“Not a lot, I suppose.” Brentworth gave his shoulder a firm grasp. “I am sorry I had so little for you. Perhaps as you go forward, you should not focus on what was said back then, but why it would be said. The rumor lived for a reason, even though not true.”
Adam accepted the advice as sound. Of course, both he and Brentworth knew the biggest reason the rumors had thrived. She lived in France now, while her son tried to clear her husband’s good name.
Chapter Eight
Clara’s arms rebelled at the weight of the chair. Across the upholstered cushions, her maid Jocelyn’s face reddened from the strain.
“Could this not wait until you hire some strong men?” Jocelyn asked in a strangled voice.
They inched along, finally dropping the chair at the spot Clara had chosen. Jocelyn took out her handkerchief and blotted at her face, then reached over and did the same to Clara’s. “You will look a fright by the time you leave to meet your sister.”
“I am impatient to see if my ideas about this chamber will work, and that chair kept interfering with how I wanted to see the space. I begin to think that I will have enough room for an extra divan. Once we move this other chair, that is.” She walked over to the second chair and bent to lift it.
“I am a lady’s maid, ma’am. We do not move furniture.”
“Until I hire more servants, you are a house servant, Jocelyn. If you could cook us dinner last night, you can help me with this now. It is not a chore I was born for either.”
“It is too heavy for us. Please wait until you have a man or two to do it.”
That might be a week hence. Notices had been placed for a few servants, but it would take time to receive responses and complete inquiries.
Clara had made good on her intention to move out of Gifford House. Yesterday morning the servants had piled her trunks onto the town coach and she had been driven away. No one bid her farewell. The dowager and Theo remained in their apartments, and even Emilia was forbidden to come down.
Clara had not minded one bit. A brief spell of nostalgia fell on her spirits as she rolled off, mostly due to fond memories of time spent in the house with her father. Once the carriage moved through the town, however, joy and excitement took hold.
She and Jocelyn had spent the ride to Bedford Square debating which servants to hire. A cook and coachman for certain, and a housekeeper and chambermaid. Jocelyn insisted a manservant would be necessary too, to serve as butler and footman, but Clara was not so sure. While of good size for her purposes, this house was not some grand town house in Mayfair. Nor did she want a male presence there all the time, interfering with the feminine goals of her new home. She had no space to house a manservant, anyway. The coachman would have to take lodgings nearby.
With four bedchambers above and four more in the attic for servants, this household could never grow very large. The bedchambers were unlike what she had known at Gifford House. She had no apartment here. No sitting room and little private library. No huge dressing room and separate wardrobe. Here she used just one chamber and an attached dressing room, where she also stored her garments.
This library was of good size, however, as was the dining room. There was no drawing room as such, but instead a nice sitting room that also served duty for breakfasts.
Well, she was only one woman. How much space did she need? And the public rooms would do nicely for her other plans.
Jocelyn finally approached the chair. With a heavy groan she pretended to try and lift her side, only to let it fall at once from her grasp. “I fear I used all my strength on the last one.”
Clara was about to scold her when a knock sounded on the front door. “Go and see who that is, please, while you recover from your sudden weakness.”
“Ladies’ maids do not answer the door, ma’am.”
“Oh, for goodness sake.” Clara marched out of the library to tend to the door herself.
She grasped the latch, expecting to find a neighbor or soliciting tradesman. Instead she opened the door on the Duke of Stratton.
“Oh. You.” The lack of welcome slipped out before she could catch it. She blamed that on her surprise to find him on her doorstep. And on her dismay at the way a beam of joy shot through her unexpectedly. “How did you find me?”
“Langford, his brother, and I called on your family, only to learn from your brother that you no longer resided there.” He gazed up the façade. “I have always thought Bedford Square attractively designed, with houses most fitting for its size and scale. It is a good distance from Mayfair, however.”
“You explained how you learned I was not at Gifford House. You did not explain how you discovered I washereinstead.”
“If you invite me in instead of expecting me to converse across the threshold, I will tell you.”
She held the door wide. “Of course. Please, come in.”
He did so, proving at once that the more modest scale of houses on Bedford Square made men like Stratton appear all the bigger. He so dominated the small reception hall, and her, that she led the way to the library mostly to give herself more space. She found it empty. Jocelyn had taken the opportunity to disappear.
He took in his surroundings, as if assessing whether they would do. For him or her, she could not tell. She did not sit because she did not want him to stay. She had things to do, and his arrival promised nothing but trouble. She almost never felt nervous, but increasingly this man caused a cautious jumpiness inside her. Unfortunate memories of allowing his embrace affected even the simplest conversation between them.
“Are you going to explain now? How you found me?”
