Self-consciously, Clara reached up to tuck her hair more firmly beneath her cap before letting her fingers venture gently over the left side of her face. Most of the puffiness had subsided by now, but the horrid black and purple bruises remained, and would likely take weeks to heal fully. This bothered her. Not because it offended her sense of vanity, but because the bruises served as a visual reminder of what had happened, and it was one more thing that set her apart from the other servants.

She was worried about the next time she’d encounter the earl. It was good they’d stopped when they had, but her body still tingled with pleasure at the memory of his mouth upon her bare skin, and at the feel of his powerful thigh pressed so intimately against her. She couldn’t think about it for fear of shamelessly throwing herself into his arms when they next met. Even though his desire was obvious, it didn’t change the fact that he would be marrying someone else.

Squaring her shoulders with a sigh, Clara emerged from the staircase to make her way towards the dining hall. As she rounded the corner, she found most of the servants in the midst of a light breakfast. A multitude of surprised and pleasant exclamations greeted her sudden presence in the doorway.

“Helen!” cried Charles, his eyes alight with warmth. He rose from his seat to swoop in and encircle her in a tight hug. Amelia was quickly up on her feet as well, crossing over for an embrace.

“It’s so good to see you up and about,” said Amelia, pulling back to survey Clara. “Your face appears much improved.”

Oscar, the young stableboy, looked up from his tea with widened eyes. “You mean she looked worse than that?”

Charles glanced at Oscar in irritation, lightly smacking the back of the boy’s head. This earned him an indignant glare, although Oscar did have the sense to refrain from further commentary on the subject.

“That’s enough, everyone. No need to cause a fuss,” said Mrs. Malone curtly, making her presence known from the head of the table. She stood, folded her napkin carefully, and smiled at Clara. Coming from the usually stoic housekeeper, the gesture appeared slightly unnatural, as if her facial muscles resisted that specific expression. “Welcome back, dear. Sit down and have something to eat.”

Clara dipped into a curtsy before taking the vacant seat between Stella and Tess. Tess smiled shyly at her approach and took the time to pour her a cup of tea, but Stella seemed to be avoiding her gaze. Clara’s heart sank.

The simple breakfast offerings of bread and butter and sliced ham smelled sublime, and Clara eagerly reached forward to load her plate. “Thank you, Tess. How are you doing?” she asked the young scullery maid, casting a deliberate sideways glance in Oscar’s direction.

The girl laughed, catching the subtle meaning behind Clara’s query. Her fingers hastily rushed up to her cheeks to conceal her delight. “I’m doing rather well. Glad to see you back, miss.”

Clara grinned. “That’s good. I’m glad to hear it.” She took a sip of her steaming tea before retrieving another roll from the bread basket, buying herself time to gather the courage to look in Stella’s direction. When she finally glanced her way, she found the maid’s eyes already upon her.

“You look like you’re feeling better.”

“Yes,” answered Clara. “It was nice to have time to rest, but I’m happy to be back. It’s been quiet the past few days.”

A contemplative look slid over Stella’s features. “Has it?”

Clara’s heart started pounding.

Oh God, she knows.

“I—I’m not sure what you . . .”

“Helen!”

Clara turned to find Matthew had just entered the room and was motioning for her to join him in the hallway. Thankful for the interruption, she slid out from her chair and joined the footman, walking down near the staircase to find some relative privacy. Curious, she cocked her head at him.

“What is it, Matthew?”

He swiveled around and pulled her into a tight hug. The sudden show of affection was surprising, but also welcome, especially after having been away from her family for so long. She’d missed the feeling of such amicable closeness, and her heart tugged inside her chest. Clara gladly returned the embrace then pulled back to smile at her friend, who was already grinning down at her.

“I’m so glad you’re back, Helen. You’re looking much better.” His cheerful demeanor shifted into thoughtful remembrance of that night’s events, and he glanced off to the side. “I wish I’d been able to pummel Mr. Scanlan, for both your sake and for Amy’s.”

“What stopped you?” she teased.

“Well, the earl, for one! Charles and I couldn’t even get near the man. Lord Ashworth had already kicked his door down and tackled him.” His brows rose and he whistled low between his teeth.

Clara stared at him. “He kicked the door down?”

“Yes, he did. Right after you told him you were the runaway Mayfield heiress.” Matthew’s face grew red with the effort to suppress his laughter, eventually losing the battle anyway with a loud guffaw. “That’s a good one, by the way. I plan to use it if I ever manage to hit my head.”

