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“Why?” she challenged.

“Because I’d like to know if I ought to take your words from the river to heart or if I can simply ignore them now, knowing your word cannot be trusted.”

She raised her chin. “Did I ever tell you I was one or the other, sir, to give you reason to mistrust me?”

“You—” He stopped abruptly.

Blast. She hadn’t, had she?

“If you’ll excuse me now,” the woman said, giving a slight curtsy. “I must be about my work.”

She turned around, but Oliver wasn’t finished. He pushed himself off the wall and hurried forward, stopping her in her tracks by moving in front of her so they both stood in the center of the hall.

“Now just a moment,” he said. “I cannot allow you to leave as you last did.”

“You didn’t allow me to leave,” she stated. “I took my leave.”

“Very well, you cannot take your leave this time, as you must answer my question first as to your identity.”

“What business is that of yours?”

He didn’t really expect to get any answers from her—but in that regard, it was an answer of its own. If she was a maid, she was unlike any he’d ever seen. She spoke eloquently, confidently, and did not bow her head at every turn as servants were wont to do.

“It is my business as a gentleman to know if I ought to report you to her ladyship.”

To his surprise, fear flickered in her eye, which elicited a sliver of guilt to strike through him. “But I won’t have to report you if you simply tell me the truth as to why you are here,” he added.

As fast as her fear arrived, it fled, replaced with anger as she narrowed her blue eyes. “You mean to threaten me?”

“Not at all. I mean to discover the truth.”

She pulled in her lips before finally responding. “Very well. I shall tell you the truth. I am here for the same reason as every other member of her ladyship’s staff—to earn a living so I might survive the winter.”

He didn’t detect any deception, but he knew there was more to it than that. “Very well, if you are a maid of Bellthorne Hall, surely you must tell me your name if I request it.”

Her lips thinned further, and she finally lowered her things to the floor, propping her hands on her hips. “My name is Clara.”

“Clara,” he repeated, and her nose wrinkled, no doubt at the use of her given name. “Clara...?”

“Hat—Hunt.”

He caught her stumble, then studied her features, but she gave nothing further away. It must not be her real name. That told him further that even if she truly was a maid, she must not have been one for long.

“Very well, Clara Hunt. I have one more question for you before you leave.”

She remained silent, clearly not caring if he asked it or not.

“Did you know it was my room when you chose to leave the coal stain upon my bedding?”

Her lips parted. Even in her lower-class clothing, even with her cap and her drab dress and her stained brow, she was undeniably stunning.

“I...No, I didn’t do it on purpose. I-I mean, what coal stain?”

He gave her a knowing look. “So you did know about it. I’ve a mind to tell her ladyship she has a rogue maid on the loose.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“I might. Unless...”