"Do her duties include sharing your bed?"
The teacup rattled against the saucer. "I don't know what you're implying…"
"I'm not implying anything. I'm stating outright that Mary saw Clara leaving your room this morning wearing your shirt, and while she's too well-trained to gossip, she did mention it to Cook, who mentioned it to my stable boy when he delivered eggs this morning, who naturally mentioned it to me because I pay him extra for information."
"You're bribing my staff's connections for gossip about my personal life?"
"Of course I am. It's the most entertainment I've had in years. Do you know how boring it is being happily wedded in the countryside? I have to live vicariously through your romantic disasters."
"This isn't a romantic disaster."
"Not yet, but give it time. Your aunt's carriage was spotted leaving the inn twenty minutes ago, which means she'll be here any moment to shower disapproval upon your budding romance."
Gabriel set down his teacup with more force than necessary. "There is no budding romance. Clara and I have a professional arrangement that happens to include certain personal accommodations that are nobody's business but our own."
"Personal accommodations? Is that what we're calling it now? How delightfully euphemistic."
"Edmund, I shall…"
"Your Grace?" Clara appeared in the doorway, and Gabriel's train of thought derailed entirely. She was wearing a new dress, one of blue wool that fit her perfectly, highlighting curves the shapeless gray had hidden. Her hair was arranged in a style that was somehow both proper and alluring, and she looked every inch the respectable upper servant rather than the woman who'd been moaning his name against the library door last night.
"Miss Whitfield," he managed, his voice only slightly strangled.
"Your aunt's carriage has been spotted approaching the drive. I've arranged for tea to be served in the front parlor, as it's the most impressive room now that we've finished the repairs."
“What repairs?” Edmund asked.
"We've removed approximately three years' worth of dust, several family of mice, and what I suspect was the beginning of a new ecosystem in the corner behind the pianoforte," Clara replied smoothly. "His Grace has been most accommodating about the necessary improvements."
"His Grace has been accommodating? Will wonders never cease?"
Gabriel found his voice. "Miss Whitfield has a way of presenting her arguments that makes resistance futile."
"I merely pointed out that living in squalor was unlikely to convince Lady Agatha of your competence," Clara said, thoughthere was a slight flush to her cheeks that suggested she was remembering exactly how she'd presented some of those arguments.
"And we can't have Aunt Agatha thinking poorly of me," Gabriel said dryly. "She might cut me off from the family fortune I don't need and the social connections I don't want."
"She might have you declared incompetent and take control of the estate," Clara corrected. "Which would be inconvenient for everyone, particularly the staff who've worked so hard to make this place presentable."
"Ah yes, the staff. All six of them, laboring tirelessly to create the illusion that I'm a functional member of society."
"Seven, if we count Mrs. Potter, who's been secretly aiding despite your repeated attempts to dismiss her."
"Mrs. Potter doesn't count because Mrs. Potter doesn't actually work here. She just appears like some sort of domestic spirit whenever she feels I need scolding."
Edmund laughed. "She's been doing that since you were in short pants. Remember when she caught you trying to slide down the bannister using a tea tray as a sled?"
"That was a perfectly reasonable experiment in physics that was unfortunately interrupted by an excess of maternal concern."
"You broke your arm in two places."
"I learned valuable lessons about velocity and friction."
"You learned that tea trays make terrible sleds."
"That too."
Clara cleared her throat delicately. "Perhaps we could reminisce about His Grace's childhood disasters after we survive the current disaster approaching our door?"
