Clara rubbed her aching hips as she jostled about the wooden grocery cart. It had taken time for her internal emotional storm to dissipate, but once it had, she had mostly enjoyed it, much to her surprise. True, the coach ride had been grueling, and the passengers with their various personalities—and smells—had been interesting and, at times, unpleasant. But each town they passed served as a reminder of the choice she had knowingly made for herself and the freedom that came with that choice.

Her companion was a grocery merchant named George. An older man, he’d proven to be an entertaining companion on her trip south into Kent. She’d been lucky enough to meet him upon her arrival in London, and he had easily agreed to convey her to Lawton Park as it was very near his own destination. During the trip, he had regaled her with tales of fanciful local lore, not the least of which was the story of how the current Earl of Ashworth had gained his title.

She had listened in horror as the old man told of the carriage accident that had taken the earl’s father, older brother, and brother-in-law. In one cruel fell swoop, the family had lost its patriarch and its heir, leaving the only surviving son injured, traumatized, and contemplating how to run an estate he had never thought would be his responsibility or his burden. His now widowed sister had endured struggles of her own, raising her child in Hampshire alone while simultaneously mourning the loss of not just her husband, but also so many of her other loved ones.

As could be expected after such a tragedy, the new earl had withdrawn from society, choosing to reside exclusively at his country manor, seeming content to shun the outside world in favor of the solitude of his estate.

It was the earl who occupied Clara’s solemn thoughts when the cart finally rolled into the bustling village near Lawton Park. She couldn’t help but wonder about the man, and the isolation that was his constant companion. Was he a pale and sickly sort, withering away alone in his study? She couldn’t bring herself to ask George, as any further interest in the details would seem like ghoulish indifference to this man’s sufferings.

George tapped her hand with the reins and grinned. “We’re nearly there, miss. Thought I’d stop in for a pint before we go the rest of the way,” he said, nodding towards the pub nearby. “Would ye care to join me?”

The day was warm, and any further delay only meant prolonging her anxiety. Clara knew she was likely to be poor company because of it. She blotted the sweat from her brow and smiled at the merchant.

“No, thank you. I think I’ll take a short walk instead.”

He gave her a wink, his silver eyelashes glinting in the afternoon sunlight. “Suit yourself.”

The man hopped down off the cart to land in the dusty street, helping Clara to disembark before continuing into the pub. Left alone there on the street, the feeling she’d been trying to ignore since running away came alive once again—the sense that she did not belong in this place. That her life had taken an unfamiliar and dangerous turn.

She placed a hand on her belly and took a deep breath. Soon, she would actually be inquiring for employment in the Earl of Ashworth’s grand country house. It had not been an outcome she had foreseen for her life, but she was grateful for the chance, nonetheless.

Clara walked down to view the quaint little shops that lined the road, until reaching a small but plentiful outdoor market. Vendors called out to those milling through the stands, and she spent a good amount of time weaving through the people, her nervousness forgotten, fascinated at both their way of life and the wares they were offering. It was not an opportunity much afforded to a wealthy heiress under normal circumstances, and it was partly why she had so enjoyed her surreptitious outings with her father’s land steward.

What coin she brought with her she would need to save, especially until she had secured a position at Lawton Park. She smiled apologetically to the vendors she passed and began making her way back to the pub. It had been nearly twenty minutes, and she couldn’t imagine drinking a pint of ale could take much longer than that.

Clara walked back down the street, thoughtfully gazing down at the coarse, brown fabric of Abigail’s dress as her walking boots pushed it out in front of her. She realized how much she would miss the flattering fits and sheer, silky fabrics of her old dresses. She supposed such a thing hadn’t occurred to her before in her panic to escape the baron, and part of her felt ashamed at even having the thought so quickly after leaving her family. But still she felt wistful, thinking of the beautiful gowns, now hanging abandoned, in her armoire at home.

Frowning, she reminded herself that not only had all her efforts during the season been a complete waste, but her fine dresses had only succeeded in attracting the most vile man she’d ever met. Better to wrap up in a burlap sack and be free of him, she thought moodily, giving the ground an extra little kick.