“How ridiculous of me.” She laughed weakly, feeling sick to her stomach. Apparently she’d told everyone her real name. “How is Amelia? She seems much improved.”

Matthew’s eyes softened. “She is very well. We had a talk after the other day and I–I finally told her of my feelings.”

“You didn’t!”

“I did!”

“And yet, here you stand before me . . . alive!”

He laughed. “It’s true. And,” he added with a grin, “she says she likes it when I tease her.”

Clara threw her arms around Matthew. “Well then, don’t stop now.” She squeezed him tightly. “I’m so happy for you!”

She pulled away to gaze up at the footman, and saw his eyes drop to her cheek. His expression turned serious and he ran his fingers near the bruised place in solemn contemplation of her injuries. “Now I wish to see you healed, with no more reminders of Mr. Scanlan.”

Clara smiled up at him. “Don’t worry, Matthew. I’ve already begun to—”

Above them, the green baize door opened and Lord Ashworth entered in a hurry, stepping quickly down the stairs. Clara glanced upwards just in time to catch the bewilderment on his handsome face, his footfall halting at the sight before him.

No, no, no . . .

Matthew’s hand whipped abruptly back down to his side, and he took a giant step backwards to release her.

“My lord,” he said a bit too forcefully, punctuating his words with a deep bow in the earl’s direction. “I was just on my way up . . . to bring tea . . . for your meeting with Paxton,” he finished awkwardly.

Ashworth’s glance flicked over to Clara before returning to his footman. He cocked his head, eyes flashing.

“And yet here you stand, with Helen, and nary a tea tray in sight.”

Dread settled into the pit of her stomach. The earl was upset, and there was no easy way for her to convince him that the encounter with Matthew was not what it seemed.

Matthew was struggling to renew his sense of professionalism. “Well, yes, that is true. I will go fetch that for you now, my lord, if you wish?” He cleared his throat guiltily once, twice, before raising his eyes to Lord Ashworth.

The earl stood immobile for what seemed like eternity before gruffly nodding in assent. “Fine. You can deliver it to my study.”

Matthew hurried away on his task, and Lord Ashworth’s gaze shifted to skewer Clara with a black look. “You should find something better to do with your time. I’m sure there are many tasks that don’t involve Matthew.”

Humiliation, dread, and the sting of his judgment all affected her in equal measures. Unfair judgment, if she were being honest. Her chin tipped upwards in defiance.

“My lord, you should know—”

“Yes—” he said in an angry whisper, cutting her off. “I should have known. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have important matters that require my attention.”

His sudden contempt shocked her into silence. She did not move until the earl’s footsteps had completely died away on the stairs above her.

William stormed into his study and slammed the door behind him. He hadn’t thought to find Helen so tightly wrapped in another man’s arms this soon, but he supposed it was to be expected. Hadn’t he been the one to cut things off with her? Hadn’t he drawn the line between them in expectation of him finding a more suitable wife?

And hadn’t that all been before he’d found himself in her room, begging her to say his name . . .

William—

He threw himself down into the chair behind his desk then buried his face in his hands. He’d rather liked Matthew before. It was too bad he’d hate him now, but he would certainly treat Helen well. And it was good to know that the depth of feeling did not go both ways. That she had already started to move on with someone in her own social circle while he, fool that he was, pined away for her in his study. It would make his search for a wife so much easier in the end. At least that was what he hoped.

Rage simmered dark and deep within his chest, but it was a laugh that finally issued forth, quietly at first then gradually becoming louder. What folly to believe that she had truly cared about him. It had been a convincing act to be sure, but in the end it had still just been an act. And now, here sat the Earl of Ashworth in all his glory, brought low by not just a woman, but by one of his damned maids . . .

With a furious sweep of his arms, he sent the items on his desk to the floor in a heavy slide. William rose to stand over the mess, chest heaving, no longer laughing. His inkwell was splattered across the numerous ledgers and books, now lying at his feet. The carpet was quite possibly ruined.

One of his servants would have to clean up this inky pile of papers and books—maybe it would even be Helen. He found he rather liked that idea.

A quiet knock signified Matthew’s arrival with the tea.

“Come in,” he barked angrily.

The wide-eyed look of Matthew’s amazement at the scene that greeted him only heightened William’s ire. He needed to get some air, take a walk, do something before he said something he would truly regret. Glaring at the footman, he pointed a finger at the floor.

“Get someone to clean this up, and tell Paxton I’ll meet with him later in the week. I’m going out.”

