Clara used to despise dinner parties.
Her parents had insisted on having them regularly, spectacles of wealth and extravagance that caused everyone who was anyone to angle shamelessly to secure an invitation. Clara would usually find herself seated between two eligible bachelors, and her mother had always made an attempt to ensure that each of them possessed an open mind. Or at least as open as the mind of one raised in male, titled privilege could get. On almost all occasions, Clara was vastly underwhelmed.
Only once could Clara ever recall having been captivated by her dinner partner, and he, it seemed, by her. He had spent ten years working for the Hudson’s Bay Company in uncharted territory far to the north of civilized places like Boston and New York. His stories fascinated her, and he seemed to delight in answering each and every one of her pointed questions in complete, if occasionally shocking, detail.
Clara knew this dinner would be no different. Not because she already knew the conversation would flow freely, no question too improper or impractical, no answer too informed or too radical. Not because each and every person seated at the table had something fascinating to share. But because there would be a man seated at her side who took part in it all. Who knew her body, mind, and soul.
She had dressed with care that evening, or as much care as her limited wardrobe would allow. Since she had left the studio and crept silently back to her rooms, she felt a little as if she were glowing from within. She caught herself smiling and blushing at odd intervals, her skin tingling at the memory of August’s touch, aching for him to touch her again.
It was different with August. She’d had only a single lover before—a young Italian artist who had been as skilled with her body as he had been at his craft. As her teacher, he had set her body on fire under the Tuscan moon, and as his willing student, she had learned to do the same for him. Yet neither had had any expectations beyond physical pleasure. There had been respect and admiration for each other, but no deeper emotion had been involved. Nothing that had sucked the breath from her lungs in his presence and made her heart ache fiercely in his absence.
She was well aware that somewhere she had crossed a line she had never intended to cross with August Faulkner. Or maybe that line had been crossed in a ballroom ten years earlier, and this was simply the inevitable culmination. But what she felt—the unrelenting longing, the constant desire—this was something that she hadn’t been truly prepared for. It was an all-consuming, overwhelming emotion, like a cyclone that had borne down on an unsuspecting sailor. And she was caught right in the heart of it.
Which of course, changed nothing. While she might take advantage of these last weeks in Dover, far from the merciless scrutiny of London, when they were over, so was whatever was between her and August. If Clara wished to continue teaching, no matter where, she needed to retain her image of perfect propriety.
She was beginning to hate it. But that was simply fact.
Clara left her rooms, determined to push reality to the side for another night and enjoy the time she had remaining. With the end of summer, she wouldn’t have August. With the end of summer, she wouldn’t have the job that had given her such purpose for so many years. But for tonight, she’d leave worry for tomorrow.
She met Tabby and Theo in the hall as she descended the stairs. Tabitha was once again arranging flowers in the vase that was the centerpiece of the round table in the center of the hall, an embroidered blue shawl draped elegantly over her shoulders and her silver hair touched almost gold by the slanted rays coming in through the long hall windows.
“Those roses are stunning,” Clara said as she approached, eyeing the profusion of blooms in fuchsia and soft pink.
“Aren’t they? Amelia cut them for me from the gardens out back. Says certain types of roses do better if they are pruned a little more aggressively.” She worked another bloom into the vase and glanced at Clara. “You look fetching tonight, dear,” she commented. “You must have been out in the fresh air. It’s put a lovely color in your cheeks.”
“Thank you.” Clara willed herself not to blush further. It wasn’t the fresh air that had put color in her cheeks, but she wasn’t going to argue. “His Grace will be joining us for dinner tonight,” she said, and she hoped that it sounded casual.
“Oh, lovely,” Theo said with a sly smile. “I was a little afraid I’d embarrassed him beyond repair. You know, when I asked if he’d like to model for the class.” She grinned, her eyes twinkling.
“I think His Grace has gotten over himself,” Clara said with a chuckle.
