The stable boy who came out to take the horses wasn’t a boy at all, though it was rarely noticed.
“Good evening, Your Grace,” she said as August drew the barouche to a halt in the busy stable yard. If the thirteen-year-old was surprised to see him, she hid it as well as she hid her gender.
“Good evening.” He jumped out of the equipage. “I trust your brothers are about?”
“They’re about all right,” she said, sounding slightly out of breath. “Busy night.”
“Good.” He took a moment to survey the bustling yard and the tavern that was already alive with light and noise beyond it. Out of proprietary interest, of course, but also to give himself a moment to collect his wits before he faced Clara.
Temporary tryst.
The words continued to flicker through his consciousness like a peat fire that could not be extinguished. It sounded almost…tawdry. As if they were simply a pleasing diversion to each other in which a modicum of pleasure might be found and then discarded once they tired of it. No different, really, from any of his past relationships, if one could even call them that.
He had never really cared to get to know a woman the way he wanted to know Clara. So long as he and his paramour rubbed along well enough in the scant time they spent together and the bed sport was enjoyable, that was enough. Until they inevitably wanted more from him. Broad hints of marriage or a more permanent arrangement as a mistress. More jewels, a fine house, expensive clothes. They all wanted more. Predictable.
Clara Hayward seemed to want less.
And now that he’d kissed her, that was simply unacceptable. She had shaken him to his toes. Just the thought of her mouth on his, the memory of how her thighs had wrapped around his waist, had him hard and restless all over again.
It was a good thing August had insisted he drive. If he’d had to make this journey seated next to or directly across from Clara, he was quite sure he would have done something exceedingly ill advised. Like pull her into his lap and kiss her. And then skip dinner entirely so that he might take her someplace and finish what they had started. Which would have been equally unacceptable.
Because until he had pulled into this damn stable yard, he had forgotten why he was really here. And now that he had been reminded, an unpleasant guilt was starting to brew, seeping into the crevices of his mind and undermining his sense of purpose. He’d never intended to reveal his ownership of the school—certainly not while he was still in pursuit of Strathmore Shipping. But then, he’d never intended to become wholly besotted with the school’s headmistress either.
August hardened his conscience. He had never experienced such a feeling before, and he didn’t like it. It reeked of weakness. Flawed ambition. And August Faulkner had never been weak. What was done was done. If he hadn’t bought Haverhall, someone else would have. Feelings and emotions did not have a place in business, because feelings and emotions made clever men make stupid decisions. One never knew what was around the next corner. What disaster might occur, what emergency might crop up. He needed to ensure his family was looked after forever, even after he was gone. He needed to make sure that what he had survived, and how Anne had been forced to live, would never be repeated. Not while he could control their circumstances.
August squared his shoulders and turned from the yard, making his way to the side of the barouche. “Your servant, Miss Hayward.” He gave her a slight bow as he opened the small door.
She’d repaired her hair admirably on the drive, but her cheeks were still flushed the way they had been when he had had his mouth and his hands—
Arousal streaked through him instantly, and he averted his eyes.
“Your Grace—”
“Dukes can still open doors for their ladies, just as easily as they can drive themselves places,” he said, pleased with how smoothly that had come out. “I’ve discovered that becoming a duke hasn’t impeded my mobility or my coordination overmuch. Though it often creates an unwelcome distraction wherever I go. I’m generally not recognized in Dover, and I prefer to keep it that way. There’s only so much bowing and scraping and clinging a man can take.”
“Ah. No fancy clothes, no carriage with a coat of arms.” She sounded amused. “No footmen, no drivers—”
“And I left the heralds and the horns and the flower-throwing maidens at home this evening as well.” He returned her smile, unable to help himself.
He heard her catch her breath slightly as she took his hand and stepped out of the barouche. “Pity,” she said, releasing his fingers once she was firmly on the ground and Miss Baker was smartly leading the team away. “Spectacles are vastly underrated,” she continued. “I’ve always wanted to walk under a shower of rose petals.”
“I’ll keep that in mind next time I ask you to dinner.” Except it wasn’t dinner August was imagining but a bed covered in the velvet softness of scarlet petals, their fragrance as intoxicating as the woman who would be lying in their midst. He would start by—
“The girl who took the horses. She knew who you were, even though you’re not dressed as a duke and were driving.” Clara was watching the retreating horses with suddenly narrowed eyes. “Why?”
