Page 33 of A Legacy of Lies

“Restraint,” Davenport said, his smile thin as wire. “A rare virtue where fortunes are concerned.” His eyes flicked toward Nathaniel.

The barb slid clean, polished by civility. Clara felt the heat of Nathaniel’s silence beside the fire.

Davenport looked back at her, his tone softening. “Do you find Hartleigh’s halls lonely at night, Miss Whitmore? These old houses can be… drafty.”

His pause lingered too long.

Clara’s smile held. “Hartleigh’s halls are well kept. Even shadows know their place when Lady Eleanor rules the house.”

Eleanor’s cane tapped once, her approval, crisp as flint.

For a heartbeat, Davenport faltered before recovering with a laugh, a shade too bright. “Ah, quite right. Quite right indeed.”

He drew off his gloves slowly. “A household such as Hartleigh requires order. One hopes Your Grace brings the same discipline to its accounts. I seem to recall there were some unfortunate clients during your years in chambers? A dreadful business.”

The room cooled. Even the fire bent lower.

Clara’s hand froze over the teapot. Davenport’s words rang false yet poisonous. Eleanor’s gaze went to Nathaniel. He gave no answer, no sign.

Then Clara spoke. Her tone was soft, almost curious. “Davenport. Yes, I remember the name. There was a quarrel, was there not? Cards and coin? A hasty departure from a Covent Garden club?”

A single blink betrayed him.

Davenport laughed too quickly. “London gossip, Miss Whitmore. One should never trust such tales.”

“Except,” she said, pouring the tea with perfect calm, “when the tale fits too neatly.”

Eleanor’s cane tapped once more, the sound sharp and satisfied.

Nathaniel exhaled, the faintest breath of relief or admiration. Davenport’s polish had cracked; Clara had done what he could not.

When Davenport rose to leave, his bow was shallower. “Your Grace. Lady Eleanor. Miss Whitmore.”

Eleanor’s eyes glinted. “Some men make their living feeding shadows, Mr. Davenport. Mind that you are not consumed by them.”

His smile strained. The door closed behind him.

Rain whispered against the glass.

Eleanor turned to Clara. “There is the girl I know,” she said softly. “Welcome home.”

Clara’s throat tightened. Heat pricked behind her eyes. For the first time since she’d come to Hartleigh, the word home did not wound.

Eleanor rose with effort. “I will leave you young people to the fire.” The cane tapped once, deliberate, as she departed.

The silence that followed pressed heavier than Davenport’s malice.

Clara busied herself with the cups that no longer needed tending. Nathaniel watched from the mantel, the fire painting her profile in bronze. The grace with which she’d faced danger both shamed and stirred him.

“Was it true?” she asked suddenly. “What Davenport said about your clients?”

His jaw set. “Not in the way he meant.”

“Then in what way?”

He looked toward the fire. “I defended men who lied for coin. Some paid the price. So did I.”

Her breath caught. “Why not say so?”