A Duchess by Midnight (10 page)

It was on the tip of Clara’s tongue to remind her stepmother the reason they did not take their meals together was because she ate in the kitchen with the rest of the staff, but she remained silent as Poppy and another maid began to serve breakfast. Staring with Lady Irene, they worked their way counter-clockwise around to Clara.

“Thank you,” Clara murmured when Poppy dropped a poached egg onto her plate. It made her feel uncomfortable to be served by her friend, but there was nothing she could do about it. Not when her stepmother was watching her like a hawk.

The redhead winked before she carried the rest of the poached eggs back to the buffet table and stood beside it, spine straight and chin demurely lowered. The other maid joined her. They would remain in the drawing room throughout the entirety of breakfast, waiting to be called upon if someone wanted seconds or thirds. Until then it was their job to be neither seen nor heard.

“Well,” said Lady Irene as she cut into her poached egg. Yolk ran over the edge of her toast, staining it a deep yellow. “Now that we are all here I suppose I should share my happy news.”

Clara looked up from her plate in time to catch Gabriella and Henrietta exchange a smirking glance. The muscles in her stomach tightened, just like they had when she was a child and Lady Irene had sat her down in the parlor.

“What happy news is that, Lady Stepmother?”

Lady Irene took her time in answering, no doubt drawing pleasure from making Clara wait. Like a cat, she enjoyed playing with her food before she ate it. The more the food struggled the longer she played.

Too tense to eat Clara sat with her hands clenched tightly in her lap, using all the inner-strength she possessed to make herself appear outwardly calm even as her mind whirled with one dark possibility after another.

Was she finally going to be sent away?

Was Agnes going to be let go?

Was Poppy?

Other than her two dearest friends, Clara couldn’t think of anything else her stepmother could take from her that she hadn’t already. Buttercup had been sold off years ago. Her bedroom now belonged to Henrietta. Her parent’s belongings had been dispersed far and wide. What else was left?

“Oh just go on and tell her,” Gabriella urged, her eyes burning with a vindictive gleam Clara recognized all too well. Of her two stepsisters Gabriella was by far the most malicious. Every year her hate of Clara seemed to larger and more twisted no matter what Clara did – or did not – do. She didn’t know the source of her stepsister’s wrath, only that Gabriella was determined to make Clara’s life as miserable as she possibly could.

“Very well.” Deliberately setting her fork aside, Lady Irene sat straighter in her chair and smiled a serpent’s cold, tight-lipped smile. “Clara, I have found you a husband.”

Clara, I have found you a husband.

I have found you a husband.

A husband…

A husband…

A husband…

Seconds that felt more like hours passed in the blink of an eye as Clara sat frozen in her chair, Lady Irene’s voice playing through her head on an endless loop. Had she really been so naïve as to think there was nothing else her stepmother could take from her?

Her gaze flew to Poppy who looked just as stunned as she felt. The maid shook her head from side to side as two bright splotches of anger settled high on her cheeks.
‘Breathe’
she mouthed.

Clara’s lungs burned as she filled them with air.

“I – I do not understand,” she managed to choke out.

Lady Irene lifted one brow. “Did I stutter or otherwise make myself unclear?”

“I heard you perfectly fine Mother,” said Gabriella.

“As did I,” said Henrietta, although she did not look nearly as pleased as her mother and sister. After a covert glance at Clara she began to eat her breakfast in hasty gulps, effectively removing herself from the conversation.

“You needn’t look so dismayed, dear. This is a
good
thing. It wasn’t as if you were planning on living at Windmere for the rest of your life, were you? Oh you
were
,” Lady Irene said, clucking her tongue in faux sympathy when all of the blood drained from Clara’s face. “What a silly little pigeon you are.”

Gabriella snickered under her breath while Clara’s stomach fell all the way down to her toes. She should have known her stepmother would plan something like this. It was the only way to ensure she could claim Windmere as her own once and for all. For even though she’d dressed Clara in rags and banished her to the attic and for all intents and purposes stripped her of her title and turned her into a servant, Clara’s mere presence was a constant reminder that she, not Lady Irene or Henrietta or Gabriella, was the
true
lady of the house.

What Lady Irene did not understand – what she would
never
understand – was that Clara wasn’t a threat to her or her daughters. The only thing she wanted, the only thing she had ever wanted, was to be left in peace.

Her hands clenched the edge of the tablecloth as she forced herself take another deep breath. She could not afford to let her temper get the best of her. Not now. Not when her very life hung in the balance.

