“Miss Davencourt, your grace.”
Perch was ushering Clara into the room. She looked a little pale but he was glad to see that she appeared otherwise unharmed. He was quick to set a chair for her.
“You should not have come out tonight,” he said. “You sustained a shock. Were you injured? You might have caught a chill….” He realized that he was rambling like a nervous youth. There was a spark of amusement in Clara’s eyes.
“I am very well,” she said. “I came to thank you, Sebastian. You disappeared so quickly this afternoon.”
Sebastian shrugged awkwardly. He was feeling very ill at ease. Before she had arrived, he had been confident he would direct their conversation. Now he was not so sure. The balance of power between them seemed to have changed and he did not know how to change it back.
“Does Martin know that you are here?” he asked. “After last night…”
A shadow touched her face. “No one knows. I slipped out when they thought I was asleep.”
He felt a rush of amusement followed by a jolt of despair. That was his Clara, so stubborn, so determined to do what she felt was right. Yet she was not really his Clara at all. He was about to tell her so.
She sat forward in the chair, looking directly at him. “Do you still intend to leave for the continent tomorrow, Sebastian?”
He looked away. “I do.”
Her face fell. The bright light had gone. “I was hoping that you might have changed your mind,” she said. “We all wished to thank you properly.”
He looked up and met her eyes so sharply that she flinched a little. “Was that why you came here, Clara?” he said harshly. “To thank me?”
“No.” She dropped her gaze. A shade of color stole into her cheeks. “I came here to tell you that I love you.”
Sebastian looked at her. Her eyes were clear and steady. She was the most beautiful thing he thought he had ever seen. He felt an immense admiration for her courage, followed by a choking wave of love and an even sharper pang of despair. How many women would have had the honesty to behave as she had done?
She was regarding him directly but he knew she was nervous. She moistened her lips with her tongue. A tiny frown touched her forehead at his silence.
“My dear.” He cleared his throat. He sounded nervous. That was not good. He had to hide his feelings from her at all costs. “You know that I hold you in the greatest esteem.”
She moved with a swift swirl of silk to kneel at his feet. She put one hand on his knee. “No, you do not, Sebastian. You do not hold me ‘in esteem.’” Disdain colored her voice. “You love me.”
He moved to raise her to her feet. He could not bear this closeness.
“You and I will never be equal, Clara,” he said, trying to make her understand. “You are too open and truthful—damn it, you are too good for me. I am jaded. My soul is old.”
Clara smiled. It devastated him. “You are making excuses, Sebastian. Do you think I do not know? You are afraid to let yourself love me.”
He knew she was right. He had been building barriers against her from the moment they met, instinctively knowing that her love could be his undoing. And now the thing he feared most had happened. He was undone. He had to make her leave him before he disintegrated completely. He could not explain to her about Oliver. That would bring her too close and he would never recover.
“You are in love with love, Clara,” he said, struggling to keep his voice neutral. “For me there is nothing between liking and lust. Do not try to dress up my desire for you as something it is not.”
There was a stubborn spark of anger in Clara’s eyes now. “Why are you lying to me, Sebastian? What is it that you fear?”
He feared so much. He feared that he would offer her his love and she would then have the power to destroy him. But more than anything he feared taking responsibility for another life. He had failed once before when he had allowed Oliver to die. He could not risk that happening to Clara, his one and only love. He said nothing.
“I know you love me,” Clara repeated. “I saw it in your face today at the pool. That is why I am here!” She spread her hands wide. “You have only to allow yourself to care for me and all will be well.” Her tone was less forceful now, as his silence was starting to undermine her certainties.
“I do care for you,” Sebastian said, “but I do not care for you enough.” He hated himself for what he was doing. He could see the color draining from her face and the spirit leaching from her eyes, and knew how much he was hurting her. “I acknowledge that people can love each other with the sort of passion you describe,” he said. He could barely hear his own false words over the desperate beating of his heart. “But I do not love you like that, Clara,” he said starkly. “I do not love you nearly enough. It would not be fair to you to promise otherwise.”
Clara scrambled to her feet. There was a blankness to her eyes. She stumbled a little, bumping clumsily into the small table on which stood his glass of brandy. He wanted to pull her into his arms then and never let her go, to comfort her and beg her forgiveness. He was too afraid to do it.
“Either you are lying or you do not know the truth,” Clara said. She did not trouble to keep her voice from shaking and he loved her for it; he loved her for the strength of character that made artifice unimportant to her. “I was wrong when I called you coldhearted,” she added. “Your heart is a desert, Sebastian, a dry, shriveled place where nothing can live, least of all love.”
He could not look at her. He waited until he heard the soft patter of her footsteps receding and then he finally looked up. The face that looked back at him from the mirror was barely recognizable. He looked so haggard. He looked a broken man.
He had hurt Clara inexcusably. But he had succeeded in driving her away and protecting himself from the terrifying risk of loving and losing her. He knew that he should feel glad, but his heart felt like the desert that Clara had so accurately described.
“MISS DAVENCOURT? Miss Davencourt!” Clara was heading for the front door, hampered by the fact that she was blinded by tears. She tripped over the edge of the Persian rug, grabbed a table for support and almost toppled the priceless vase that rested on it.
