Henry gave her a grateful look, only for Clara to wave it off. “You’ll come back refreshed and ready to conquer every last social engagement. Though I’ll have to fend off that dreadful Grace Woolcott by myself in your absence. You must repay me for that one day.”
Charity let out a weak laugh, though it sounded more weary than amused. “You make it sound as though I’m a grand lady off to the Continent for a season of leisure, rather than being shuffled about like a piece on a chessboard.”
“Nonsense,” Clara said, tone light. “You’d be the queen, not the pawn. And I daresay Italy will suit you. Sun, vineyards, handsome gentlemen … If Mother did not need me here for her megrim attacks, I could easily be persuaded to join you.”
“I wish you could.” Charity gave Henry a sidelong glance, her lips pressing tight. “Because nothing about this seems much like a holiday.”
Henry straightened. “Holiday. A visit to Father. Surrendering to your brother’s concerns. Call it what you will.”
Clara nodded earnestly. “I agree. And since we are airing concerns, I have another one, this time for you, Henry. On my way in I noticed that new footman of yours skulking about near the stables. He looked positively shifty.” She wrinkled her nose. “You might have Mrs. Hamby speak to him.”
Exactly what he’d been thinking. “Thank you,” he said. “I shall see to it.”
Clara brightened as her gaze settled on Charity. “Then it’s settled. You’ll think about Italy, will you not?”
Charity exhaled, shoulders slumping. “Yes … I’ll think about it.”
“Good.” Clara stood, smoothing her gloves. “Now, I must go. Mother’s determined to rehearse our Sunday duets and heaven help me if I miss a note. Until later, my friends.”
“Until then,” Henry and Charity echoed together.
She glided from the room, skirts whispering against the floor.
Henry watched her go, the weight in his chest lighter than before. At least Clara suspected nothing … and she’d left him with one more reason to keep an eye on Woodley. Strolling to the tea table, he poured a cup of stout black. By the time he reclaimed his seat, his sister smirked at him with a knowing arch to her brow.
He eyed her over the rim of his cup. “What?”
She blew a disgusted huff. “She is sweet on you, Brother. Anyone can see that.”
“How absurd. She cares for you as much as she does me.”
“Perhaps,” Charity agreed, though her tone suggested otherwise. “But in a far different manner. She would like more than friendship with you.”
Hmm. Did she? He ran his finger around the top of the cup, pondering. If what his sister said was true, he surely hadn’tnoticed. “She has never said as much. She has never even hinted at anything else.”
“Oh, Henry.” Charity rolled her eyes. “She is a lady, not a trollop.” His sister angled her head, lips pursing for a long moment. “Tell me, Brother, why have you never pursued her? Clara Whitmore is lovely, well connected, and takes interest in you. You could do worse, and you’re not getting any younger, you know.”
“Neither are you.” He waggled his eyebrows.
Leaning forwards, she swatted his arm. “Brat!”
“Hey!” He chuckled as he set down his cup and dabbed away the few dribbles of tea that’d dripped onto his trousers. “I concede Clara is lovely and charming, and also a dear friend, but she is not really what I am looking for.”
Charity spread her hands. “Then what are you looking for?”
What a loaded question that was, and something he didn’t usually take the time to ponder. He had a household to maintain. Tenants to manage. Paperwork to see to in a timely fashion in his father’s absence. And somewhere deep down, the quiet drive to be enough on his own—to hold steady without calling for reinforcements. Though it was now empty, he reached for his cup, giving his fingers something to do while composing some sort of an answer—for her question would not be blown away so easily.
“I suppose …” He hesitated, collecting words that would suit both his sister and him. “I want someone who is more than a pretty face or a familiar name. A woman who is not enamored with titles or status. Someone with spirit, resilience, one who faces challenges head-on and does not shy away from difficult situations.”
Charity cooed. “That sounds very much like Clara. She is all those things—save for the familiarity.”
“Yes …” He flipped the cup round and round, searching for the right words. “I admit Clara has many fine qualities, but she is predictable. Adept at the usual female pastimes—needlework, household management, knowing all the steps to the latest dances. I want more than that. Someone who surprises me. Someone who knows her own mind but is not overbearing about it. I want a woman who stands tall when the world tries to knock her down.”
“My!” Charity snorted. “Are you sure such a woman exists?”
“I hope so, though I have not found her yet.” The words barely passed his lips when his mind betrayed him, flitting to the image of a lithe figure moving swiftly through the woods—the poacher who’d eluded him. A woman who had the nerve and skill to get by on her own, without the protection of any man or title.
“And if you did find her?” Charity coaxed.