“Who has gotten over what?” Harland strolled into the hall with Rose on his heels and set a gallant kiss on Tabby and Theo’s cheeks before coming to do the same to Clara.
“Harland,” she said, blinking, “I didn’t expect you for dinner.”
“Got back from town earlier than expected,” he said.
Clara’s eyes darted from her brother to Rose, but she couldn’t read anything in their expressions. If Harland had been in town, he would have picked up the post. Perhaps there had been word from London. Perhaps there was word of the ships—
“Not yet,” he whispered, apparently reading her mind. “No news yet from the docks. But soon. I’m sure of it. Don’t lose faith.”
Clara nodded, her brow creasing and a renewed wave of anxiety rising. She knew very well that there was nothing they could do except wait, but the uncertainty became more pronounced with each day that passed.
“You look lovely this evening, Clara,” Harland continued in a voice everyone could hear, distracting her from her grim thoughts. He was looking her up and down, a faint expression of consternation on his face. “You look…different. Did you do something new with your hair?”
She forced a smile onto her face. It had, in fact, taken her an age to fix what the Duke of Holloway had done to her hair. “I don’t believe so, no,” she said. “But thank you for the compliment.” She took a deep breath. “I had just mentioned to Theo and Tabby that His Grace will be joining us for dinner,” she said.
“Why?” Harland asked.
Clara shot him what she hoped was a look of cool admonishment. “Because I invited him.”
“Did you send his invitation in hieroglyphs?” Rose asked sweetly. “Or has he learned to read since last week?”
From the center of the hall, Tabitha snorted with laughter.
Clara scowled and ignored her sister. “May I assume, Harland, from the lack of bloodstains on your clothes and what appears to be a fresh shave, you will be joining us as well?” Clara asked.
“I will.” He stared hard at Clara. “Is Holloway done, then, with his business here?”
Clara shrugged, keeping her expression neutral, looking between her siblings. “I’m sure I wouldn’t know. You can ask him tonight. But please try and be pleasant. Both of you. He’ll be here shortly.”
“I’m always pleasant,” Harland replied.
Clara made a face at him just as a decisive knock echoed from the front door. The butler instantly appeared and pulled it open, allowing late golden sunlight to spill into the hall. The Duke of Holloway stepped in, squinting slightly in the relative dimness as the door closed behind him.
“Good evening, Your Grace,” Theo said, moving forward to greet him. “So wonderful that you could join us tonight.”
“Lady Theodosia.” August offered Theo a chivalrous bow and caught her hand, bringing her knuckles to his lips. “My lady, may I compliment you on your appearance. That color of silk is spectacular on you.”
The portly woman cackled with delight. “And here I thought it might be the dress.”
“That too.” He grinned at her, and Theo giggled like a girl. “For what they’re worth, my lady, you have my apologies for my earlier intrusion.”
Lady Theodosia waved her hand. “Your apologies aren’t worth anything, dearie, because I wasn’t offended. It was your sensibilities I was concerned for.”
“My sensibilities survived.” He met Clara’s gaze over her shoulder. “They might even have learned something along the way.”
Clara looked down, feeling the heat creep into her cheeks. She was also avoiding the gaze of both Harland and Rose, who were both staring at her in silent contemplation.
“Oh, good,” Theo said. “Shall we see if dinner’s almost ready?”
“Indeed,” Tabitha agreed. “The girls are already waiting for us in the dining room.” Tabitha joined her sister, linking her arm through Theo’s.
August made his way farther into the hall with the appropriate greetings, returned happily by Tabby and, as promised, pleasantly by Harland and Rose. He hung back until the four others had preceded him and extended his arm to Clara. “I’ve been looking forward to this all evening,” he murmured.
“Dinner?”
“More like the dessert.”
Clara blushed again. Bloody hell, but she felt sixteen years old.
His hand caressed the skin on her forearm, sending shivers of anticipation dancing through her body. “Do you suppose we can skip dinner altogether?” he whispered. “Do you think anyone would notice?”