For some, an offer of marriage would be something to be celebrated. But for a young woman like Clara who prized her independence above all else it was nothing short of a prison sentence.

There was a reason she’d never dreamed of wearing a white dress and walking down an aisle coated in rose petals. Not because she didn’t believe in love but rather because she
did
believe in it, so much so that she’d promised herself long ago she would never marry for anything less than absolute true love.

She wanted the type of marriage her parents had had. Kind. Honest. Special. She still didn’t know exactly why her father had married Lady Irene, but she did know one thing: it had not been for the right reasons. When she took a husband –
if
she took a husband – it would be a man of her own choosing and they would marry because they were hopelessly, endlessly, deliriously in love.

She refused to accept anything less. 

“I know you have all the greatest intentions in the world, Lady Stepmother, but I am afraid I have no interest in marriage at this time and must decline.”

“Do not be ridiculous,” Lady Irene scoffed. “Every young woman – and you’re no longer as young as most – wants a husband whether they admit it or not. I haven’t even told you his name yet. He’s quite a nice man. We met him at the theater. Henrietta dropped her reticule and he picked it up for her. Such a gentlemanly thing to do. Isn’t that right, Henrietta?”

“Yes,” Henrietta muttered without looking up from her toast.

“His name is Mr. Robert Ingle. He has never been married and does not have any children. He keeps a townhouse year-round in the middle of Wandsworth Park. Admittedly it’s no Grosvenor Square, but will be quite suitable for someone such as yourself.”

“He lives in London
all
of the time?” As the implication of what Lady Irene had just told her began to sink in Clara felt her throat constrict. She could have married a stranger. She wouldn’t have liked it, and she would have fought tooth and nail against it, but in the end, if left with no other choice, she would have found a way to reconcile herself to the idea. But to marry a stranger
and
leave the countryside behind forever? No. That she would not – that she
could
not – do.

It was cruel of Lady Irene to even ask. Crueler still because she understood just how much the rolling hills of Devonshire meant to Clara. Taking her away from the fresh air and the meadows and the endless forests would be the same as plucking a fish out of water and putting it in a glass bowl.

Oh, it might survive for a time. Maybe even years if it was properly cared for.

But it would never be happy again.

“You cannot make me do this.”

Lady Irene smiled. “I am afraid it is already done, my dear. Your engagement announcement is being printed as we speak and Mr. Ingle has requested your presence in London with all haste. He is very eager to meet his future bride.”

“Then I am afraid he is destined for disappointment.” Temper, too long suppressed, snapped through Clara’s body like a whip. “You have no right to tell me whom I must marry, nor do you have the right to promise me to another without my permission. You are not my mother. You never have been.” Fire burned in her eyes as she stood up from her chair with so much force it toppled backwards and went crashing to the floor. Henrietta and Gabriella both gasped. Lady Irene, however, did not so much as flinch.

“Careful,” she breathed. “Our actions have consequences, my dear. I would ask you to think of what those consequences might be before you dare speak to me in such a manner.” Turning her head she glanced straight at Poppy, her silent threat unmistakable.

Clara lifted her chin. She was tired of all the thinly veiled threats. Tired of doing everything her stepmother asked of her and still never knowing if she was going to wake up to find Agnes and Poppy gone. And she was tired, so very, very tired, of feeling like an unwanted guest in her own home.

“Do it!” she challenged recklessly. “It is what you are going to do the second I am gone anyways, so why not do it now? We will all leave together and be the better for it!”

“How noble of you,” Lady Irene sneered. “Little Clara, pretending to be the hero. And who will save you when you’re begging for food in a ditch, I wonder? Who will help you when you’re spreading your thighs for a handful of coins and a few cheap trinkets?”

Henrietta’s spoon clattered to the table.

“Mother–” she began, only to fall meekly silent when Lady Irene turned her vicious tongue on her youngest daughter.

“Your opinion is as unwanted as the extra roll of fat beneath your chin, Henrietta.”

Her eyes welling with tears, Henrietta jumped to her feet and ran from the room.

“Why are you so
mean
?” Clara cried when she heard her stepsister’s sobs echoing down the stairs. “You have everything you could have ever wanted!”

The legs of Lady Irene’s chair scraped ominously on the wooden floorboards as she slowly stood up. “You think
this
is what I want?” she said with a contemptuous glare around the drawing room. “A ramshackle estate in the middle of nowhere? Two daughters who cannot find a wealthy husband to save their lives and an impertinent, ungrateful stepdaughter who does not appreciate a single thing I have done for her?”

