His eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?”
“Honora ish a dowager countessh. I am a duchessh. She will have no choice but to come.”
“Oh.”
“And it ish not the duke.”
*
Wednesday, 9 November 1825
Ashton Park, near the River Kennet
Half-past three in the afternoon
Clara stared atthe unexpectedly simple entrance of Ashton Park, her entire body quivering. While the front door was deceptively plain, with a few concrete steps and a narrow cover against the elements, the approach to the home of the dukes of Kennet had sparked every nerve. The manicured U-shaped drive had been lined with towering oaks, and between the legs of the U, a reflecting pool mirrored the massive five-story red brick country house. Ashton Park might be understated on the outside, but its size and grounds represented the wealth of a bygone age, a reminder that despite scandal, the Duke of Kennet remained one of the most powerful and wealthy men in the realm, a confidante to the king, and a broad voice in Parliament.
And Clara was about to have tea with his wife.
She did not want to do this. Seeing the Duchess of Kennet would be hard enough, but the thought that Michael could be in the house...
“Stand up straight, girl. Stop slouching.”
Clara shook her head. “I do not know if I can do this.”
“You can and will. An invitation from the Duchess of Kennet is not to be ignored. Given the circumstances, it is a gift.”
“Mother—”
“And you do not want me to have to tell your brother that you refused to meet with the one person who could ease the sting of this scandal, who could re-open all the doors now slammed in our face.”
“Mother—”
“If this goes well, perhaps she will invite us to the Christmas festivities.”
Clara stared at her. In the twenty-four hours since receiving the duchess’s invitation, the dowager racked by grief had found her footing again.
The front door opened, and the Ashton Park butler looked them up and down, as if making sure they were appropriately attired. Still in full mourning, they were both in black, cap to slipper, although Honora’s gown bore a great deal more lace. Honora offered him the invitation. “We are here to see the duchess.”
He accepted the invitation, then stepped back, ushering them into the hall. “This way, your ladyship.” Then he led them down a hall that branched off to the right and to a door that stood open. The duchess waited inside, seated in a wingback chair near the fire, her feet propped on a low footstool. The butler announced them, then retreated from the room.
They entered and curtsied. “Thank you, Your Grace,” Honora said, “for your kind invitation.”
The duchess gestured to a settee that was placed at a right angle to the wingback. “Please, sh—make yourshelves comfortable.”
Clara did, trying not to focus on the duchess’s limp left hand. So the rumors about her lingering impairment were true. She swallowed and spoke her much-rehearsed first comment. “We are pleased that you have returned to Ashton Park, Your Grace.”
The duchess looked from one woman to the other, then sighed. “Thank you. But I do not, I’m afraid, have the energy or wherewithal for Shochi—polite chatter.”
“Your Grace—” Honora began.
The duchess cut her off with a wave. “We are both houses wrapped in schandal. If we are to weather thish, we must present a united front. May I call you Honora?”
Clara’s mother stuttered. “Of—of—of course, Your Grace.”
“Then I am Emalyn. As you can shee, I have not yet fully recovered. I have an exshellent shtaff, but I need another lady to aid me with the upcoming Chrishmash events. Would you be willing to work with me? I will need someone to help with vendors, welcome guestsh, overshee gatherings I cannot.”
Honora looked as stunned as Clara felt, but Clara found her tongue first. “What about Lady Elizabeth?”