“A keen observation,” he said, firmly grasping the change in topic that offered a respite from his lewd imagination. He offered her his arm. “Most don’t notice Miss Baker is a miss at all.”
“And you never answered my question.”
August felt her hand come to rest delicately on his arm, as if she were determined to keep a more civilized distance. “Miss Baker and her brothers work for me.” He saw no reason to hide the fact from her.
Clara stopped abruptly. “They work for you,” she repeated slowly. “You own this tavern.”
“I do.” He paused. “Ah. I imagine you thought Monsieur Charleaux owned it.”
“Yes.” Her voice was faint.
“My ownership isn’t entirely a secret, but it’s something that I—and Charleaux—certainly don’t shout from the rooftops. I can’t be in all places at all times, so I hire competent people to manage my assets. Charleaux—and other individuals I’ve hired in similar positions—are better able to make daily decisions if the vast majority simply believe them to be owners.”
“Your sister did not mention that you owned property in town.” She had a peculiar expression on her face.
August hid a frown. “She’s only been to the Silver Swan once, and that was years ago, just after I purchased it and long before I had it renovated. Is it important?”
Clara muttered something that August didn’t catch. “Forget I mentioned it. Please, tell me about Miss Baker.”
August started forward again. “In truth, it is her older brother who is the crown jewel in the Baker family, as it were. A bloody wizard when it comes to managing stable yards and everything that goes with it. I poached him from one of the busiest coaching inns in London.”
“And he just agreed to leave?”
“Mr. Baker wished to be able to protect and ensure the well-being of his family. Something I could understand. At the time I hired him, his sister was only eight, his brother ten. My willingness to employ both his siblings and leave them under his tutelage has made him a loyal employee.” He paused. “And Miss Baker especially has proven herself an unexpected asset. She is a fine hand with horses.”
“I see.”
“I have developed it substantially. Kept the tavern, improved the dining room, and expanded the inn. It was in rather deplorable condition when I bought it, but the location is second to none. It is one of the first buildings a thirsty sailor happens upon and the first lodgings a weary traveler sees. Now that the wars are over, there has been a greater influx of passengers crossing to France. The shipping trade has similarly increased, and business is brisk.”
“I see.”
August glanced at her. She was saying that a lot.
“Come, let’s see if your brother has arrived. Will he have come by horse?” He glanced back at the yard, but the trio of Bakers was nowhere to be seen. He should have asked Miss Baker when he had the chance.
“I assume so.” Clara sounded distracted. “What else do you own?”
August waved his hand dismissively. “A collection of other investments. None of which will interest you, I’m sure.” He didn’t want to get into a long discussion of his holdings. Quite frankly, it would take all night, and it would detract from his objectives if they were discussing profit margins, taxes, and land titles. No, August needed to get the Haywards talking about the Haywards. And what he could do to make the Haywards happy and solve all their financial woes.
“Did you run out of money?” Clara said as they approached the door.
“I beg your pardon?”
She gestured above their heads to the sign hanging above the door. “The exterior has very clearly been repaired and upgraded, yet your sign looks like a holdover from the Children’s Crusade.”
August glanced up at the battered wooden sign that had come with the building. “What’s wrong with it?” It was still perfectly legible, if perhaps a little faded. Well, perhaps a lot faded and a little cracked at the bottom. And perhaps the bird looked more like a turkey than a swan. But it served its purpose. And it was familiar to the residents of Dover.
Clara shot him a dubious look. “You went to the trouble of improving this establishment but left it represented by a crooked flamingo?”
“It’s a swan, not a flamingo. And you sound like my sister, though she called it a bat,” August grumbled.
“You should have listened to her.”
August paused, his hand halfway to the door. Perhaps Clara had a point. Perhaps, in an effort to bridge the gap between them and reassure Anne that he had not intended to be dismissive of her talents, he could have a new sign made. One that would be crafted from her sketch. He had no doubt it would please her immeasurably. And it would prove to her that, while he was still her brother and responsible for her future, he was making an effort to listen and not simply trying to control her life. What harm could it do, really?
Anne’s drawing would still be on his desk. He would send a note to Duncan to have a new sign made and shipped immediately.
“Come, Miss Hayward,” he said, buoyed by his decision. He grasped the heavy iron door handle. “Tell me about your brother. What made him want to pursue medicine?”