The loud noise of an oncoming carriage startled her from her musings. The driver yelled in warning, yanking on his reins, horses whinnying frantically . . . and all she could do was stare at the approaching vehicle in panic, rooted to the spot.

There’s no time—

Suddenly, she was knocked out of the way to land on the hard ground, with her rescuer tucking her tightly against his body to protect her from the brunt of the fall. He landed beside her with a grunt, and though his efforts had spared her the worst of it, the impact was still a shock. She curled up, her eyes squeezed shut, cradling her dizzy head in her hands.

“What on earth were you thinking? You could have been killed!” her savior raged, pushing away and rising swiftly to his knees. “You weren’t even looking . . .”

The incensed timbre of his voice trailed off into silence while her head pounded madly. Clara heard him panting, then he broke off and swore before shifting into a crouch behind her. To her surprise, he reached forward to help pull her into a seated position. The feel of this stranger at her back with his hands warm and strong upon her caused her eyes to fly open. Pressed linen and a spicy, masculine scent radiated off of him with the heat of his exertion, and she found herself inhaling greedily.

A new awareness flooded her shaky limbs. One that made her wonder what would happen if she were to lean back and sink even farther against him.

“Try to relax,” he instructed, sounding contrite. His hand stroked her back in what she guessed was an attempt to soothe her, but her body rebelled, spreading fire and chaos at even his lightest touch. Her breathing stopped as he leaned in closer. “You’ll be all right.”

She nodded, but it was hard to be calm with a man touching her this way, let alone one who smelled so delicious, with a deep voice that was affecting her, regardless of the circumstances. Clara turned within the circle of his arms to view him, sending her pulse immediately rocketing out of control.

He was the most handsome man she’d ever seen.

Clara gasped and pushed away. She forced herself up to a stand and he rose as well, slowly evaluating her as he did. She noticed with a touch of mortification that a small crowd had gathered during the mayhem, and her eyes flicked back to her savior. She could see by the quality of his attire, now covered in dust, that he was most certainly a gentleman. His dark blond hair was an intriguing combination of golden hues, and his large frame and serious brow caused her stomach to flutter in a way it never had before.

She’d been so busy staring at him that she jumped upon finding the dazzling intensity of his gaze was, likewise, focused on her. His eyes were not simply green, but some fascinating mixture of amber and peridot that made it very hard for her to think straight.

“I b-beg your pardon, sir—” she stammered, trying to ignore the stinging rush of her excitement.

A few laughs erupted from the group surrounding them, and with an annoyed wave of his hand, the group dispersed like scattering ants. He gazed at her earnestly.

“Are you hurt?”

Clara quickly took a mental inventory of her physical condition, discounting the accelerated rate of her breathing and the pleasurable heat that coursed through her limbs, as these things had nothing to do with the accident and everything to do with her sudden attraction to this stranger.

“No, sir,” she replied. She continued to stare despite her determination against it.

His shoulders dropped in obvious relief. “Good. But be more careful next time. The streets can be dangerous, even in this little village.”

“Yes of course. It was foolish of me not to be paying more attention. And thank you for . . . your help,” she added awkwardly. Clara caught sight of a white cap on the ground, buried in an inch of dirt. Her fingers raised to touch her hair, verifying its absence, then she bent down swiftly to retrieve it. A hot tide of embarrassment flooded her cheeks and she dipped into a hasty curtsy in an attempt to end the conversation before she humiliated herself even further.

The man looked at her then, curiously, his lips parted as if to ask her a question. He stared as if transfixed, his gaze warm and alight with a hint of confusion. Then his mouth snapped shut and he gave her a terse nod. With an authoritative tug on his jacket to send a cloud of dust aloft, he turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Clara feeling strangely alone. She stood there, admiring the powerful athleticism of his build and his confident stride, somehow saddened at the thought of never seeing him again, when she suddenly remembered George.