“They might.” Clara swallowed with difficulty, a pulsing desire pooling low in her belly.
“I can’t get enough of you. And I can’t stand the wait—”
“What are you two whispering about back there?” Rose asked, turning to look behind her suspiciously.
“I was just telling Miss Hayward how much I was looking forward to this evening,” he said smoothly. August stopped at the doorway, his eyes scanning the dining room, where the chatter of seven young women filled every nook and cranny. “Where is Anne?” he asked, turning to Clara.
Clara frowned. Anne and Phoebe were both missing. “Perhaps they are late for dinner.”
“Who’s late?” Tabby had stopped and turned as well.
“Anne and Phoebe.”
“That’s odd,” said the woman. “Those two are usually so punctual.”
“I’m sure they just lost track of time,” Clara said, though a strange trepidation was starting to blossom in her gut. “I’ll have one of the footmen go up to their rooms to see if they’re there.”
“I’ll go,” said Rose, sliding past Clara and giving August a long look. “It’ll be faster.” She disappeared back the way they had come.
“I haven’t seen Anne since this afternoon,” Tabby said. “Right after Mr. Stilton dropped you off from your drive.”
Clara went completely still. “I beg your pardon?”
“When you came back from your drive with that horribly dressed Mr. Stilton. He may be a friend of yours, but I declare that man is completely color blind. I saw Anne and Phoebe talking to him out on the driveway.”
“Mr. Stilton did not drive me back to Avondale,” Clara said carefully, afraid that, if she let herself consider the full implications of what Tabby had said, she might give in to panic. “His Grace did.”
“When was this?” August demanded in a voice that Clara had never heard him use. “When was he here?”
Tabby paled slightly at his tone. “I don’t know. Perhaps three?”
“Did my sister get in the carriage with him?”
Tabby blinked. “I don’t know. I don’t think so, but I can’t be sure. I just saw them briefly out the hall window. Miss Phoebe had that doctor’s bag of hers. I just assumed Miss Hayward was there—”
“Miss Hayward was not there,” August said so quietly that Clara barely heard him.
“Why did Holloway bring you home, Clara?” This time it was Harland who spoke in a voice that sent fingers of ice down her spine.
Again it was August who answered. “Mr. Stilton expressed his desire to…further his friendship with your sister. He did not take her refusal well.”
“What did he do to you, Clara?” Harland’s face was like granite, and his fists were curled at his sides.
She felt her face burn in mortification and anger. “He tried to…kiss me and—”
“That was all he tried. I made sure he didn’t have a chance to try anything else,” August snarled.
Harland’s eyes pinned August in fury. “And you’re telling me this now?”
“I told him not to,” Clara snapped. “It was handled. And it’s none of your business.”
Her brother turned. “None of my business?” he growled. “I beg to differ.”
“Your Lordship?” This came from the butler who was now standing at the door looking harassed. “There is a…boy here who says he needs to—”
He was cut off by the sudden appearance of Jonas, who skidded into the hall. The butler made a grab for him, but August waved him off. The boy’s eyes were a little wild until they lighted on August.
“There’s a bloke who has yer sister, sir,” he sputtered, a little out of breath.
“What?” August asked, frowning fiercely.
“Miss Anne. The one who works at the Swan.” He blinked at the expression on August’s face. “She said it was our secret, her bein’ yer sister an’ working there an’ all.” The words were tumbling out of his mouth at a torrential rate. “But this bloke, he had a gun. I figured she’d want you to know.”
A muscle was working furiously at the side of August’s jaw. He was almost humming with the same barely leashed violence Clara had seen on that cliff. Only this time she wasn’t sure that he would endeavor to exercise any sort of restraint.
You don’t want me for an enemy, Stilton had said.
Clara hadn’t taken him seriously. She closed her eyes, feeling sick to her stomach. If Stilton touched a hair on the head of either one of those girls, she would kill him herself.
“Where?” August demanded.
“By my ma’s house. I can show you.”