Clara stepped past him into the din of the tavern. “Why don’t you ask him yourself?”
August followed her gaze and gestured to a man sitting against the far wall, a tankard of ale in his hand, speaking with an individual dressed like a seaman. It had been a long time since August had seen Strathmore. The baron had nearly the same dark mahogany hair as his sister and the same dark eyes. He was dressed neatly, his hair pulled back into a queue, but his tidy appearance couldn’t disguise the weary, worried lines of his face. August recognized that look. He had once worn the same haggard look for too many years. Perhaps this would be easier than he expected.
August strode toward the far side of the tavern, weaving his way through the long tables and benches. The tavern was busy tonight, just as Miss Baker had said, and it pleased August to no end to see trays of ale and bowls of stew being served with a most satisfying swiftness.
Strathmore must have seen them coming, because he broke off his conversation and rose. The man he was speaking to turned, and August noted his battered coat and the old-fashioned tricorne he held in his hand. A sea captain perhaps, though one who looked more like a pirate, given his dark beard and the small braid at his temple.
The baron stepped forward, grasping Clara’s hands and kissing her lightly on the cheek before he turned to August. “Your Grace, it is a pleasure,” he said. “My apologies for the change in plan. I hope it didn’t cause you any inconvenience.”
“Not at all,” August replied, avoiding looking in Clara’s direction. “And the pleasure is all mine. I did not mean to interrupt your conversation.” He let his gaze settle on the sea captain.
“Captain Black at your service, Your Grace,” the man said, not waiting for introductions and sketching a brief bow. His dark eyes returned to August for a second before they settled on Clara. He swept his tricorne in front of him and his bow became exaggerated. “And you must be Dr. Hayward’s beautiful sister, who he speaks of so often.”
“One of them,” Strathmore said drily. “Clara, may I present Richard Black, captain of the Azores. Captain, my sister, Miss Clara Hayward.”
“Enchanted,” the captain said, smiling widely at Clara.
“A pleasure,” Clara replied, looking amused.
“It could be,” the captain replied with a wink.
August stiffened, but the baron merely laughed. “You’ll excuse us, Captain?” Strathmore said.
“Of course, of course.” Black settled his tricorne on his head. “I must be away as well. People to see, ships to sail. Enjoy your evening.” He tipped his hat and melted away into the crowd.
August watched him vanish in the crush. A man to remember, August thought to himself. Not because he particularly wished to make the man’s acquaintance, but because any sea captain clearly so familiar with the baron might just be an invaluable source of information when it came to Harland Hayward. Or Strathmore Shipping.
“I’m sorry if we interrupted your conversation before you could finish,” August said to the baron. “Would you care to have him fetched back? He would have been welcome to join us—”
“Hemorrhoids,” Strathmore said succinctly. “We were speaking of hemorrhoids. More precisely the means by which one may reduce them. Not a suitable conversation for dinner, I can assure you.”
“Of course.” August eyed the baron. That had been neatly done. A subject meant to stall a conversation before it ever got started. “Shall we make our way into the dining room then?” He gestured toward the wide, arched door that led farther back.
“Yes, please.” It was Clara who spoke. “I’m quite famished.”
August led them into the room, characterized by ordered tables with proper tablecloths and proper tableware laid out and a noise level that was a third of that in the main tavern. The tables were all occupied save for the largest one on the far wall, set in front of a wide window overlooking the harbor.
“Please.” August gestured for his guests to sit. The baron pulled out a chair for Clara, and once she was seated, both men took theirs. He had barely gotten comfortable when a server materialized at the side of their table.
“Good evening,” he said, and August was pleased to see that the man’s appearance wouldn’t have been out of place in any fine dining room in London. August had worked hard with Charleaux to ensure that the service was impeccable. Along with the French chef, it added to the popularity of the dining room. The man produced a bottle of wine and set to pouring the ruby liquid into the glasses on the table with a subtle flourish.
“Tell Charleaux we are ready to be served,” August instructed.
“Of course.” The man set the bottle in the center of the table and vanished as silently as he’d appeared.
“I understand you had trouble with some soldiers,” the baron said without warning.
August froze. “I beg your pardon?” An image of Clara trapped against a stone wall before they’d been interrupted suddenly filled his mind. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Clara take a long swallow of her wine, which told him that she was imagining the exact same thing. Jesus, if he was going to start this negotiation with Strathmore calling him out, it was going to be a very short discussion indeed.