With a start, she whirled around to dash across the road, after looking both ways of course. He was just exiting the pub, blinking in the midday sun as he looked for her.

“George!” she called, waving her cap. “I’m here!”

His eyes found her and they crinkled in confounded amusement. “Now this is a sight to behold! What have ye been doing while I was away that would put ye in such a sorry state?”

She laughed dismissively and swatted at her filthy skirts. “Nothing important. It was just a little fall.”

Clara climbed back onto the cart for the final leg of her journey, her gaze unwittingly searching for a glimpse of the dashing stranger. To her considerable disappointment, he was nowhere to be found.

The first thing Clara noticed upon arriving at Lawton Park was the stunning splendor of the place. Surrounded by rolling green fields, a creek to the west and a lush forest to the east, the house itself was a jewel in an already immaculate crown. Abigail had attempted to describe it to her before, but had failed utterly. Such beauty and grandeur could not truly be quantified. Whereas her home in Silvercreek had been lovely, this grand estate was beyond comprehension.

Green ivy writhed and climbed the gold-colored stones of the house. It looked stately and dignified at this moment, but Clara knew in less than a month the ivy would transform into a dazzling autumnal red, surrounding the house in brilliant color. The lawn was flawless and immense. To the sides she could see perfect paths carved into gardens full of flowering shrubs, rosebushes and green hedges. Taking a leisurely stroll through these carefully tended grounds would be paradise, but of course, she would not have the freedom here to enjoy leisurely strolls.

She was jostled about as the cart trundled its way slowly up the drive, and the horses whickered as they sensed the end of their journey was near. George snapped the reins and the animals ambled towards the service entrance at the rear, where they pulled up under a beautiful old archway located between the stables and the house.

Clara stepped down from the cart and took a moment to ensure her hair was neatly tucked beneath her cap, now firmly re-affixed to her head. She found she was nervous and excited all at once, but she didn’t indulge any sort of foolish thinking. This new way of life was going to be grueling and uncomfortable, more difficult than anything she had ever experienced. But at the very least, she would not be mistreated at the hands of Baron Rutherford.

And maybe, one day, she would see her family again. Maybe they could even forgive her for leaving.

Clara gave herself a shake. She certainly couldn’t afford to bother with regret or thoughts of her family right now. She needed to secure employment at this grand house, and it was going to take a bit of convincing since she had no written character to submit to the housekeeper. All she had, and it wasn’t much, was the anticipated referral from Abigail’s sister, who was a housemaid at Lawton Park.

Of course, the girl had no idea who Clara truly was. Abigail had simply disclosed that a fellow housemaid was seeking new employment.

George turned to her. “Would you like me to bring you in?”

“Are you familiar with the staff here?” she asked, surprised.

He grinned. She could envision him as the handsome man he must have been in his youth, smiling in that same charming way.

“Miss, I come by here every Sunday with my wagon. Mrs. Humboldt has a weekly order for me, so I know these folks well. Now let me carry that bag for you.”

He gently took the satchel from her hands, turned and limped along the gravel pathway with grace that belied his age. Clara followed him, her stomach suddenly twisting into knots.

They passed a glorious kitchen garden on their way to the service entrance, and the air was deliciously scented with the smells of ripe vegetables and sun-warmed herbs. She caught sight of bright red tomatoes, bushy clumps of green rosemary, and the protruding tufts of carrots before she was descending stone steps towards the back entrance of Lawton Park.

Clara watched with trepidation as the large wooden door opened with a creak. A tall, lanky girl with large blue eyes poked her head out briefly, then swung the door wide open.

“George!” she exclaimed loudly. She threw her arms around him in a friendly embrace. “It’s not your usual day. What are you doing here?”

“Well, I’m on a bit of a charitable errand today,” he said, then stepped back to reveal Clara behind him. “Found this one in London needing a ride here to the estate, so figured I’d be of service.”

The girl looked surprised, then said shyly, “Oh, hello.”

“Hello. It’s nice to meet you.” Clara liked her immediately and smiled warmly at her.

