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The butler stepped in and bowed. “My lord. Lord Bradshaw has arrived for your scheduled meeting. He’s waiting in the drawing room.”

“Thank you, Clarke. I’ll be right there.”

As the door closed behind the butler, Jacob turned to Honoria. She looked pale, her lips trembling.

Was she truly that frightened of being seen with him?

He tamped down the bitterness rising in his chest and reverted to a formal tone. “Be so kind as to bring us a tea tray.”

If she insisted on being the housekeeper, then so be it.

* * *

He’s here.

Jacob left the room while Honoria remained frozen in place, her mind spiraling.

He’s found me.

Not that he knew it. Not yet. And not if she could help it.

She bolted from the study—not through the main corridor that passed the drawing room, but through the narrow, dim servants’ passage that twisted behind the walls of the house.

She crouched low behind the half-open service stairwell, her back pressed to the rough, damp stone. Her breathing was ragged, the air refusing to fill her lungs. Clutching at her dress, she tried to steady herself, as if gripping the fabric might force her chest to expand.

Oh, God. What am I going to do?

Footsteps echoed up the stairs—slow, steady, and purposeful. Honoria tensed, her breath catching in her throat.

“Miss Hartwell?”

Honoria flinched at the sound of the name she’d used for the past six years. It’s not my name.

Mrs. Clarke stood at the bottom of the steps, a bundle of linen in her arms, her gaze sharpening as it landed on Honoria. She climbed a few steps, her brows knitting with concern.

“What’s wrong?” she asked softly, voice low and laced with alarm. “By God, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

I have.

“I—I don’t feel well,” Honoria managed to say, her voice thin, her breath short. “But Jac—his lordship needs tea… in the drawing room. He’s entertaining a guest. Please, could you ask someone else to bring it to him? I—I can’t.”

Her hands were trembling now, clenched tightly in the folds of her skirt. She was sure she looked like a madwoman.

Mrs. Clarke stared at her for a long, assessing moment. Then she nodded once, solemnly.

“Of course, my dear,” she said gently. “Go to your room. Rest.”

Honoria didn’t wait to hear more. She turned and fled up the servants’ stairs, heart pounding so loudly it drowned out the sound of her footsteps. The corridor blurred as she passed through it, not registering anything around her until she was inside her room with the door shut.

She sank onto the edge of the bed, fists gripping the sheets until her knuckles whitened. Her vision swam, the light from the window too bright, the walls too close.

She didn’t know how long she sat there, frozen in that same breathless moment, before the door creaked open before her.

Mrs. Clarke entered quietly, closing the door with a soft snick.

“Are you feeling any better, then?” she asked gently.

Honoria shook her head. Tears gathered at the corners of her eyes, blurring the room.