“Ran into a patrol southwest of town the other day while rendering assistance to a young boy, as I understand.”
The boy. Of course. “I didn’t run into them, exactly,” August said. “Avoided them, more like. Though my horse was not so lucky.”
The baron’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Your horse?”
Strathmore had obviously been speaking to someone other than the staff at Avondale. The nameless child, perhaps. Or perhaps someone in his family. The baron was a doctor, after all, one who seemed to spend a great deal of time in the community, and it wasn’t far-fetched that he might have heard the tale in the course of his travels.
“A flesh wound from a reckless bullet. The horse will be fine,” August said.
“You never said anything.” Clara sounded horrified. “Are you all right?”
“It was nothing, really. No real harm done. I was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Or the right place at the right time.” The baron was still watching him.
August nodded. “Or the right place at the right time, depending on one’s perspective.” He didn’t elaborate. Because that would provoke questions about his actions that he had no interest in answering. Neither Clara nor her brother needed to know why he had done what he had for a boy he didn’t even know.
The baron was watching August intently. “The last years have been difficult. Hunger is a powerful motivator.”
“I understand.” Strathmore and Clara had no idea how much.
“You must eat here often,” the baron remarked, looking around at tables of well-dressed ladies and gentlemen and the occasional table occupied by naval and military officers. “Given that you are on such…familiar terms with the hotelier.”
“Occasionally,” August replied. He picked up his glass and took an appreciative sip. “I confess I enjoy the selection of wines.”
Clara made an inarticulate noise. “The duke owns this tavern and inn.”
“I had no idea,” Strathmore murmured. Brother and sister exchanged a look that August couldn’t decipher.
“I don’t generally advertise it. Monsieur Charleaux manages the day-to-day affairs.”
The baron fingered the stem of his wineglass. “If you own this place, surely you can do something about the sign out front. The first time I was here, I thought the place to be called the Rotted Raven.”
August glanced at Clara, who had suddenly become fascinated with the edge of her napkin.
“As it turns out, Strathmore, that is being addressed as we speak. I shall have a new one in place in the very near future.” August sat back in his chair. He had no interest in speaking of his businesses. “I was asking your sister about your own profession. Whatever made you decide to become a physician?”
Strathmore was eyeing him shrewdly. “It’s something I’d wanted to do for as long as I could remember. And I was fortunate enough to have a family who supported me.” The baron glanced at his sister. “We all were.”
“Why not practice full-time?” August asked casually.
The baron’s brows shot nearly to his hairline. “If I could make a copy of myself, I most certainly would,” he said, and there was a faint bitterness to his words.
August sighed in commiseration. “Ah. I can understand that. The business left to you by your late father must be incredibly time consuming.”
“Something like that,” Strathmore muttered, downing the rest of his wine.
August took a moment to choose his words. “Have you ever considered taking on a partner?”
“A partner?” Strathmore repeated, going quite still.
Beside him Clara visibly stiffened.
“Your comment about making a copy of yourself made me think of it.” August felt the first faint stirrings of misgiving. Perhaps he had misjudged—
“No,” the baron said.
“No, you have not considered it, or no, you wouldn’t consider it?” he asked.
“Both. I have two partners already. One of them is sitting next to you.”
August forced a chuckle. “And a formidable one she is. I learned that the hard way, if you recall.”
“I recall.” The baron was unsmiling.
August tried a different tack. “Forgive me if I spoke out of turn, but in my experience, sometimes to make something truly flourish and reach its full potential, one must occasionally look for assistance. Or break things into pieces that might prove more manageable. A change to the structure, if you will.”
“A change to the structure?” Strathmore reached for the bottle of wine and refilled his glass. “Tell me, Your Grace, is that what you suggested to Walter Merrill?”
August kept his expression pleasant. Now that was an unexpected remark. “You are, of course, speaking of the former owner of the Silver Swan.”
“Indeed.” Strathmore’s voice was devoid of any sort of challenge, as though it were merely idle curiosity that had spurred that question. August wasn’t fooled for a second.
“I believe Mr. Merrill’s refusal to adopt change led to the failure of his business, if that is what you’re asking.”
“I suppose I am.” Strathmore glanced out the window, over the darkening harbor. “Did you know that this place had been in Mr. Merrill’s family for six generations before you bought it?”