“Well, are you going to let him in, Gilly? For God’s sake . . .” came an annoyed voice from further inside. The girl jumped and instantly retreated the way she had come, into a massive kitchen and to the side of a solid-looking woman. They both stared at Clara from behind a wooden counter piled high with peeled root vegetables. Copper pots hung from hooks on the ceiling and a huge black stove dominated the entire wall at the far side of the room. Some kind of delicious smelling soup was bubbling away on its top.

“Now Mrs. Humboldt, I’ve told you about that language.” George laughed as he followed Gilly into the kitchen. The cook rolled her eyes but smiled crookedly back at him in good humor.

“Can’t help my natural way of speaking, George,” said the woman. “I’ve been cursing since I was in my short skirts.” She seemed friendly enough but her eyes were busily scrutinizing Clara. Feeling like a fish out of water, Clara clasped her hands together and focused her gaze at the floor. George interjected before the cook could ask a single question.

“Is Mrs. Malone around? She should be expecting this lass for the vacant housemaid position. Ah, there she is! Mrs. Malone!” he hailed, pointing Clara through the kitchen and towards a long hallway. A woman who was clearly the housekeeper paused, a silhouette in the dim light, and then turned towards them. Her black hair was neatly pinned in place and was matched by her equally well-ordered black dress. A large round keyring jingled merrily on her belt as she moved.

“Ah, George, what’s all the fuss about now?” she asked. Her eyes settled on Clara. “Amelia’s girl, is it? Gilly, go fetch Amelia, would you?” The woman smiled thinly at Clara as Gilly hurried down the hall. “My name is Mrs. Malone. I trust you had a good journey?”

“Yes ma’am, thank you for asking,” said Clara politely.

“You can never tell about the weather in these parts,” she said. “This close to the coast, we sometimes get an occasional rainstorm. And all you need when traveling by one of those rickety coaches is to have a wheel get stuck in the mud, or some such nonsense. Now why don’t we go to my office and we’ll discuss—”

They were interrupted by the sound of a door abruptly opening above them. Footsteps descended the stairs behind them, and both George and Mrs. Malone backed against the wall, dipping into respectful postures. She saw they were being joined by other domestics who, she could only assume, had been going about their business further down in the servants’ hall.

They all either bowed or curtsied as a man finally came into view. Clara followed suit and curtsied, then looked up and tried not to choke as her breath caught in her throat.

It was her savior from the village, and he was the Earl of Ashworth.

A thrill raced through her and Clara swayed on her feet. This was the man who had decided against going to the Mayfair ball? If he had been there that night, she could only imagine how things could have turned out for her. He hadn’t shunned her earlier in the street, dressed as a maid, but had instead treated her like a lady and even risked his own safety to help her. Was it too much to believe, then, that earl might have elected to ignore her sister’s scandal and offer his hand for a dance?

Who knew what that could have led to, but instead, she’d been trapped into marriage by the abusive Baron Rutherford, forced to flee her home and seek safety by hiding as a domestic servant.

The injustice of it all was nearly overwhelming. She swallowed hard, trying not to be sick.

Lord Ashworth paused at the base of the stairs and tipped a nod to his staff. His broadcloth jacket was draped across his arm, still dirty from their misadventure in the village, and he glanced over those gathered before him, finally alighting on a brown-haired footman.

“Matthew, I’d like your assistance,” he requested, handing over the jacket. “I’ve had a strange day indeed . . .”

Clara was mesmerized by the fit of his clothes and the ease with which he wore them. Had she envisioned a lord who had been defeated by life’s cruel circumstances? This man was tall, with broad shoulders, sandy blond hair, and unfashionably golden skin, clearly browned from time in the sun, which she thought was quite appealing. The earl’s features were unique and imperfect, yet perfectly put together. The sharp contours of his cheekbones accentuated his strong jawline, patrician nose, and light eyes, which were that unusual combination of gold and green. He was an active, healthy male, and although it was useless, she couldn’t help but wonder again why he couldn’t have found her in London.

