A Duke in the Night(83)
Chapter 20
Outwardly, Clara’s return to London had been peculiarly ordinary.
Haverhall continued to operate as it always had, which meant that the routine of Clara’s life remained unchanged for the time being. The only difference being that all financial transactions and communications were handled through a solicitor. Harland had secured an investor, though he was tight-lipped about his identity, citing his desire to remain anonymous. It had been enough to clear them from debt and see the remaining ships refitted and crewed.
They had also received a letter from Boston, written by the captain of one of their missing ships, stating that both had taken damage on the way there, but that the damage had been minor, the cargo unharmed, and that they would be departing for England within a fortnight. They were expected back before the winter weather set in. The ships were too late to keep Strathmore Shipping intact, but Clara knew she should be thankful for small mercies.
The last days of summer had faded into fall, and Clara had started the term as she always had, Haverhall full of young London ladies anxious to partake in the usual curriculum. She was determined to enjoy whatever time she had left and make the most of it. She wasn’t entirely sure what she would do when the year was over, but the success of this year’s summer program was still fresh in her mind. Perhaps Haverhall would simply become a summer program, the classes small but the students still unique.
But despite her determination to stay positive and not wallow, she recognized that she had been different since she returned from Dover. The things that she used to find joy in seemed grayer, as if the color had been leached from them. She wasn’t sure if that was because the future was more uncertain or because she was missing August with an intensity so great it hurt. Missing turning to him to share something. Missing his conversation, his laughter, his touch. Missing everything about him. She had thought she had been prepared to relegate their time together to memory. As she had the waltz they had once shared in their youth.
Except it hadn’t been that easy.
She had visited the museum since her return and had stood in front of the relief of the Lapith and centaur, lost in her memories and her thoughts. Stood for so long, in fact, that one of the attendants had approached her and asked if she was unwell. She had startled, her cheeks flushing, wondering if perhaps she was. August hadn’t called at Haverhall, nor had their paths crossed anywhere in London. Distance was easier, she supposed, in some respects. It would be infinitely harder to have him close and untouchable. And it would make the regrets that continued to linger even harder to ignore.
So when the message from the Holloway residence had arrived, Clara’s reaction had been instantaneous and intense, turmoil reigning supreme. The butterflies stormed back, banging against the inside of her rib cage. Longing pooled hard and fast, deep within her, even as her mind intoned caution and curbed hope. She opened the neatly sealed missive and realized her hands were shaking. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, feeling foolish.
The note was clear and concise, just as she imagined all correspondence from the Duke of Holloway to be. It asked her to attend him at her earliest convenience. There was no hint as to what he wished to see her about. No statements that he missed her, no declarations of affection. No suggestions that anyone could ever misconstrue as anything other than cool and impersonal. But it didn’t matter.
Because the regrets that lingered had told her everything that she needed to know. Those festering regrets had made it clear that she had fallen utterly in love with the Duke of Holloway. She should have told him that in Dover. She shouldn’t have said goodbye without telling him how she really felt. She should have told him everything.
And now, it would seem, she had the perfect opportunity to rid herself of those regrets. She didn’t know what it would bring, but she was done hiding behind excuses.
*
The Holloway residence was a town house located in an older, established neighborhood, a location still distinguished and elegant, if not new. It would seem the duke had bypassed the more popular addresses, the wildly expensive squares where prices reflected nothing except the novelty of the residences. Clara almost caught herself smiling. August Faulkner would pay for realized luxury but he would not pay for affected vanity. How very like him.
The interior of his home was exactly as she had expected as well. The finishings were fine but practical. The furniture was well made but not extravagant. The entire place exuded wealth but not excess. Clara was shown not into a drawing room but into a cavernous study by a quietly efficient butler. Tall bookshelves lined all the walls except the one that boasted a lit hearth, the fire lending light and a welcome warmth to the room. A heavy, masculine-looking desk sat just to the right of the hearth, its surface covered with papers. The entire room, in fact, had a very masculine feel to it, except, oddly enough, the second desk that sat just to the left. This desk looked new, and it was made of carved rosewood. It was something that, despite its practical, functional construction, looked as if it would be more at home in a lady’s morning room.
Clara wandered over to it, taking in the neat piles of ledgers, an assortment of what looked like receipts, a small collection of writing tools, and lists in a familiar feminine handwriting. Anne’s desk, then, by all appearances. Clara wondered if it had always been here. Or perhaps August had given Anne back her sense of purpose. Either way, Clara was intrigued.