August laced his fingers together, wondering if there was an accusation in that statement. But it would seem that Strathmore had more in common with his sister than just the color of his eyes. He, like Clara, was utterly inscrutable. “I did. Though I fail to see the relevance.”
“The relevance.” The baron seemed to be mulling that over. “I would suggest such information might be relevant with respect to the pride or self-worth that ownership might bring to a man like Merrill. Did that not give you pause?”
August frowned slightly. “Good Lord. Are you suggesting that I should have left this place in the hands of Merrill for the sake of…sentimentality?”
The baron shrugged. “That might be one word for it.”
August’s frown deepened. He’d believed the man to be much wiser than that. “No. There is no room in business for sentimentality. Nor do I do things by half measures. If Mr. Merrill had any sort of pride of ownership, he had a strange way of showing it.”
“Ah.” The baron turned back from the window, his fingers playing with the stem of his wineglass. August couldn’t tell if there was censure or acceptance in that single syllable, and he wasn’t sure he liked it.
“Mr. Merrill had his chance. And he failed. But amidst that failure, I saw opportunity. I buy things with potential, Lord Strathmore. And then I make that potential happen to ensure the safety and well-being of my family.”
“Yet you did not offer Walter Merrill a partnership.”
“No.” Strathmore would know that only if he knew Merrill himself. Even given Strathmore’s ties to the community, that sort of knowledge was a little odd for a man who called London home and Dover a very temporary residence. “The level of deterioration to which this place had fallen, both physically and financially, was extreme. Mr. Merrill was not supportive of my proposed changes to correct that. Though he was certainly supportive of the bank draft with which I provided him.” He eyed the baron. “If he tells you anything different, he is lying.”
“Walter Merrill died last year. Shot by soldiers while sneaking through the dark with a tub of smuggled French brandy strapped to his back.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
Strathmore lifted his eyes to August’s. “I’m sure.”
August met his dark gaze, unhappy with the direction the conversation had taken. He’d hoped to plant the seeds of a solution to the Haywards’ financial difficulties, but when it came to business, it would seem the baron had some convictions and ideals that were going to prove difficult. Lord Strathmore seemed to be a man who would have to be backed into a corner first, the very real threat of total bankruptcy of his family presented before he started to see things the way August wished him to.
“Strathmore Shipping is not for sale, Your Grace.” It came from Clara, and it was so quiet, August almost didn’t hear it.
“I beg your pardon?” August turned toward her.
Her face was pale, her hands clenched in her lap. “It’s what you came to Dover for, isn’t it?”
* * *
You will not meet a more ruthless, cunning adversary than Holloway when he goes after something he wants.
It was what Harland had told her. Clara had heard him, but she hadn’t listened. Not carefully enough.
But she had listened as she sat at that damn table tonight as August Faulkner made it clear why he was really here. Made it clear why he had really sought her out that day at the museum and why he had followed her to Dover. No, Clara amended, it wasn’t she he’d been seeking. It had been Harland all along. He’d asked after Harland all along. She just hadn’t paid attention.
She was such a fool. Clara had allowed herself to believe that he had really come to Avondale for Anne, because she had wanted to believe in the caring brother and not the ruthless adversary. And worse, she had completely fallen for every charmed word that had slipped from his silvered tongue and convinced her that he truly found her—what had he said? Extraordinary. She had kissed him. Would have done far more than kiss him.
Mortification and fury crowded into her chest, and she welcomed them. They didn’t allow room for the sadness and disappointment that weren’t welcome at all.
He buys broken things and breaks them apart further before building them back up into profitable ventures.
Harland had said that too. Things like the Silver Swan. Like Strathmore Shipping.
The duke’s expression was closed, his eyes shuttered and his lips thinned. “Cl—Miss Hayward, I—”
“Yes or no, Your Grace,” Clara hissed.
Holloway’s features tightened even more. “The possibility came up.”
“While you were dabbling in the tobacco trade?” Clara sneered, wondering for a moment if she shouldn’t leave now. Before she said something that she would really regret.
From across the table, Harland laced his fingers together. “Good heavens, Your Grace, is that what you call what you do in the tobacco trade? Dabbling?” He glanced at Clara. “Did you know that Holloway is the largest importer of tobacco in southern England?”
His empire is bigger than most people realize.