“What
you
have done for
me
?” Clara didn’t care that she was shouting. She didn’t care who might hear and what they might think. Let the entire county know what sort of person her stepmother really was!
She didn’t care.

“I have given you a roof over your head and food in your belly and the clothes on your back,” Lady Irene spat out. “Most women in my position would have shoved you out the door at the first opportunity, but I showed you mercy. And what have you given me in return? Nothing! Well my mercy has its limits, Clara, and they have finally been reached. You will marry Mr. Ingle. You will marry Mr. Ingle and you will leave this house and you will never return, or so help me God I will make your life so miserable the last seven years will feel like a dream compared to what the future holds!”

Clara’s chest heaved with the force of her angry breaths. Every fiber of her being yearned to leap across the table and scratch at her stepmother’s face until her smug expression was in tatters. She’d never felt such an urge for physical violence before. It snapped and clawed inside of her like a living thing and she feared what would happen if she dared to unleash it.

“You cannot force me to marry someone against my will and you cannot force me out of this house. It is still owned by my uncle, and I doubt very much he would look kindly upon having his only niece banished from it!” 

“You’re right, of course.” Lady Irene’s smile turned sugary sweet. “But the same cannot be said for the servants. Poppy, go gather your things. You’re inexpert services are no longer required at Windmere. I want you out within the hour. Needless to say, you will not be provided with a letter of recommendation.”

“No!” Clara gasped. Behind Lady Irene Poppy’s face turned ashen before flooding with color. Her mouth opened and closed and opened again, as though she were a fish that had been plucked out of the water and thrown on dry land. “You cannot do this! She hasn’t done anything.”

“But you have, my dear. So you have a choice to make on our dear Poppy’s behalf. You can either help her pack her things, or she can pack
your
things and accompany you to London where you will meet with Mr. Ingle. What will it be, Clara?”

As if the choice she’d been given was really any choice at all. Sensing her impending defeat, Clara sat heavily down in her chair. She wanted to cry, but she refused to give Lady Irene the satisfaction of shedding tears in front of her. At least she had given it her best effort. She had gone toe to toe with the dragon… and lost. She hated giving in to her stepmother. Hated it more than she could possibly put into words. But what other option did she have? If she didn’t do as Lady Irene demanded then Poppy would be out of more than a job and a place to live. Without a letter of recommendation she would be unable to find employment anywhere else.

“I will go to London,” she said tonelessly.

“Splendid!” Bringing her hands together Lady Irene smirked down at Clara over her gloved fingertips. “I knew you would see it my way. I will arrange for Leo to take you there first thing tomorrow morning. You may stay with my sister. She is already expecting you, as is Mr. Ingle.”

Of course they were.

“How long should I expect my visit to last?”

“Not long,” Lady Irene said airily. “A fortnight at most, as my sister is traveling to Bath soon on holiday. But it should give you more than enough time to officially accept Mr. Ingle’s proposal. An August wedding would be nice, don’t you think? We could have it here at Windmere.”

How far,
Clara wondered silently,
will she keep twisting the knife? How much blood must she draw before she is finally satisfied?

“I want your word that if I do this, if I marry Mr. Ingle, Poppy and Agnes will have a home here even after I am gone.” She heard Poppy’s sharp intake of breath and ignored it. “Well?” she said as a triumphant smirk curled the corners of Lady Irene’s thin mouth. “Do I have your word?”

“You do.”

“Good.” Refusing to look at Gabriella who was snickering into her cloth napkin, Clara pressed her hands flat against the table and pushed herself up. “Then I will begin to pack.”

“I will return
in eight days’ time. Try not to burn the place down before I get back.” With these words – and warning – Thorncroft left his brother standing in the foyer holding a glass of wine and stepped out into the rain.

Cold drops lashed against his face and throat, causing him to lift the collar of his jacket and duck his chin against the foul weather. In five large strides he was inside his personal carriage and after a terse order to the coachmen they set off down the drive, the great wheels churning up mud and water as the matching team of bays broke into a brisk, ground-covering trot.

Shrugging out of his jacket and loosening his snowy white cravat Thorncroft stretched his legs under the seat across from him and turned his attention to the window. Rain spattered against the glass, running down it in tiny rivulets that intersected, broke apart, and intersected again. Lifting his hand he traced one of the rivulets with his finger, leaving a smear behind on the glass as his thoughts turned inward.

It was going to be a long, wet journey to London. He was not looking forward to it, but he’d already pushed off his obligations far longer than he should have. If everything went according to plan he would only need to be in town for a few days, just long enough to ensure the various projects he was responsible for funding were going smoothly and to meet with his solicitor face to face.