A Duke in the Night(53)
He said it casually enough, but underneath she could hear the rawness of that confession. She had heard the same in his defense of Jonas, and it made her heart hurt. “No. I don’t.”
“It sounds counterintuitive, but I could not afford to spend the little money I had managed to put together on things like food. Or shelter. Everything I had went into my efforts to make that money work for me.”
“But you won’t starve now. You’ve achieved…more than you could ever have expected. More than anyone expected.”
“And I’ve told you that only a fool rests on his laurels. Life is not a horse race with a pretty ribbon for the winner at the end. There is no finish line, just packs of challengers hoping to see you fail.”
And enough would never be enough, Clara thought with a wistful sadness. August Faulkner would never have enough. “That sounds like a life of dissatisfaction and unhappiness.”
August scoffed. “Hardly. I find satisfaction and happiness in a great number of things.”
“Name one that doesn’t include money or calculating your net worth.”
“You.”
“Your Grace—”
“Sharing dinner with you. Dancing with you.” He took a step toward her. Her fingers tightened on the spoon as if her paltry weapon might be enough to keep him at a safe distance.
She was suddenly hot all over. “You’re changing the subject.”
“I was answering your questions.”
“Pardon my intrusion, Your Grace.” The interruption came from the same doorway through which Anne had vanished. Only this time it was Charleaux who stood in the frame, looking significantly more composed that the last time she had seen him, though worry shadowed his features. “Our guests are starting to ask questions,” he said with a grimace. “I will address them, of course, but your presence out in the public room and dining room would go a long way in quelling the rumors that have already started to fly. Rumors that might make our guests worry that they are sleeping in a den of murdering thieves.”
Clara heard August mutter a muffled curse. “Very well.” He turned to Clara. “We’re not done with this conversation.”
Clara swallowed, that addicting mixture of anticipation and desire that she had thought she’d vanquished threatening to drown her good sense. Her anger toward him might have faded, but that did not mean she was going to let her romantic daydreams lead her astray again.
“Tomorrow, then,” she said, relieved her voice was steady. “Perhaps after classes have been concluded for the day at Avondale?”
He caught her free hand in his and pressed his lips to the backs of her knuckles, leaving no room for misinterpretation. “Count on it, Miss Hayward.”
Chapter 13
August strode into the hall at Avondale, the door banging loudly as it slammed behind him. The sound reverberated off the polished marble of the floor and off the papered walls, shaking the crystals in the chandelier hanging just over his head.
Lady Tabitha was standing in the center of the hall, artfully arranging a vase of garden flowers and wildflowers that sat on the circular rosewood table in the middle of the entrance. She stopped, her hand frozen in the air, a crimson rose between her fingers.
“Good heavens, Your Grace,” she said, peering at him over a pair of round spectacles. “We have a butler who is very adept at opening and closing doors if you need assistance with that in the future.” There was a note of reproach in her voice.
August frowned, knowing he was behaving rather coarsely. He tried to gather his composure. “Where might I find Miss Hayward?”
He’d agreed yesterday to wait until her classes were over before seeking her out, but as the morning had crawled by, he’d run out of patience. Had he not been at the Silver Swan until the wee hours of the morning last night, he would have hunted her down then. It had taken his staff hours to right the mess left behind by Captain Buhler and his men. Worse, his discreet and not-so-discreet inquiries into what, or who, had brought them to the tavern in the first place had generated no answers. He supposed he should feel lucky that this was the first time the tavern had been the object of their scrutiny. August knew that private residences and barns were regularly searched.
“I believe she is in the studio with her class.” Lady Tabitha returned her attention to the flowers in front of her and tucked the rose into the vase.
“And where do I find the studio?” August demanded, already moving toward the stairs.
Lady Tabitha slid neatly sideways to block him with more speed than should have been possible. “I will fetch Miss Hayward for you, Your Grace,” she said.
“There is no need,” he said, stepping around her. “I can certainly fetch her myself. I need but a moment of her time.”
“Miss Hayward expressly asked not to be disturbed.” Lady Tabitha once again slid in front of him, blocking his path to the stairs, and August wondered if perhaps this woman shouldn’t be instructing a lesson in footwork at Gentleman Jackson’s.
“She’ll see me.”
“Your Grace—”
“Enjoy your morning, Lady Tabitha.” He stepped around her firmly again, moving at a clip that probably couldn’t be called a dignified walk. Lady Tabitha might be quick, but he had almost four decades on her. And some pride.