And without waiting for a reply, he shouldered past the stunned Matthew to escape the confines of his own home, which to his mind, had become increasingly less comfortable in the span of only a few short minutes.

Snowfall came early to Kent, the first flakes descending the next morning, before December had even arrived. Clara had once more been summoned by Eliza, this time out back to the gardens. The missive had been short, to the point, and her heart had leaped upon reading it: Rosa requests your presence on the terrace.

She couldn’t be sure what to expect. She had not had the opportunity to speak to Eliza since the incident with Scanlan.

Taking the chilly weather into account, she donned a pair of gloves, cinched her walking boots tightly, and draped her plain brown cloak around her shoulders. Clara took one final dissatisfied glance at the looking glass before leaving to join them outside. No amount of fussing would make her battered appearance any more palatable, and she had to admit that, on occasion, she missed the glamour of her fancy gowns with their expensive fabric and lace ornamentation. They had provided her the armor she’d always felt necessary when facing uncomfortable situations.

She sighed wearily as she descended the staircase. This entire ordeal had become exhausting. More than exhausting. Sometimes she felt her very sanity was at risk. Pretending to be someone else was difficult enough, but with the added heartache of missing her family and knowing she was destined to lose the earl, if that hadn’t already happened . . . it was nearly too much to bear.

But what choice did she have?

Her freedom from Baron Rutherford had now transformed into a prison of its own design. And by fleeing her fiancé, she had created a massive scandal that the ton had been hungrily feeding upon for months. If she were to be discovered living in hiding as a servant? There would be no recovering from that stain on her reputation.

William deserved better than that. His family deserved better. And so did hers.

Clara swallowed hard, working against the lump that had formed in her throat. She saw her future clearly, and there was no version of it where she and Lord Ashworth could be together.

Her best chance at an imitation of happiness was still for the baron to marry elsewhere—or expire, she thought hopefully—then return home to beg her parents’ forgiveness. Her mother would be happy to see her, but Clara was less certain of her father. Surely he wouldn’t exile both daughters for displeasing him, but even so, would he be willing to take her on as a spinster?

She could try turning to her sister, but even if Lucy wanted to help, her husband worked for what little they had and that meant limited means with which to assist her. Of course, having worked as a servant, Clara was now no stranger to the toil of a hard day’s work. She would gladly earn her keep, if permitted.

Clara paused on the landing to discover her hand on the bannister in a white-knuckled grip. She breathed slowly, pulling herself together before opening the door to the first floor. She could not . . . would not . . . fall apart now. She’d risked too much and come too far for that. Seeing this to the end, whatever that might be, was the only option.

Clara stepped outside, swiftly closing the door behind her to prevent the warmth from escaping the interior of the house. Rosa’s tiny form came bounding down the walkway until she was tugging on Clara’s skirts.

“Helen! Where have you been . . .” Her inquiry drifted off into silence as she gazed up at Clara’s abused face, shock replacing her natural curiosity. Clara knelt down to meet Rosa’s eyes and smiled warmly.

“I had an accident, darling,” she said. “I’ve been resting in my room, but I’m feeling much better now.”

“You don’t look better. You look hurt.” Her petite nose turned pink from the sudden change in emotion.

Eliza approached silently, looking exquisite in a dove gray mantelet and matching bonnet. Her eyes, large and sad, met Clara’s. She came to a stop just behind her daughter and placed her hands upon Rosa’s shoulders.

“She is getting better, dear, but a hug might help her along.”

Clara opened her arms and Rosa charged forward into them, burying her face against her neck and squeezing tightly. The dreary thoughts and feelings of that morning’s reflections dissolved within the little girl’s embrace, and Clara heard herself sighing in relief. When Rosa finally released her, she felt markedly improved.

“Rosa, love, can you make more snowballs?” asked Eliza. “There’s a good drift by the fountain over there.”

“Yes, Mama.”

Rosa trudged across the terrace, her tiny boots making distinct, child-sized impressions in the snow. Eliza smiled and stepped closer to Clara, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

“I thought perhaps you could use a respite from your duties this morning. That, and I wanted to see you.” Her smile faded then, concern and regret in her clear green eyes. “Oh, Helen. I still can’t believe Scanlan turned out to be such a monster.”

“There was no way any of us could’ve guessed his true nature, my lady. It is difficult to know anyone’s true nature, at that.”

