Page 27

“If you have time to write personal letters, perhaps you do not need the work at Bellthorne so desperately after all,” she’d said.

Clara had apologized profusely and had leapt straight to work. She knew she’d been risking it writing the letter, but she’d been too tired the night before, and she needed to get them written before St. Stephen’s Day—the only day she’d have a few hours off over the next few weeks.

Carrying the trays up had taken what little time she had left to herself, so she was once more out of time, as she was now expected to ready the bedchambers.

Again.

With a yawn, she rounded the corner, trying to find the spark she needed. The boost of energy came in an unexpected way, however, when she came face-to-face with Mr. Cole.

She gasped, surprised at his presence, though he seemed to have fully expected her. He leaned against the wall of a deserted corridor, legs crossed, arms folded, and grinning brightly.

Clara rested a hand on her chest to quell her racing heart.

“My apologies,” Mr. Cole said. “I do seem to have that effect on women.”

She lifted her eyes to the ceiling in a move of exasperation. Did he never stop?

“You frightened me, that is all.” She looked over her shoulder to ensure they were alone, though it was no matter. She would not linger near him and put her livelihood at risk. “Excuse me, Mr. Cole. I’ve duties to attend to.”

“I’m sure you do. The life of a maid.”

He emphasized the final word with a sense of disbelief she wasn’t going to get into right now.

“Yes, well. I’m sure you have your own duties to attend to, as well. Miss Bowles, for instance.”

He pushed himself away from the wall, and instantly, Clara regretted her words. She’d allowed him into her thoughts.

“You saw me sitting beside her?” he asked.

“Hard not to notice a woman running her mouth.”

His lip curved. “Just so.”

She looked over her shoulder again, surprised a footman hadn’t exited the dining room and spotted them yet. But then, why was she lingering in the first place?

For the same reason she had been wanting to linger around the man since that afternoon when he’d helped her pick up the greenery. He could have very easily shouted at her with Miss Bowles, stare unaffected with her parents, or even laugh at her as she’d thought he’d do.

As the hours had passed since, however, she’d begun to wonder if he really had been angry with her for having to pick up the greenery...or if he was more upset with Miss Bowles’s reaction.

Clara had thought she’d seen his true nature in that moment, and since then, all she could think of was seeing it again—if only to prove to herself she was imagining it.

“Why are you away from the table?” she asked, acutely aware that each second she lingered in that spot was another second she could be dismissed from her position.

“Isn’t it obvious?” He waited, then pointed to his cravat.

She stared, shaking her head. “You’re wearing a cravat when you normally do not?” she guessed.

“No. Look closer.”

Intrigued, she did as she was told, but still, she could not find anything wrong with the expertly tied piece of cloth.

“I see nothing, Mr. Cole.”

He pointed to a specific spot. “Surely your trained eye can see that.”

Once again, she took a step closer, focusing precisely where his finger lingered. Finally, she managed to see the smallest speck of off-white on the fabric.

“That?” she questioned unbelievingly.