“Miss Davencourt!”
Her arm was caught in a reassuring grip and she found herself looking into the face of Perch, the butler. She noticed, irrelevantly, what kind eyes he had. Then she also noticed that the door to the servants’ stair was open and a row of anxious faces was peering at her from the gloom. Her curiosity was sufficient to overcome her misery for a moment.
“What on earth is going on?”
Perch steered her discreetly into the dining room, and the other servants trooped in silently. In the gothic shadowy darkness they lined up in front of her, candlesticks in hand, their expressions a mixture of hope and concern. Clara looked to the butler for enlightenment.
“Begging your pardon, Miss Davencourt,” Perch said, “but we were thinking that you might have persuaded his grace…” He studied her face for a moment, shook his head and sighed. “No matter. Shall I procure you a cab to take you home, miss?”
The other servants gave a murmur of protest. It was clear they did not wish to let her go so easily without telling her their concerns.
“We thought you were to be the new Duchess of Fleet, ma’am,” one of the housemaids, a girl with a round red face, said. “That’s what Mr. Perch is trying to say. His grace has been sweet on you for as long as I’ve worked here.”
Clara felt a rush of misery. She looked at their anxious faces and managed to raise a rueful smile. “Thank you, but I’m afraid I shall not be the next duchess.”
“His grace must be mad,” the hall boy whispered, rolling his eyes expressively. Perch shot him a warning look.
“We are very sorry to hear that, ma’am,” he said. “We should have liked it very much.”
Clara’s desolate heart thawed a little. She looked at them all properly for the first time, from the brawny under-gardener to
the smallest scullery maid and realized how extraordinary it was that they had all pinned their hopes on her. “I had forgotten,” she said. “The duke is to leave on the morrow, is he not? Are you—” she hesitated “—will he be closing the house?”
A row of doleful nods was her answer.
“We are looking for new positions, ma’am. All except Mr. Dawson, his grace’s valet. He travels abroad with his grace.”
So, most all of them would be out of work as soon as Fleet left for the continent, Clara thought. It was another consequence of his departure and one she had not even considered. She felt horribly guilty.
“I am sorry,” she said.
“Not your fault, ma’am,” one of the footmen said stalwartly. “His grace is a fine man but in this case his wits have gone a-begging, if you will excuse my saying so.”
“His grace has a picture of you in his traveling case, ma’am,” another of the maids put in, blushing. “I saw him pack it when he thought no one was watching.”
There was a hopeful pause.
“I do not suppose, madam,” Perch said weightily, “that you would be prepared to give his grace another chance?”
Clara looked at them all. “I have already given him several chances,” she said.
Perch nodded. “We are aware, ma’am. What lady could be expected to do more?”
There was another rustle of disapproval from among the assembled ranks. Clearly they believed their esteemed employer had run mad.
“Unless you could think of a winning scheme,” Clara said, “it is pointless. And even then I am not sure that his grace deserves it.”
The housekeeper and several of the maids shook their heads. “Men!” one of the girls said. “Hopeless!”
“Get him at a moment of weakness,” one of the footmen suggested. “He’ll admit to his feelings when he’s in his cups.”
The valet nodded. “That’s true, ma’am. If we could get him drunk.”
Clara stifled a laugh. “I am not certain I would want a man who has to be drunk to admit his love for me.”
The housekeeper shook her head. “Begging your pardon, ma’am, we’re thinking it was the business with Master Oliver that made him this way. Those of us who have been with the family for years saw it happen. The master changed. Terrible shock, it was. After that he turned cold.”
One of the older housemaids nodded sadly. “Aye, such an affectionate little boy he was, but he blamed himself from that day forward.”
Clara raised her brows. “Who was Master Oliver?”
The servants shuffled uncomfortably. “Master Oliver was his grace’s brother,” Perch said. “There was an accident.”
“Drowned,” one of the footmen put in. “Terrible business.”
Clara was so surprised that she was silent for a moment. She had never heard of Oliver Fleet, still less that the duke had ever had a brother. He had never, ever mentioned it to her and, she was sure, not to Martin, either. But then, he was good at keeping secrets.
“I had no notion,” she said. “How dreadful. I am so sorry.”
The servants nodded sadly.
“His grace blamed himself. He has been as cold as ice ever since,” Perch explained. There was a long silence before he continued.
“We know that you are too good for his grace, ma’am, being a true lady and generous to a fault, but if you could see your way to giving his grace—and the rest of us—another chance…”
The eagerness of their expressions was heartbreaking. Clara thought of the stories behind the faces, the families that depended on their wages, the fear of being without a job or a roof over their heads, the uncertainty of a servant’s life. And yet it was not only that that had prompted them to throw themselves on her mercy. They had seen her come and go through Sebastian Fleet’s life for two years and the sincerity of their regard warmed her.
“If you have a plan,” she said, “I am prepared to listen to it.”