Clara swallowed with difficulty, the wine turning sour in her gut. That certainly explained how he had discovered their financial struggles. If Holloway was that deeply entrenched in import, then he would have access to all sorts of information when it came to the London docks. She was such an idiot.
Holloway stared stonily back at her brother. “You are unusually well informed, Lord Strathmore.”
“And so, apparently, are you.”
“You have damaged, idle ships that will rot before you can repair and crew them. Without the capital to correct that, it will be difficult to recover. I am prepared to offer you a very fair price—”
“No.” Harland said. “We are the custodians of the legacy left to us. We will ensure that it survives and, with time, continues to flourish, by whatever means necessary. It is not something that can simply be disposed of on a whim so that we might indulge in personal fancies or because it becomes difficult.” He paused. “I can assure you, Your Grace, we have matters well in hand.”
“Your Grace, your Lordship, pardon my intrusion.” A uniformed servant suddenly appeared at Harland’s shoulder carrying a salver. “A message for Lord Strathmore just delivered,” he said, holding out the small tray. “I am made to understand it is an emergency.”
Harland’s eyes finally slid from August as he took the note, cracking a plain red blob of sealing wax. He scanned the message, then stuffed the paper inside his coat.
“Do you wish to send a reply?” the server asked. “The messenger is waiting just outside the tavern.”
“No need. I’m on my way.”
“Very good, Lord Strathmore.” The man departed with brisk efficiency.
“I have to go,” Harland said unapologetically. He glanced at Clara.
“I’ll see her safely home,” August said without looking at her.
“That won’t be necessary, Your Grace,” Clara replied through gritted teeth. “I’ll make my own arrangements. I’ve done it many times.”
“I insist.” The duke wasn’t budging.
Harland’s eyes flickered between Holloway and Clara. She bit her tongue against a scathing retort. Her brother would expect her to be angry at the duke’s duplicity, but not irrationally so. And she had no desire to explain the extent of it. She just wanted to be left alone. Long enough to lick her wounds and collect what was left of her dignity.
“Very well.” Harland turned his attention toward the duke once more. “I trust we have made our position clear regarding Strathmore Shipping,” he said coolly.
“You have.” Holloway had yet to look at her.
“Good. Then I bid you a good night, Clara. Your Grace.”
Clara watched as Harland took his leave. “It never would have worked, you know,” she said.
“What are you talking about?” Holloway finally turned to her.
“Using me to get to my brother. Did you think that if you could get me into your bed, I would put a favorable word in my brother’s ear?”
A muscle jumped in his jaw. “What happened between you and me had nothing to do with—”
Clara laughed, but it was without humor. “Save your breath, Your Grace. You came here because you discovered our family company was struggling and wanted it for yourself.”
He held her eyes with his. “That was one of the reasons,” he said finally.
She already knew that, but the confirmation was like a slap. “Everything has been contrived, hasn’t it?” Clara asked, feeling almost ill. “Your sudden appearance at the museum. Your convenient service to Rivers. Your concern over your sister. Us—”
“No. I care a great deal about Anne.” He reached for her hand. “I care about you. You and I were—”
“A mistake.” Clara snatched her hand away. “Just a titillating diversion for you while you pursued what you really wanted.”
The duke looked away, his face set in hard lines. “No.”
“I don’t understand you,” Clara said, forcing herself to keep her voice down, aware that they were still in a very public setting. “You have everything. Money, power, position. Yet you come after us like a vulture circling a wounded animal.” She fought for composure. “When is enough enough for you?”
He turned back to her. “Never.” The answer was swift and harsh. “Only a fool rests on his laurels.”
Well, at least he was finally being honest. But it was too late. Clara stood, the duke rising as well.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“Back to Avondale.” She started toward the door.
“I’ll see you home.” Holloway was on her heels.
“Please don’t do me any more favors,” Clara said, threading her way out into the long shadows of the evening. She sucked in a deep, steadying breath of cool night air.
“I will see you home,” the duke repeated, already signaling Miss Baker, who was hurrying across the yard.
She shook her head. “I—”
“I’ll pick you up over my shoulder and put you in that damn barouche if I have to.”
“Fine.” Clara suddenly didn’t have the energy to argue.
“I’m not letting you go, Clara.”
An empty chasm suddenly opened up in the center of her anger, dark with desolation. “I was never yours in the first place.”