Clara whirled around to find August already stalking toward the door, Jonas darting at his side.
“I’m coming with you,” she said, running to catch up.
“So am I,” Harland said from just behind her. “In case you don’t kill him right the first time.”
“I don’t need your help. Either of you.” August was already demanding a horse be brought around, and Harland was doing the same.
“This is my fault,” she mumbled.
“This is not your fault,” August said. “This lies solely on the shoulders of a man who failed and blames and despises me for that failure. A man whose first wife made him very wealthy when she died. A man who I suspect decided that he could do even better.”
Clara stared at him in horror, understanding dawning. “You think Stilton killed his wife?” she wheezed.
“And now he has my sister.”
Clara pressed her fingers into her eyes, making spots dance under her lids. “And Phoebe. Oh God.” She would not consider that he might kill one or both of them out of spite or hatred. Or that he would force— She stopped, dropping her hands. In truth, Clara had no idea what the man was capable of.
They’d reached the stables, and August nearly shoved the hapless groom aside to finish the task of saddling himself. Another groom was leading two other mounts out, and Harland seized the reins of one and swung himself into the saddle. Clara followed on her own mount.
“I’m not waiting for either of you two,” August snapped as he mounted. He hauled Jonas up in front of him and kicked his horse into a gallop before he’d even fully gained his seat. Harland and Clara were on his heels, panic and worry pushing them hard. Stilton had three hours on them. Three hours in which he could have— Clara cut herself off. Thinking the worst would not be helpful.
They thundered down the drive and out onto the twisting road. The wind whipped against Clara’s face, making her eyes water and tears stream down her face. Jonas must have been giving August instructions, because he was weaving his way across a series of fields and rutted cart tracks without slowing as the miles slipped by. Up ahead a half-rotten, sagging thatched roof was just visible beyond the ridge—
Clara nearly pitched over the head of her horse as the animal dropped its hind end and came to a shuddering stop in a frantic effort to avoid August’s horse, which was sliding to a stop as well. Beside her dust spewed from under the hooves of Harland’s mount as he hauled on the reins. Clara fought for her seat, bracing herself against the neck of her horse, which was now dancing sideways.
The dust slowly cleared, and Clara managed to calm her horse enough to see the figures of two women trudging up the track toward them. The one on the right was dark haired, the one on the left had tresses the color of chestnuts. They were dressed in simple gowns, but the one on the left had ominous rusty stains down the front of her skirts. August was already off his horse and running toward them. Clara dismounted hurriedly and followed him.
“Jesus, Anne,” she thought she heard him say before he engulfed his sister in an embrace. Just as quickly he drew back, his hands going to her shoulders. “Are you hurt?” he demanded.
Anne smiled at him, her expression strained but steady. “I’m not hurt.”
Beside Clara, Harland was crouching in front of Phoebe. “Do you need to sit down? Are you bleeding?” he asked urgently, touching the edge of her stained skirts. “What happened? Are you—”
“I’m fine, Dr. Hayward,” Phoebe said. “It’s not my blood.”
“Then what— Who—”
“Mr. Stilton. He might need a doctor.” A vicious satisfaction came into Phoebe’s eyes. “Or not. I don’t think he’s doing very well. His putrid coat is most assuredly ruined.”
“Ruined indeed,” Anne said, her voice steely. “But it was unavoidable given the circumstances.” The two girls exchanged a look.
“What were you thinking?” August thundered. “Why would you ever have gone with—”
“I was thinking that you and Miss Hayward were lying in a ditch somewhere, dying,” Anne snapped with a disgusted shake of her head. “Stilton arrived just as Phoebe and I were heading inside Avondale. He told us you had been in a terrible accident. You and Miss Hayward. And that you needed me, and there was no time to waste.”
“I went with her. To offer what medical assistance I could,” Phoebe added.
