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Her spirits drooped low. “Please, Mrs. Wintle,” she said, dropping her tone into one of desperation. “I beg you for another chance. I have proved my worth and my work time and time again. Surely you must know...what sort of woman Miss Bowles is.”

Mrs. Wintle’s expression told Clara that the woman knew exactly how Miss Bowles was, but the housekeeper still shook her head, her tone softening only a degree. “I am sorry, Clara. But I cannot risk another complaint. Her ladyship...” She trailed off.

And at that, Clara knew she was finished. Lady Dalmeer would not appreciate a guest’s unhappiness. No matter the truthfulness of that guest’s complaints.

“I hope you understand,” Mrs. Wintle said softly.

Clara hung her head. “I do. I appreciate your willingness to listen, Mrs. Wintle. You shan’t hear another word from Miss Bowles regarding me.”

Mrs. Wintle nodded, then motioned forward. “Ready yourself for dinner service. You will be helping bring up the trays with the other maids who are free, then you may set about your regular duties.”

“Will you tell Miss Sterling?”

“She’s already been informed.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Mrs. Wintle dismissed her, then, and Clara wandered back to the kitchens to await her assignment. She hoped Miss Bowles got what she deserved for lying about Clara. And she hoped Miss Sterling wouldn’t be too upset when another woman was assigned.

But more than anything, Clara hoped Oliver—no, Mr. Cole—would not be upset either. For as much as she hoped to find time to be with the gentleman, there was no chance she could now. Nor could she simply rely upon him to rescue her from her destitution.

She knew he had feelings for her. But enough to never be with another woman again? She wasn’t sure. She could never be sure. And surety was what she required. So she had herself and only herself to rely upon.

Just like always.

Twenty-Seven

That evening, Oliver stood at the back of the drawing room, eying his pocket watch for when he could reasonably leave the parlor games without appearing rude.

He’d give himself thirty more minutes. Thirty more minutes of watching people make fools of themselves playing charades and taking part in bullet pudding. Thirty more minutes of ignoring Miss Bowles’s seething stares in his direction. Thirty more minutes of pretending all was well, when his insides were as curdled as sour milk because he was with a room full of individuals—but not with the one woman he longed to be.

“You appear to be in a terrible mood tonight, cousin.”

Oliver pulled out of his thoughts to notice Millie standing beside him. His mood received a much-needed lift, though only a small amount. “I’m afraid it is because I am in a terrible mood.”

“Is it because of Miss Bowles’s glares in your direction?” Millie asked in a whisper.

Once more, Oliver glanced at Miss Bowles, the woman not bothering to hide her contempt before whirling around on purpose with her nose in the air.

“She is part of the reason,” he admitted. “Apparently she did not appreciate my being honest with her.”

“That you had no intention of marrying her?”

“Precisely.”

“Surely that ought to put you in a finer mood, then,” Millie said. “You are free now to kiss whatever woman you wish.”

Free? He was not free any more than he was happy. “I think I shall pass on the activity this evening.”

Millie paused, turning to face him squarely with a frown. “Oliver, are you ill?”

“No. Although, I may as well be.”

She reached up, pressing a hand to his forehead like his mother used to. “You do feel a little warm. Perhaps you ought to retire early. I can give your excuses.”

“I’ll gladly take your offer. But first, you must know, I am truly not ill.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Please be more straightforward with me, cousin. I cannot bear this back and forth.”