Page 35 of A Legacy of Lies

He grinned, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “And you’re dressed like you expect to run.”

“I came to listen,” she replied. “Not to run.”

“Did you think these grand walls would keep me out?” He stepped closer, fog curling behind him. “Even stone has cracks, my girl.”

She said nothing, only drew herself taller, chin lifted, cloak gathered firm at her throat. The mist beaded in her dark hair, but her eyes held steady on his. A flicker crossed his face, something sharp, sour, as if her silence nettled him more than any retort.

“I’ve seen the man,” he went on, circling like a crow eyeing a scrap. “The solicitor duke. Clean lines, unreadable eyes. Dangerous sort. He smells rot like a hound.” He leaned nearer. His breath grazed her ear. “Sooner or later, he’ll find out.”

Clara anchored her feet against the gravel, refusing to give him the satisfaction. “You’ve no right to be here.”

“I’ve every right,” he spat. “You’re mine. No vow to a duchess erases blood.”

Clara pinched a smear of dirt from her skirt and let it fall, as though his claim carried no more than grit. “You forfeited that claim long ago.”

For an instant, his mouth twitched. Not with triumph but with something unguarded before his sneer returned. He felt her slipping beyond his grasp, and he hated it.

“It was your mother who begged Eleanor to take you,” he said. “Keep her safe, she pleaded. Safe from what? From me?” His smile turned cruel. “And now look at you. Wreathed in silk, curtsying to dukes.”

Her chin held high, but her hand betrayed her, curling tight in her skirts. He saw it, and his smile widened.

“Lady Eleanor gave me dignity. You gave me debts.”

He laughed, sharp and cruel. “Debts? I gave you life. You hide behind another woman’s roof, another woman’s table, another woman’s silver. Strip it away, and what are you? A gambler’s brat. Do you remember that wooden horse you carried to bed? Pawned before you could cry. Or your mother’s locket, gone to pay the tables? You think Eleanor’s candlesticks make you different? You’ll never be more than Willie Whitmore’s daughter.”

The name struck like a lash. Her breath caught, memories pressing close, her mother’s weeping, the endless clink of dice. Her pulse roared in her ears. Still, she forced her shoulders back. “You cannot touch me here.”

“Can’t I? You carry my name.” His smile thinned.

She had never changed it. Had never dared.

Her mother’s voice whispered from long ago: The trick is never to lie, my darling. Only hope no one asks the next question.

At the time it had felt like love. Now it felt like betrayal. Nathaniel was precisely the sort of man who always asked the next question.

Her father’s tone dropped to a growl. “Do you think that solicitor won’t ask? He’ll tear at ledgers until he finds every stain. But ledgers aren’t the only place truths are written.”

He struck his fist against his chest. “They come to me. No debt is whispered, no wager struck unless I say so. And all I have to do is speak, and the tale spreads like fire.”

Clara flinched, a single step backward scraping gravel beneath her slipper. His eyes lit with triumph.

“That caught your attention, did it? You always had a proud streak,” he said, stepping close enough for her to smell the sour wine on his breath. “But pride won’t pay what’s owed.”

He seized her arm, his fingers biting through the fabric. “He’ll cast you out when he learns the truth. The duchess, too. And you’ll crawl back.”

Clara drew a breath, her voice low, deadly calm. “Take. Your. Hand. Off. Me.”

For an instant, his eyes flickered, confusion, perhaps fear, before his grip slackened and fell away.

“You’ll see,” he said. “That fine title of his doesn’t make him clean. He’s as buried in secrets as we ever were.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” she said, though her voice trembled.

“No?” His breath brushed her ear. “Then let’s test that.”

Clara jerked back, skirts twisting as she stumbled against the hedge. A thorn snagged her sleeve and tore it, the sound splitting the fog. She righted herself, heart hammering, linen burning where the sharp tip had grazed her skin.

Her father’s smile widened. “A little rent suits you, daughter. Always did wear your ruin well.” He stood his ground and smiled while mist gathered at his boots.