And now it all made sense. Why the villagers had laughed at her addressing him as sir . . . the way they had scurried away at the annoyed flick of his hand . . . his powerful reaction to seeing her nearly trampled by a carriage . . .

Suddenly, their eyes met. With a start, she realized she had been staring and averted her eyes as a rapid blush flooded her cheeks with heat. His conversation with the footman faltered, then ceased altogether upon seeing her in his basement.

“You,” he called out hoarsely. “Why are you here?”

Clara hadn’t yet found her tongue, when Mrs. Malone saved her from certain embarrassment.

“This is the girl inquiring about the vacant position . . . a referral from Amelia, my lord,” said the housekeeper as she gestured towards a buxom girl with curly red hair tucked up into a crisp white cap. The girl peered at Clara skeptically—not a good sign—then turned back to the earl.

“My lord,” she said while bobbing a curtsy. “My sister, Abigail, has recommended her highly.”

Ashworth turned back to Clara, giving her a thorough visual examination while the rest of the staff looked on. The crease between his brows grew deeper.

“Mrs. Malone, let’s finish this discussion in my study upstairs,” he said to the housekeeper, still staring at Clara. Finally, he glanced away and said to the footman, “We’ll deal with my clothes later.”

The staff resumed their places as he turned and began climbing back up the stairs. Mrs. Malone appeared taken aback, but shook off the expression and motioned for Clara to follow as she and Amelia started up behind him.

They exited the staircase and passed the telltale green baize door that was the physical separation between the upstairs and downstairs worlds. The boundary between the genteel and the unrefined. She trailed her fingertips along the soft fabric as she went by, remembering her home in Silvercreek and how she had always gotten in trouble for sneaking down to visit Abigail. But here, for some reason, she felt as if trouble awaited her upstairs, on the other side of the door.

Even in her anxious state, Clara noticed the interior of the house was just as breathtaking as the exterior had been. Hardwood floors were polished to a mirror shine, intricately carved and dust-free woodwork framed the doorways, and exotic antiques and tapestries were artfully placed. Without a doubt, she knew that many of these items had been in the home for generations. The combination of luxury and thoughtful personalization made the rooms appear homey despite the vastness of the house.

The earl entered the study and seated himself behind a burnished oak desk. The room was decorated in muted greens and blues, with bookshelves lining one wall of the room. Clara would have loved to pore through those shelves of texts—reading had been a favorite pastime of hers back at home. With a pang, she realized she’d probably not have the chance, if she even managed to find employment here. Judging from the look on Lord Ashworth’s face, that was not at all a certainty.

He gestured for her to stand between Mrs. Malone, who still seemed confused, and Amelia, who appeared sullen. She took her place before him, nervously fidgeting with the hem of her shawl. One slip of her tongue could ruin her best chance of escape and send her packing back to her parents and the baron.

Ashworth looked to Amelia. “You carry the referral for her?”

The girl curtsied and said, “I do, my lord. My sister, Abigail, up in Essex speaks well of her.” Then looking at Clara with a touch of disdain said, “Although I personally know nothing about her at all.”

Why did she sound so unfriendly? Was it possible that Clara had vexed her already in the few minutes since arriving? She glanced over at Amelia and was met with a baleful stare. Panic shot through her. It seemed more and more likely this meeting would not end well.

“At which house does your sister work in Essex?” asked the earl.

“She works for the Mayfields of Silvercreek, my lord.”

Ashworth nodded in acknowledgment. “Yes, I am familiar with that name. They are a reputable family, I believe,” he said, looking to Mrs. Malone for her input, who lowered her chin into a succinct nod.

Meanwhile, Clara’s emotions were locked in a fiery internal battle. It was difficult to hear her family discussed so soon after her tumultuous departure, but it was perhaps even more alarming to know that the earl was familiar with them. But of course, why wouldn’t he be?

His eyes shifted back to the housemaid. “Thank you, Amelia. You may leave now.”

