by Kelly Bowen
Clara sighed, knowing that she just might be forced to find another placement for Anne. Given the duke’s stifling aspirations for his sister, Clara couldn’t imagine that he would condone Anne’s industrious efforts in any sort of tavern. And Charleaux, as progressive as he might be, would undoubtedly fear for his job should the duke discover that the man had left the haggling for the week’s beef and ale in his sister’s hands. Though finding another mentor willing to take on a female student would be difficult at best.
Which was probably why Anne had never mentioned it in the first place.
Her irritation, which had been simmering, boiled over, and she bit back the urge to curse like a damn sailor. Not that it would do any good, but it might make her feel better. The duke needed to leave. Before he caused any more headaches and heartaches with his callous manipulation of everyone around him.
“You’ll need to come with me, I expect,” Clara muttered in the direction of Harland. “And bring your medical bag. Charleaux will have an apoplexy when I tell him who she is. He knows just as well as I that no matter how much money Anne saved the duke and his tavern yesterday by taking the collier to task over the price of coal delivery, Holloway will likely be horrified, not happy—”
“Miss Hayward.” She spun away from the window to find Mathias Stilton striding into the room, a broad smile on his face.
Clara pasted a smile on hers. “Mr. Stilton. Welcome to Avondale.”
“I’m so glad I caught you at home. You are a difficult woman to track down with all your little hobbies,” Stilton said, coming to a stop just in front of her. “But I must say that you look absolutely dazzling. The sea air becomes you.”
Perhaps it was her current mood, but Stilton’s slightly patronizing tone made her want to throw something. Or reach for the whiskey bottle. Or maybe both, just not in that order. “Thank you,” she said, trying to regain a hold on her decorum. It was not Mathias Stilton’s fault that she had been wildly out of sorts since last night.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Stilton,” Harland said, making no effort to move out from behind the library table and his pile of maps.
“Lord Strathmore.” Stilton pivoted in surprise. “What an unexpected pleasure.”
“Mmm,” Harland replied, his eyes sliding to the doorway. “Ah. And good afternoon, Your Grace.”
Clara felt herself freeze, her eyes snapping to the library door. The duke was leaning against the frame, his dark hair windblown, his dark coat dusty, and his expression positively black.
August’s gaze was fixed firmly on Clara. “Lord Strathmore. Miss Hayward.” His lip curled unpleasantly. “Mr. Stilton.”
Clara averted her eyes, despising the way her stomach flipped. She glanced at Stilton to find that his smile had vanished, displeasure now etched across his face. If Stilton had had hackles beneath the confection he called a coat, they would have been raised, and his teeth would have been bared. Even a half-wit would have felt the tension that had inundated the room.
Resentment rose, competing fiercely with her irritation. Bloody hell, but she’d had it with men. Without considering what she was doing, she headed toward the hearth and the small table that rested beside it. She snatched a glass from the polished surface and poured herself a healthy measure of whiskey from the decanter.
“And here I was going to offer tea,” her brother murmured loudly enough for her to hear.
Clara shot Harland a withering look. He sounded as if he was enjoying this.
She put the bottle back without throwing it at anyone, which was something. “Mr. Stilton, I confess it is a bit of a surprise seeing you so far afield of London.” She tried to keep her voice pleasant and conversational while ignoring August, who was still looming menacingly in the doorway like a great, brooding crow.
“Visiting friends and seeing the sights,” Stilton replied, smiling at her again. “You’ve spoken so often of the county’s beauty on our many, many outings, and I just had to see it for myself.” His eyes slid in the direction of Holloway’s and then back.
Clara raised her glass to her lips so she didn’t have to reply to a comment that had clearly been uttered for the duke’s benefit. Her patience was rapidly deteriorating.
“How are you faring with your classes, Miss Hayward?” Stilton inquired.
“Very well, thank you,” she answered politely.
“Your students must be enjoying the beauty of Kent.”
