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Clara knew how gossip spread below stairs—and how speculation grew—and now some of the servants were treating her differently because of it.

If Mrs. Wintle caught wind of the gossip, Clara would be removed immediately—and she truly would not receive a character reference, then, leaving her destined for the workhouse.

So Clara fought back her desire to go to the library all afternoon and was relieved when evening came, the dinner service had ended, and she was to be allowed on her own for a moment to write the last solicitor she could afford.

Mrs. Wintle, however, stopped Clara in the kitchens and tasked her and two other housemaids to bring the refreshments and desserts into the music room for the guests’ musicale that evening.

“You three are the only ones not sickened by colds,” Mrs. Wintle said with a frazzled shake of her head. “Do not be seen.”

Clara and the other women nodded their understanding. The footmen were perfectly capable of work—had been doing so all day—but as the evening progressed, their coughs and sneezes had become a distraction, and Mrs. Wintle and Mr. Hurst had no desire to spread the cold to the guests.

For a moment, Clara had a mind to feign sickness herself, if only to avoid being in the same room as the guests, but knowing Mrs. Wintle was in need, she did as she was told.

She and the other women returned a total of three times to fill the tables at the back of the room with all manner of divinely smelling food and drinks.

Tea, ratafia, and negus would be offered at one side of the room, while the tables at the other side held the rest—seed cake, pound cake, gingerbread, queen cakes, candied orange peels, almond macaroons. Clara’s stomach rumbled with hunger at the smell, but she ignored it, placing the food and trays down as swiftly and silently as possible.

Her first entrance into the room, Clara had spotted Mr. Cole at once. He sat near Lord Dalmeer toward the front of the audience before the earl stood to turn pages for Miss Orston—Miss Prescott’s attention solely on the handsome son of their hostess.

Mr. Cole’s eyes were directed forward, as well, but he had been stifling a yawn.

The second time Clara returned, Miss Bowles had just so happened to be playing the piano, singing about a lost lover. Clara did her best not to dwell on her own thoughts of Miss Bowles not being as good a singer as the woman clearly believed, but it was difficult not to—as it was difficult not to blame the woman for Clara’s downfall.

Mr. Cole had moved seats closer to the back of the room, brazenly whispering to Miss Hollis in front of him throughout Miss Bowles’s performance.

By the third visit to the music room, however, to Clara’s dismay, Mr. Cole had removed himself from the seating to position himself to the back row of the listeners, and was now quite clearly not paying attention at all as a Mr. Stroud performed his piece of music Clara had heard was his own composition.

She did her best to arrange the trays of queen cakes and almond macaroons in a fashionable manner in silence, walking on the tips of her toes and keeping her head ducked.

But her thoughts and eyes continually strayed toward Mr. Cole. Was he as bored as he appeared, sitting there, listening to music? Did he miss her as much as she missed him? Was he even aware that she was there, longing to shout out his name, declare her love for him, and beg him to take her away forever?

As if he’d heard her thoughts, Mr. Cole glanced over his shoulder at the refreshment table, catching sight of Clara as surprise overcame his features.

He smiled at first, which Clara barely responded to. He faced forward, as if to ensure his departure would go unnoticed, then headed directly for her table.

Panic slipped up her throat. Miss Bowles was facing forward right now, but if she saw Clara with Mr. Cole, the woman would certainly do her best to see that Clara was dismissed that very night.

“Clara,” he whispered across the table at her, his hands resting on the white cloth draped over it. “I’ve been trying to speak with you. Did you not receive my note?”

Clara glanced anxiously toward the other guests, then to the servants, who were still arranging the tea table.

“Sir,” she whispered, almost to the point of mouthing-out her words, “please, I cannot speak here. I am under close watch.”

“By whom?” he asked, looking around them and seeing no eyes upon them. “Mrs. Wintle?”

“Yes,” she said, her brows high. “And the other servants.”

“Then tell me where I can speak with you,” he said, leaning closer toward her.

Tears pricked her eyes. “There is nowhere, sir.”

He frowned, hurt flashing in his eyes. “Have I done something to upset you? The ice skating...”

But she shook her head. “Please, it is nothing you have done—and everything I have done.”

“Are you in trouble?” he pressed. “I can help.”

“No, sir. There is no solution. My time here is coming to an end, and there is nothing to be done about it. I⁠—”