The girl bobbed a curtsy and turned, shooting Clara a hooded glare as she left. When the door clicked shut, the earl turned to her at last. Amber light poured in through the west-facing windows, and she was instantly mesmerized by his eyes, so warm and vibrant. The color was like sunlight shining through a canopy of trees.

Her mouth went dry. How could the household staff possibly act normal around this man?

“What is your name?” he asked. His voice was low but his singular eyes were alert, watching her. He subjected her to the same visual evaluation she had received from the cook earlier, but instead of being embarrassed, she felt something else entirely. Self-conscious. Hot. The heat stirred wherever his gaze went, and his gaze seemed to be going everywhere.

She was about to make a fool of herself simply because he was looking at her.

He cleared his throat, waiting for her to answer. Of course she had come up with many names, any of them suitable for an alias. But in her current situation, with him staring at her, her mind had gone completely blank.

Think. Think!

Frantically, she glanced at the texts on the bookshelves for an idea, anything, that might work. A weathered copy of The Iliad caught her eye.

“My name is Helen,” she said, then immediately winced at the irony of adopting the name of the most desired woman in history.

“I see. And Helen, am I to believe you have no character reference of your own? Merely the attestation of a housemaid from Silvercreek?” he asked incredulously. “Were you sacked?”

“N-no, my lord,” she stammered, taken aback by the blunt question.

“Who was your employer?”

A bead of sweat rolled down her back, and she avoided his gaze by staring at the floor. “That information would be of no benefit since they chose not to provide me with a reference.”

She raised her eyes just in time to see his eyebrows shoot up. The earl straightened in his chair while Mrs. Malone shuffled uncomfortably behind her.

“Why did you leave?”

Clara felt a variation of the truth might be the most believable lie to tell. “There was a disagreement between myself and the lady of the house. We chose to part ways, and she elected not to provide a reference when I left.”

“Who are you to disagree with the lady of the house?” he asked, his voice a deep rumble.

She thought of her mother, and said nothing.

Ashworth was staring at her. He stared at Mrs. Malone. Then he picked up a pen and a stack of papers and began shuffling through them.

“No,” he said.

With that, he lowered his head to focus on his work, effectively ending the conversation.

The single word reverberated through the quietness of the study. It took Clara a moment to realize he had just denied her employment. She and Mrs. Malone stood there, dumbstruck, then both began speaking in a panic.

“Please, my lord!” she beseeched. “I beg you to reconsider . . .”

“My lord, normally you know I agree with you in all matters, but we are extremely understaffed at the moment . . .” added Mrs. Malone.

Ashworth glanced up sharply and they fell silent.

“I suppose,” he said to Mrs. Malone, “you are going to tell me how we are supposed to hire a girl with no real references, other than the word of a housemaid and her own confession that she caused trouble at her last place of employment.”

“I never knowingly caused trouble, my lord,” she replied desperately, stretching her hands out in appeal. Ashworth leveled a finger in her direction.

“You. Stay quiet,” he said fiercely.

She was taken aback by the force of his reaction. Tears pricked at her eyes and she swallowed hard, knotting her hands behind her back.

“Well,” said the housekeeper, “you make an excellent point, my lord. However, the Mayfields are a reputable family and the maid there would be risking her employment by providing a false character reference for this young woman.”

Indeed, Abigail had risked everything to provide this referral for Clara. She prayed they would not inquire further and put her friend’s security in jeopardy.

Clara remained silent as the earl appeared to give consideration to Mrs. Malone’s words. He did not look happy and, in fact, seemed resolved against glancing in her direction at all. After what felt like forever, he flicked his pen down onto the desktop and raked his hands through his thick hair with a sigh.

“How many staff are we in need of currently?” he asked.

The housekeeper ticked off her fingers as she explained. “We are short three, two housemaids and one head housemaid. I have been considering Amelia for head housemaid, which would still make us short on housemaids—and that’s if we hire this girl,” she said, shaking her head sorrowfully. “We need more servants, my lord.”