Perch checked the clock on the mantel. “In approximately two minutes his grace will decide to go out to drown his sorrows, ma’am. We shall give him a few hours to become cast adrift, and then we will escort you to fetch him home.” He looked around at his fellow servants. “We believe he will admit his feelings for you very soon, ma’am. His grace has almost reached the point where they cannot be denied.”
There was a crash out in the hall. Everyone jumped at the sound of the library door banging open and Seb Fleet’s voice shouting irascibly for his butler. He sounded absolutely furious.
“Perch? Where the devil are you, man? I want to go out!”
“Perfectly on cue,” one of the footmen said.
Perch smoothed his coat and trod slowly toward the door, opening it and closing it behind him with his usual grave deliberation.
“You called, your grace?” Clara heard him say.
“I am going out,” Fleet repeated. She thought he sounded murderous.
“Might one inquire where, your grace?”
“No, one might not, damn you! Fetch my coat!”
“May I then remind your grace that you are to travel at first light?”
Fleet said something so rude that one of the housemaids gasped and clapped her hands over her ears.
“Sorry you had to hear that, ma’am,” the housekeeper whispered. “His grace is in a proper mood and no mistake.”
Clara bit her lip to stop a smile.
The front door slammed. There was a long pause while they all seemed to be holding their breath, then Perch appeared once more in the doorway of the dining room.
“I’ve sent Jackman to follow his grace,” he said. “We shall soon know where he has gone. Miss Davencourt—” there was a smile in his eyes as he turned to Clara “—may we offer you some refreshment while we wait?”
CHAPTER FIVE
SEB FLEET did not choose to drown his sorrows at Whites, but instead went to the Moon and Goldfinch, a considerably less salubrious place on the Goldhawk Road where he could drink himself to hell and back without anyone caring. Indeed, once the landlord had seen that his money was good he kept him so well-supplied with alcohol that Sebastian found himself by turns maudlin, then merry, then maudlin again in the shortest possible time. By three in the morning he had made several dubious new friends, turned down eager kisses from the landlord’s daughter and was comfortably asleep on the bar when he was shaken roughly awake. The door of the inn was open and a fresh burst of snow was swirling inside, pulling him from his welcome stupor.
“Sebastian! Wake up at once!” It was Clara’s voice. Fleet groaned.
“This the missus, is it?” the landlord enquired affably.
“Not yet,” Clara snapped.
Fleet shook the hair out of his eyes and tried to sit up. The room swam about him. His mouth felt like a cockpit. His eyes were gritty and his face was wet where he appeared to have fallen asleep in a pool of beer.
“You smell like a sewer,” Clara grumbled. “Perch, Dawson, can you manage him?”
“Hello, my sweet love,” Sebastian said with a slight slur, as his butler and valet struggled to lift him with all the finesse of a collier hefting a sack. He smiled at Clara as her cross-looking face swam before his eyes. He felt inordinately pleased to see her. He could not quite remember why, but he knew that earlier in the evening he thought he would never, ever see her again. Evidently he had been quite wrong. He struggled to remember the circumstances, failed completely and lurched heavily against Dawson’s side.
“How splendid that you are here, my darling,” he called as Perch and Dawson tried to maneuver him to the door. “I did not expect to see you.” He staggered dangerously and almost knocked over the butler.
“Sorry, Perch. Don’t know why you don’t just leave me to sleep here.”
“Yes, your grace.” Perch sounded as though that was precisely what he would have done had he been permitted to have his way. “Miss Davencourt was concerned for you, your grace.”
“Very wifely,” Fleet observed. His head fel
t too heavy to think clearly. Here was Clara, turning his heart inside out again and making him feel as raw as an untried youth. He loved her so much that there was a lump in his throat at the thought of it. It was dreadful that she should see him this way. He must look terrible. He smelled. He was a disgrace. And yet she was still here, despite everything, and he really did not have the will to resist anymore.
“I am not certain it is the proper thing for you to be here, Miss Davencourt.”
Clara smiled. “I am here to discover if you love me, Sebastian.”
“Love you?” Fleet asked. The question seemed so absurd that he started to laugh. “Of course I love you! I love you so much it breaks my heart.”
“Excellent,” Clara said. “You are drunk, of course, so that may make a difference. Will you still love me when you are sober?”
“Of course I will.” Fleet squinted, his head lolling against Dawson’s shoulder. “Course I will! I love you to perdition, you little fool! Why do you think I keep trying to make you go away?”
“Hmm. It lacks something for a declaration, I think,” Clara said. “I shall not propose to you again, however. A lady has her pride.”
“Marry me,” Fleet said. He tried to get down on his knees but Perch and Dawson held him up. It was probably best they did; he had a feeling that once he was down there he would never stand again.
“We shall talk about it in the morning,” Clara said. “Now please be quiet, Sebastian, and get into the coach.”
Fleet stumbled to the door, encouraged on his way by the profuse thanks of the landlord. The cold air sobered him somewhat and the falling snow on his face restored him to an unwelcome sense of reality. Clara was waiting patiently while Perch and Dawson hauled him into the carriage. She accepted Perch’s hand up with perfect composure and settled herself opposite him, wrinkling her nose delicately at the combined scent of beer and tobacco.
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