It was like a death by a thousand cuts, this small talk. Usually she was a master at polite conversation. Today she just wanted nothing to do with it. “They are,” she replied.
Stilton smoothed his hands over the front of his coat. “Forgive my forwardness, but I was wondering if I might have the privilege of calling on you sometime later this week, Miss Hayward?” Stilton asked gallantly. “I would be honored if you would accompany me for a scenic drive.” He turned back to Harland. “If that meets with your approval, of course, Lord Strathmore.”
From the corner of her eye, Clara saw August step farther into the room.
Harland shifted. “My sister has a very capable mind of her own,” he said. “She doesn’t need my approval to make her own decisions about how she chooses to spend her time.”
The duke went rigid, setting Clara in mind of a bull about to charge. She suddenly understood how Anne must feel regularly.
“Miss Hayward?” Stilton prompted silkily.
No, she didn’t really want to go driving with Mathias Stilton. Or the Duke of Holloway. Or anyone else for that matter, no matter how gallantly he asked.
“That is a very kind offer, Mr. Stilton, but I fear that I will be very busy with classes—”
Stilton pressed his hands together. “But surely, Miss Hayward, you’ll have a moment of free time? I would love you to show me—”
“She said she’s busy.” August’s words fell like an anvil.
Clara glared at him, her irritation spiking into something that was closer to fury. How dare August presume to insert himself into this conversation? He had no claim on her, her time, or whom she went driving with.
“Of course,” Stilton said flatly. “My apologies, Miss Hayward, I did not intend to—”
“On second thought, I’m sure I could find time, Mr. Stilton,” Clara said impulsively. Bloody insufferable duke. “Perhaps at the end of the week if that would suit. Sunday is a day off for both the students and me.”
August crossed his arms over his considerable chest and glowered at her. She ignored him.
“Oh, indeed. That would be superb. I’m looking forward to it.” Stilton shot August a smug, triumphant look that almost made her change her mind again. “I shan’t take up any more of your time.” Stilton offered a small bow in Clara’s general direction. “I’ll send a message on to Avondale, then, Miss Hayward, to find a time convenient for you?”
“Of course.”
“Good afternoon, then. It’s been a pleasure.”
“Good afternoon.” Clara was the only one who answered, and Stilton sauntered from the library, though he gave August a wide berth.
“You should not feel obligated to entertain Stilton just because he is here, Clara,” Harland said, bending to peer more closely at a map. “Or just because he asked.”
“I know that,” Clara answered in clipped tones.
“The man is a hopeless fop.”
“Perhaps, Harland, but that doesn’t make him unworthy of friendship,” she said.
August made a rude noise.
“You disagree, Your Grace?” Harland’s question was almost mocking, and Clara sent another quelling look his way that was wasted on the top of his head. Her brother did not need to encourage the duke’s bloody barbaric behavior.
“It doesn’t matter if you disagree. Your opinions are not required in this matter, Your Grace,” Clara bit out. “Surely there is a sheep pasture that needs another inspection at this time?”
“The man is clearly infatuated with your sister, Strathmore,” August said to Harl
and, completely ignoring Clara. “Does that not concern you?” He made his way past her and retrieved the whiskey, then poured himself his own drink.
“Jealousy does not become you, Your Grace.” And bitterness did not become her, but Clara couldn’t help herself.
August turned an intense blue gaze on her. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m simply concerned for your well-being.”
“If you weren’t aware, I’ve been looking after myself for quite some time now, and I don’t need your assistance.”
The duke set the decanter back on the table with an angry thump.
“He may be a fop, but he’s treated both my sisters with nothing but respect, Your Grace.” Harland straightened from his map.
August made a face. “But—”
“Are you infatuated with Mathias Stilton, Clara?” Her brother asked, interrupting August.
“Of course not.”
“Planning to elope this weekend with the man?”
“Don’t be asinine.”