He looked doubtful. “Lawton Park hasn’t seen a ball or dinner party in years, how many servants can we possibly need?”

“As long as there is an earl in residence at this house,” she intoned severely, “it must be cleaned and maintained. It takes numerous domestic servants to perform the tasks required, as it is quite large, even with the west wing shuttered.” She glanced quizzically at him. “Until now you have been willing to trust my judgment on these matters. Has something changed?”

“No, no, not at all, Mrs. Malone. I have every confidence in your abilities.” Again, he pointed at Clara, causing her to flinch. “It’s that one who causes me worry.”

Mrs. Malone nodded. “Understandable, my lord. Would it be acceptable if I took responsibility for this girl, then? Give her some time here to prove herself. I would not normally make this kind of request, but circumstances are such that we cannot continue the way we have for much longer.”

Silence hung heavy as Ashworth weighed his decision. It was painfully obvious that he still wanted to refuse, but given the circumstances and the offer from Mrs. Malone, it would have been churlish. Clara tried not to take his rejection too personally, but if she were being honest, his objection to her seemed like something more than her lack of reference. It was almost as if she repulsed him somehow. Gone was the concern from earlier today . . . now he was all suspicion.

Clara sighed and stared down at her hands. Here she stood silently, her fate being decided by yet another noble gentleman. Would the course of her life forever be decided by powerful men? Sadness and resentment clashed inside her at the troubling thought.

The earl tapped his fingers on the desktop.

“Consider this the beginning of your probationary period,” he said finally, meeting Clara’s gaze. “If I so much as hear a word of displeasure from Mrs. Malone, or anyone for that matter, you are dismissed. If you do anything that upsets me, you are dismissed.” His handsome face was severe as he said, “Do you understand?”

Relief coursed through her.

He had relented. The Earl of Ashworth was allowing her to stay, to work, to remain hidden from the baron. His words were harsh, but as far as she could tell, his expectations were reasonable.

“Yes, of course, my lord,” she answered gratefully, relaxing her shoulders and emphasizing her words with a low curtsy.

Ashworth nodded begrudgingly. The seriousness remained etched in his face but his eyes betrayed some other emotion that she couldn’t quite identify. It almost seemed like . . . anxiety? But what on earth could she have done to make him feel anxious?

Abruptly, he moved his gaze back down to his paperwork.

“Mrs. Malone, please get Helen settled in and show her to her room.”

His words served as a reminder that she was now Helen from this point forward. She was bidding farewell to Clara Mayfield for good.

Fear crawled its way through her belly. The housekeeper inclined her head and stepped forward to touch her elbow, bringing her back to the present moment. “Yes, my lord. We will leave you now.”

They turned and departed the study. Mrs. Malone carefully shut the heavy door behind them, and they winded through the hallways back to the servants’ quarters, where the housekeeper led her to a doorway. Peering inside, Clara could see a murky staircase that would presumably take her up to the servants’ bedrooms. Mrs. Malone stopped and turned to face her.

“Go upstairs to the top floor and wait for me there.”

“Yes, Mrs. Malone,” Clara replied. As she turned to enter the stairwell, she saw Amelia staring at her from down the hall. Then the housekeeper shut the door behind them, sealing Clara in the dimly lit enclosure.

Her inquisitive nature being what it was, she remained near the door. Amelia’s annoyed voice was muffled but could be clearly discerned through the wooden barrier.

“So he hired her, after all,” she said, unimpressed.

“Well . . . yes. But it was terribly odd,” said the housekeeper. “That was the first time I’ve seen him act so unpleasant to someone.”

“I suppose she didn’t make a very good first impression,” said Amelia, with a smug note of satisfaction.

Mrs. Malone paused silently for a moment. “Perhaps,” she said. “Or perhaps it is something else altogether.”

With that last vague remark, the conversation stopped. The housekeeper’s footsteps faded, and after a moment Amelia let out an unladylike snort then walked away. And Clara was left there, alone behind the door, grasping to guess at what the housekeeper could have possibly meant.