition your Miss Clara is an heiress, don’t you?”
“Not like the girls we’ve seen at balls all our lives, Fletcher. She’s…different, somehow. She has a natural sort of beauty, now that she has had a chance to wash off the dirt and put on appropriate clothing.”
Jonathan put a hand to his ear and made an expression of mock surprise. “Hark! Do I detect the faintest stirring of humanity in Edward Morton? Attraction to a real woman, even?”
“Silence, you rogue, or no more of the Duke’s wine for you,” said Edward with a friendly sneer.
“Just don’t threaten to have my tongue cut out,” Jonathan laughed. “And pass that wine, won’t you?”
Their laughter rang from the ceiling once again, and Edward heaved out an easy breath of relief. It felt good to take a moment away from his usual toil—which had become quite unusual over the previous few days, if no less laborious.
Perhaps I have indeed lost track of what’s important, he thought. I hope I haven’t spent so much of my life worrying that I will now be entirely unable to stop.