Eliza pulled back to give her an appraising look. “I suppose so, but I know that when my daughter’s life was in peril, you risked everything to find her. I know that when Amelia was attacked by that awful man, you risked everything again, heedless of the consequences.” The earl’s sister squeezed her before letting her go. “I’d like to think I know you, Helen.”

A jolt of guilt, swift and sure, rocked Clara on her feet. How would the earl’s sister react to discover that the servant she had come to trust, even with the safety of her child, was a phony and a fraud?

She tried to smile, tamping her emotions down as the pair made their way along the snow-covered stone patio.

“How are you now?” Eliza asked, breaking the silence.

“I am feeling quite well, thank you for asking.”

Eliza hesitated for a moment before her next question. “And are you . . . yourself?”

So, she had been told of Clara’s bout with amnesia. Of course, the irony was that she had not forgotten herself because of her injury. She had remembered.

“Rest assured, I am myself,” said Clara. “Although I can’t say the thought of being a wealthy runaway heiress doesn’t have its appeal.” She managed a light laugh.

Liar.

Eliza’s eyes gained interest. “It is a fascinating situation, to be sure. I am curious about Clara Mayfield.” She paused a moment, in thought. “If she ran away of her own accord, however, she must be either very brave or very foolish. I honestly can’t decide,” she said, laughing.

Clara tried to respond in kind, but her smile was more like a grimace. She hoped it appeared more convincing than it felt.

“Perhaps she is both,” she finally replied.

A thoughtful gaze passed over Eliza’s face. Before she could reply, she was struck on the shoulder by a loosed snowball. Eliza’s mouth dropped open in surprise, and she looked to Rosa, standing innocently by herself near the icy fountain. Rosa grinned and pointed to a hedge.

“It was him!” she said accusingly.

Clara scanned the frozen scenery, seeing no one. Eliza placed her hands on her hips, ready to take issue with her daughter for being dishonest, but she stopped short when the dashing Lord Evanston stepped out, smirking, from behind the tall shrubbery near the fountain. His black leather boots crunched in the snow, and he bounced a ready snowball between both hands, eyes alight with mischief.

“Thomas, you scoundrel!” cried Eliza, narrowing her eyes at her adversary. “Why are you here, anyway?

Evanston affected to appear hurt by her inquiry. “Now, now, Eliza. You’re not being very nice,” he replied, gazing down at his hands. “The truth is, I’m here to meet your brother. Some more nonsense about cotton mills, I imagine, and in the meantime I thought I would . . .”

Snow exploded across his chest. The viscount’s retort had unceremoniously been cut short by Eliza’s retaliatory snowball. He lifted his eyes just as she flung another in his direction. Her aim was true, but he nonchalantly leaned to one side, watching the missile sail past to crash into the bush behind him.

He glanced back up at her with his bright blue eyes, unimpressed.

“Is that all you’ve got?”

Eliza growled, incensed, and bent to gather more snow.

“Come, Helen. You’re in this now, too!” she cried.

Clara dutifully joined the effort, and before long both women stood with an arsenal of snowballs, only to find that Evanston had taken the offensive, charging forward onto the terrace. Rosa was chasing him determinedly, pelting him with tiny frozen orbs along the way.

They were forced to retreat, firing snowballs as they went—although being a servant, Clara refused to actually hit the man. The pair ran the length of the patio, then split up, Eliza heading north to join forces with Rosa, and Clara racing west to remove herself from combat. She hid behind a shrub, clutching her snowballs, lying in wait. After a few minutes of listening to Rosa’s girlish squeals and Eliza’s hurried footfalls racing across the frosty ground, Clara tread to the edge of the greenery and peered around.

Craning her head forward to listen, she could discern some kind of commotion to the east. She followed the noise, skirting around the edge of the fountain and making her way noiselessly across the freezing stone path of the garden. Ducking around dormant trees and bushes, at last she came upon the source of the tumult.

It appeared that the Lord Evanston had cornered both Eliza and Rosa in the place where two hedges met. They clung to each other in mock fright as he lobbed snowballs at their feet. Eliza worked to form a snowball from the blanket of snow on the bush behind her but he acted swiftly, hurling one of his at her wrist, smashing her efforts.

“Say mercy!” he demanded.

Rosa giggled and scrounged together enough snow for a projectile. “Mercy!” she shouted, simultaneously striking his legs with the snowball.

Evanston laughed, doubling over in a fit of hilarity. “Saying ‘mercy’ means surrender, Rosa.” He crouched down in the snow and opened his arms. “Tell you what. If you give me a kiss, I’ll let you go.”