“Start a very lewd, very public affair with him in the next few days that I should know about?”
“You’re not funny, Harland. Mr. Stilton is a friend. One whose honesty I value.” Clara knew she sounded like a shrew, but she didn’t care.
Harland shrugged. “Then there you have it, Your Grace. My sister has proven quite capable of managing her opinions, herself, and, in this case, Mr. Stilton. It is not my place to dictate whose company she can and cannot enjoy.”
August’s hand was wrapped around his glass so hard that Clara could see his knuckles were white. “So you’re content to let the man take your sister on a drive. Alone.”
“His sister is standing right here,” Clara snapped. “And his sister drove all over Kent with you alone yesterday, didn’t she?”
“That’s not the same,” August gritted.
No, it certainly wasn’t. Mathias Stilton had never had her up against a stone fence, his hands in her hair and on her skin. Stilton had never kissed her senseless or made her whimper with want. Though those things were never going to be repeated. Clara had misjudged Holloway completely. She’d almost made the biggest mistake of her life because she had allowed a decade of romantic daydreams to obscure harsh reality.
“But it is the same.” Harland put his hands on the table and leaned forward. “Don’t mistake me, Your Grace. If I thought a man was a danger to either of my sisters, I would cut off his balls and nail them to his front door. As a battlefield surgeon, I’m handy with a knife like that, you see.”
Clara pinched the bridge of her nose with her fingers. For the love of—
“Good.” August held Harland’s gaze.
Clara closed her eyes and tossed back the last of her whiskey, letting the liquor burn a trail of fire down her throat. She opened them to find Holloway standing directly in front of her, his eyes like blue fire in the light from the window.
“You and I need to have a conversation very soon,” he said in a voice low enough that only she could hear. “Alone.”
Clara pressed her lips together. “No, we don’t. I’ve said everything I need to say.” It was a harsh whisper.
“And I haven’t.” His eyes dropped to her lips, and need arrowed through her. Dammit, how, after everything, did he still do this to her?
“I don’t—”
“Soon, Clara.” August glanced over his shoulder to where her brother had returned his attention to his maps. “But in the meantime, there are some sheep pastures that need another inspection.”
Chapter 12
Your Grace!” The shout, accompanied by the sound of pounding hoofbeats, broke his thoughts. August looked up in the late-afternoon light to find Miss Baker flying toward him on a lathered horse, her short curls disheveled, her expression panicked.
August vaulted over the stone fence of the sheep enclosure, reaching for the reins of his own horse as Miss Baker reined hers to a sliding stop.
“YourGraceyouneedtocome.” Her words were breathless and hard to understand as her horse danced sideways.
“Steady, Miss Baker.” He caught hold of her horse’s reins in his free hand.
“There are soldiers at the Silver Swan,” she said, making a visible effort to speak more clearly. “They’re tearing it t’ pieces.”
“What?” August froze for a moment before he let go of Miss Baker’s animal and swung himself up into his own saddle. “Why?”
“They’re lookin’ for smuggled goods hidden there. They’re sayin’ they got anon—amenen—”
“Anonymous?”
She nodded her head, her eyes wide. “Anonymous information stating so.”
“What are they looking for?”
“They wouldn’t say. But they’re makin’ a terrible mess.”
August cursed under his breath as his horse surged forward, Miss Baker right behind him. Anonymous information his ass. He might not live on the coast of Kent, but he knew very well that almost every soul on its chalky edges was quite aware of the covert trading that went on all along the shores. And if they weren’t involved, either directly or indirectly, at the very least they certainly had a family member or a friend who was.
And there were very few who were willing to sabotage a system that often offered their only means of survival.
He had no idea why the Silver Swan had been targeted, but it didn’t matter. August urged his horse to greater speed. If he hadn’t already been spoiling for a fight with an officer who let his troops use children for target practice, he certainly was now.