Anne’s eyes hardened. “I’d already met him and had no reason not to trust him,” she said, and Clara felt her stomach clench. “He played the part of the worried, anxious, helpful friend quite convincingly,” Anne continued. “He had the driver take us to an empty cottage north of town with haste. I was so terrified at the prospect of losing you, I never stopped to consider that Stilton could possibly have any ulterior motives.”
August swore.
“He sent the driver on once we were there and it wasn’t until he was gone that he leveled a pistol at us and said he’d shoot one of us if the other tried to run. He said he’d never had reservations about killing to get what he wanted. And apparently you stole something that was dear to him, so he was returning the favor in kind.”
Clara kept her eyes trained on Anne, not daring to look at August.
“But I don’t think Stilton had actually thought the logistics of a good kidnapping all the way through,” Phoebe said coldly. “So many variables. So much…unpredictability.”
“Unpredictability?” August was looking between his sister and Phoebe with alarm.
“I begged Stilton to marry me,” Anne said grimly. “To take me away with him. Away from my controlling, suffocating, impossible brother who would force me to marry a man three times my age just so that he could further line his coffers.”
“And he believed you?”
“She was very persuasive,” Phoebe commented.
“And he seemed to already harbor a vast resentment toward you, dear brother,” Anne added. “Who am I to ruin such a perfectly good grudge?”
“Jesus Christ,” August swore.
“That’s what he said when I retrieved the gun he had left lying on the table in his haste to prepare for our joyous union.”
“You killed him?” August choked.
“I did not,” Anne replied primly. “But when I told Phoebe to fetch help and he tried to stop her, well, my finger might have slipped on the trigger.”
“You shot him?”
“Of course I did.” Now she was looking at her brother with incredulity.
August dropped his head, his expression bleak. “I’m so sorry, Anne. I should never have allowed you to be caught in a position where you had to—”
“For the love of God, stop.” Anne commanded loudly. “I grew up in a prison, August. And then, for a while, in places where one was required to look after one’s own well-being with a little more diligence than others. There were many lessons to be learned, and make no mistake, I learned them well. Stilton took me for a fool once. I did not allow him a second opportunity.”
August was staring at her.
“It’ll take more than a vengeful, disorganized, badly dressed fop to break me, August. I’m not so fragile as that.”
“No,” he said, his voice sounding distant. “You’re not.”
“And where is Stilton now?” Harland asked into the silence.
“Still in the cottage, I would guess,” Phoebe told him, gesturing at the rotten roof still visible. “It’s hard to go far with a bullet lodged in your knee. I patched him up as well as possible. Though my medical experience is still limited, I suspect he may be in danger of losing his lower leg if not treated promptly. He might lose it anyway.”
Clara saw Harland exchange a look with Holloway. “Leave him to me,” her brother told the duke.
“No. I’ll take care of him.” August’s expression was black.
“You’ll do your sister no good if you’re hanged for murder.”
“They’d have to find the body first,” the duke growled.
“But I can’t have you running all over Dover looking for a place to hide a corpse. I have a stake in this too, Your Grace. Let me handle this.”
August’s lips thinned. He glanced at Clara before looking back at Harland. “Fine.” August’s face was glacial. “See it done.”
Harland nodded. “Good.” He stood, collected his horse, and vanished over the ridge.
“Well,” said Anne, “I suppose we’re late for dinner.”
August made a muffled noise. “How can you possibly be jesting about this?”
“Because, August, I’m fine. Phoebe’s fine. The only one who is not fine is the ass who deserved everything he got.” Her eyes were steady and cool. “If you want me to dissolve in hysterics and tears, then you’re going to have to give me some lead time and possibly a script. Because you haven’t had the market on survival cornered all these years, dear brother.”
August ran his hands through his hair in clear agitation.
“Now, if you would be so kind as to offer us a ride back to Avondale, I would be obliged. I can’t speak for Phoebe, but it’s been a long day.”
Clara stepped closer to August and placed a hand on his sleeve, a fleeting, gentle gesture before she moved to collect the reins of the horses. “Come,” she said. “Let’s go home.”