“Stay a moment,” growled Sir William at his older daughter as the others left the room. Cleo waited, burning with humiliation. The momentary relief she’d felt when the Duke of Wessex intercepted her mother had quickly been replaced by dread when her father gave her a black look behind the duke’s back. For a moment there, she’d been blessing the duke with all her might, but of course the coming confrontation couldn’t be avoided.

Her father waited until everyone else had left, then stared fiercely at the footman until the servant closed the door, leaving them in complete privacy. Even then, he spoke in a harsh whisper. “You think very highly of yourself, don’t you? When will you cease trying to humiliate us at every turn by bringing up your wretched little trade?”

“It is not wretched,” she said quietly.

He snorted. “It is indeed! My own daughter, laboring in a shop like some baseborn chit. It is intolerable, I tell you, intolerable. The very least you could do is remember your place here and kindly keep your idle thoughts and opinions to yourself.”

“What is my place?” she asked before she could stop herself. Perhaps he wouldn’t be able to tell her. Perhaps he had some trace of affection left for her.

“A tradesman’s widow,” he said with a snort. “Utterly beneath your ancestors! Your sister will be a duchess, and you stand in her drawing room and loudly proclaim yourself little better than a common servant!” Cleo’s mouth opened in shock, and he went on. “Sometimes I wonder precisely who you think you are, miss!”

“You named me for a queen,” she said. “Who do you think I am?”

He harrumphed. “What a laughable mistake. Cleopatra was born to royalty and she knew her place. Don’t think so highly of yourself, miss.”

“But she led her country,” Cleo reminded him. “I daresay someone thought that wasn’t her place.”

Her father glowered at her. “She did not go against her parents’ wishes and lower herself to go into trade.”

“She lowered herself to marrying her brother,” Cleo murmured. “Although I suppose that was at her parents’ wish.”

He closed his eyes and exhaled, then shot her another sharp glance. “You’ve done as you wished, and I have not disowned you. But don’t think I’m proud of your actions. You’re only welcome here because your sister wished it. It is her wedding—she, at least, will take her proper place in society, while you have done precious little for our family.”

Cleo shifted her weight back and forth, setting her skirt to swirling about her ankles. The tiny coins clinked softly. “I paid for Helen’s wardrobe.”

“Shh!” hissed her father, glancing around anxiously, as though the duke might hear her words all the way in the dining room. “Don’t tell everyone!” He gave a snort. “Bad enough that my daughter has to operate a shop like a common merchant. You’d tell the world I must accept your charity, too.”

“It’s not charity,” she protested. “I wanted to help! Helen is my sister.”

“Then mind your tongue,” he snapped. “Do you want to embarrass her in front of her future husband? Do you want him to think us a pack of penniless, hysterical fools?”

Cleo watched the coins settle into silence again. “No, Papa. I’m sorry.”

“You should be.” With that, he brushed past her, only waiting at the door to offer his arm. As angry as he was with everything she did, he would never break protocol and leave her to walk into the dining room alone. We must keep up appearances, after all, Cleo thought, pasting a wooden smile on her face, feeling oddly detached from her father even as her hand rested on his arm.

She knew her parents hadn’t understood when she and Matthew eloped; she hadn’t expected them to. The years of her marriage had been rather cool ones between her and her parents, but still civil. Cleo knew why; her mother had once outright admitted that if she had to be the wife of a shopkeeper, at least she was the wife of a very prosperous shopkeeper. At the time, she’d wondered who her parents thought she would marry. The Greys had had no money for as long as she could remember, and no connections of consequence. Suitors had been rare in their house.

But whatever their initial hopes for her, it was clear that all the burden of making a great match had descended upon Helen. Cleo felt sorry for that. She had been so happy with Matthew and wished the same for her sister, whether it was with a duke or a lowly tailor. She got some glimpse of what her sister must have endured after Matthew died. Her father had tried to insist that she sell her shop and return home. Unspoken was the presumption that she would make a better match the second time, now that she was a widow of some modest fortune. After that conversation, Cleo had made only the briefest visits home. She had no desire to settle into a ladylike uselessness in her widowhood. Working in the shop reminded her of Matthew, and Cleo liked being responsible for herself. She could support herself, it turned out, so why shouldn’t she? Without the shop, she would have precious little of her own: no children, no husband, no income ... nothing to keep her mind occupied. What else was she to do with herself?

The unfairness of her father’s feelings made her want to scream. Never mind that her shop, which he hated, supplied her money, which he somehow managed to accept. At times she had been almost determined to stop offering it, since the source of the income was so hateful to both her parents. Perhaps they would be more appreciative if they felt the lack of her “common merchant” funds. But cutting them off would mean cutting off Helen as well. Helen was the dearest person in the world to her; Helen had wished her joy when she married Matthew. And now she had made a splendid match to the illustrious Duke of Wessex—even if he did seem awfully reticent and reserved—and Cleo would never regret helping her sister find happiness.

That was the thought she must keep in the forefront of her mind for the next few weeks. Stirring up an argument with either one of her parents would only cause Helen anxiety, and she had absolutely no wish to embarrass her sister in front of the Cavendish family.