It didn’t take them long to reach the town. He slowed his horse only enough to navigate the busy main road that ran parallel to the harbor. Within minutes he’d reached the Silver Swan, the commotion audible even before he pulled his winded horse to a stop in the chaotic stable yard. Soldiers milled about, boxes of supplies that had been dragged from the rear storehouses strewn across the yard. Near the stables two soldiers were bent over a large crate, tools being tossed carelessly from its confines. A third soldier stood in front of Miss Baker’s brothers, keeping them immobile against the exterior stable wall with the threat of his gun. From somewhere in the stables, a loud crash could be heard.
August dismounted, leaving the animal with Miss Baker, his fury rising with every passing second. Nearer the rear of the tavern, where the kitchens were accessible by large doors that led through an attached storage building, a cacophony of angry voices rose. He stalked forward and yanked the heavy door wide. And stared.
The interior of the kitchens was in shambles, much like the stable yard. Pots and pans had been left in haphazard piles, and a handful of soldiers were still hauling items from the depths of the cupboards. Crates of produce had been opened and emptied, the contents of the pantry shelves scattered across the surface of the large wooden table that had been dragged to the side amid broken crockery. Where the table should have been, covertly hinged pieces of floorboards had been thrown wide, exposing a deep, gaping hole that August hadn’t known existed.
Charleaux, usually unflappable, was standing on the far side, snatching items from soldiers and cursing loudly in French. His customarily dapper appearance was disheveled, his trim frame almost vibrating with anger. In the center of the disaster, a bulldog of an officer stood, his meaty fist wrapped around the nape of a familiar threadbare coat. The man was sweating profusely, but an unpleasant smile of satisfaction had crept across his broad face. The boy in his grip struggled, much as he had once done in August’s grasp in a shadowed hedgerow before he had darted away. But all of that was not what had August gaping.
Between the officer and August, two women inexplicably stood, blocking the officer’s exit. The one with the dark hair so like his had her hands on her hips, her posture stiff with ire in a way he had seen many times before. The woman closest to him, with the mahogany hair, had her hand extended as if she could stop him from leaving with his prize.
He strode forward, coming to a stop beside her.
“What seems to be the problem here
, Miss Hayward?”
* * *
Clara froze at the sound of August’s voice, her nape prickling in sudden awareness. Anne’s head whipped around, and her eyes widened slightly. The officer restraining the boy turned, an unpleasant sneer on his face. Across the room Charleaux fell silent, his face flushed in ire. The soldiers who were still pillaging the kitchens paused in their mission, their attention transferred to the commanding newcomer who stood utterly still in their midst.
The tavern and Anne had been Clara’s last stop for the afternoon, as she’d checked in with her other students already. She hadn’t been at the Silver Swan long enough for Anne and Charleaux to pull out the accounting ledgers before all hell had broken loose. Soldiers had streamed in as patrons had scrambled out. And Clara and Anne had been left trying to slow the carnage.
“There seems to be some confusion,” Clara replied with a coolness she wasn’t feeling. She and Anne could talk and plead and beg all they wanted, but if this red-coated officer and his troops wanted to destroy the Silver Swan and then leave with a terrified child, there was little they could do to stop them. If ever there was a time for August Faulkner to be an unyielding, entitled, power-hungry duke, now would be it.
“I’ve noticed.” August’s voice was hard enough to cut diamonds, and never had he sounded so perfectly ducal. “And I must say that I take great umbrage at the manner in which this property is being treated.”
He didn’t acknowledge Anne or let on that their presence was anything but expected. A measure of relief flooded through Clara. Clearly there would be a time of reckoning for her and Anne, but it was not now. Not given the scene before them.
The captain’s eyes narrowed. “You cheat the king, you don’t deserve any other sort of treatment.”
“And what, exactly, makes you believe that anyone here is cheating the king?”
“I have information that says so.”
“From where?” August inquired pleasantly.
“What?”
“From where or from whom did you receive your information? Because I fear that your source is badly in error.”