The girl didn’t hesitate, running into his waiting embrace and kissing him soundly on the cheek. Her mother huffed in amusement behind her.

“Traitorous child,” she said accusingly.

He patted Rosa’s bright red bonnet and rose, still gripping a snowball in his hand. Stepping forward, he eyed Eliza playfully.

“Say mercy,” he insisted.

Eliza tilted her pert profile up in the frigid air.

“Never.”

He took another step closer, nearly touching her now, a wicked grin broadening his mouth.

“Dare I request your surrender with a kiss?” Evanston grinned down at her and added quietly, “Perhaps I will elect to kiss you regardless of whether you surrender or not.”

Astonishment washed over Eliza’s features.

“Have your other conquests bored you to the point of harassing your best friend’s sister?” she asked disparagingly. But she could not hide the color that rose to her cheeks.

Clara felt the need to help Eliza out of this awkward situation. She stepped out from behind the shrub and was startled when Lord Ashworth revealed himself from the other side of the enclosure, looking formidable in a black overcoat. Seeing her, the earl looked surprised as well, but he did not linger on Clara, returning his focus instead back to the roguish Lord Evanston.

“Stop making my sister blush, Thomas. You’re surrounded,” he said sternly.

Evanston pivoted to see both the earl and Clara on either side of him, and Eliza took in their sudden appearance with obvious relief.

The viscount didn’t hesitate and hurled his snowball at Ashworth, who dodged it with a casual grace that caused Clara’s pulse to elevate.

“Ah well, I can admit defeat,” Lord Evanston said magnanimously, realizing he was out of ammunition and outnumbered. He reached out to brush Eliza’s sleeve as she passed by him. “We’ll save the romance for the earl’s upcoming ball,” he said in a low voice that revived the pinkness of her cheeks.

Clearly she was discomfited, but Eliza answered with confidence as she gathered Rosa into her arms.

“I’m certain my dance card will be full by the time you’ve finished flirting with all the ladies,” she stated with an attitude of indifference.

His eyes grew sultry with challenge. “I suppose it’s possible unless, of course, I set out to flirt with you first.”

Clara noticed the way Eliza paused, almost in disbelief. Evanston’s relentlessness came as a surprise, if her reaction was any indication.

“Stop,” ordered Ashworth with a scowl.

Rosa shifted inquiringly in her mother’s arms. “Why are we having a ball, Mama?”

Lady Cartwick glanced down at her daughter, most likely relieved by the change in subject. “Well darling, we’re throwing a ball to find him a wife.”

Rosa met Clara’s eyes. “Oh,” she said, her small voice containing a trace of confusion.

Ashworth turned to Evanston and clapped him on the shoulder. “We’d better get to it,” he said, leading the man back to the house.

From behind, Clara heard the viscount let out a long sigh, his breathy steam rising in the cool air. “Yes. I suppose you made a promise to Scanlan and you’re determined to keep it, aren’t you?” Thomas glowered. “Would it make a difference if I told you that embarking on a considerable investment venture in the far reaches of northern England is bloody inconvenient for me?”

“No,” answered the earl. “It would not.”

“What if I told you I have plans with a lady friend this evening, and I intend to be on time?”

The earl viewed his friend with a sardonic lift of his brow. “If I arranged our meetings around your various affairs, Evanston, I’d never get anything done.”

Evanston let out a laugh, and Lord Ashworth glanced back in Clara’s direction briefly before continuing forward. It was frustrating to share his company, and yet be entirely unable to set the record straight. More than anything, she wished she could put him at ease regarding Matthew, but perhaps it was better this way. If he believed her to be involved with another man, it was more likely he would withdraw and move on.

That would be better, wouldn’t it?

It most certainly would not, her heart disagreed.

Eliza set Rosa down and increased her pace to catch up with her brother. “William, I know you’re busy, but I’d like your input on the menus for the ball by tonight. Mrs. Malone requires sufficient time to make arrangements with the cook.”

It was difficult to tell from her particular vantage point in the group, but Clara could have sworn Lord Ashworth turned his head to mutter an oath.

Clara felt Rosa’s diminutive hand slide into hers. She grasped it tightly and looked down at the girl, so adorable in her winter outerwear. Rosa looked as if she had a secret to tell, and beckoned for her to lean down close.

“Yes, darling?”

In her excitement, it took Rosa a few moments to compose her thoughts. When she did, they came tumbling out in a fierce whisper. “Mama—well Mama told me not to tell you yet, but I just wanted to say . . . I can’t wait until you live with us at the Dower House!”