A Duke in the Night(84)

There was no sign of the duke, or Anne for that matter, and Clara wandered over toward the hearth and August’s desk. She knew she should return to the long sofa on which the butler had indicated she should wait. But the emotion and restless energy humming through her made it impossible to sit still. She didn’t know what August had summoned her for. Didn’t know what he wanted from her. But she was trying to remain composed. Trying not to hope.

She stood near the side of his desk, staring at the glowing coals. A loud crash somewhere outside the study made her jump and whirl, her hip knocking a long, rolled sheaf of papers off the side of the desk. Clara put a hand to her chest, feeling foolish at the nervous tension that had her strung so tight. A maid hurried by the open door in the direction of the disturbance, a broom and pail in her hand, and Clara bent to retrieve the roll of paper from the floor. As she did, her eyes fell on the top corner, a word written in ink that had bled through to the back of the top sheet, easily distinguishable. Haverhall.

She stood, the heavy roll still in her hand, and gently placed it back on the desk as if it were a viper. The rolled sheets were huge, the sort that architects and shipbuilders used. Clara poked at them, even as something in her mind was screaming at her to turn around and leave. To turn around and walk away and not look at what was in front of her. Once she saw what was there, it would be impossible to unsee it. But it was already too late.

She took a deep breath and flicked the edge with her fingers, and the paper rolled out with a soft thump as it reached the end of his desk.

“Haverhall” was written in small letters along the bottom of the paper, followed by “Wilds and Busby, Brighton. July, 1819.” She understood exactly what she was looking at even as she understood that it seemed August had solicited the services of architects and planners long before he had ever ridden for Dover. She swallowed with difficulty, her throat suddenly constricted and a feeling of sick certainty rising in her stomach. She smoothed the wide documents flat with her palm.

Across the paper she saw a drawing of the property that she knew like the back of her hand. The building that housed the school, the old carriage house and mews. The gardens that spilled out from behind her office and the pond near the northwest corner where the land dipped and the oaks grew plentiful and tall. The drive that curved graciously in front of the school and straightened toward the road, lined with majestic beeches.

Clara pushed the top sheet away, and underneath she found another drawing of Haverhall. Only this one she didn’t recognize. Where the school now was, rows of town houses swept gracefully over the space, forming perfectly ordered squares. The carriage house and mews had also vanished, replaced with a central garden that was beautifully symmetrical and soothing, walking paths surrounding what looked like a fountain. The pond was gone too, more town houses wrapping around another paved square, a wide avenue marching across the center. It was a stunning plan, a work of art rich in detail and elegance. And it shattered her heart into a million pieces.

Clara didn’t need to be an architect or a banker to understand that the development staring at her in stark lines and neat measurements would be worth a king’s ransom. Perhaps not now, perhaps not even in five years, but soon. The stench of money fairly bled from the very lines of the drawings, and even as gutted as she felt, she could recognize the brilliance of the plan. Developing Haverhall would make August richer than God.

There is no amount of money that will ever make my brother feel worthy. Or safe.

She heard Anne’s words echo in her mind, though Clara had not truly heard her then. But with the proof staring her in the face, she heard her clearly now. She had wanted so badly to believe in him. He had been forced into honesty about his intentions toward Strathmore Shipping, but given the choice, he hadn’t been honest about this. And he had known what Haverhall meant to her. But in the end it hadn’t mattered. She hadn’t mattered. Not enough.

She would never be enough for a man like him.

“Clara?” It was his voice from the doorway. “What are you doing in here?”

Looking at the truth of us, she wanted to say.

“Just taking a look at the plans for Haverhall,” she managed, and the steadiness of her voice surprised her. Because if there was ever a time that she might wish to act like a hysterical, weepy female, now would be it. “Imagine my surprise to discover that you are the owner of a school.” She heard his boots on the floor as he crossed the room, though she didn’t turn around. “I received your summons,” she continued. “Was it this that you wanted me to see?”

“No.”

“What does your sister think of these plans?”

He came to a stop behind her. “Anne doesn’t know.”

“Ah. You really are good at subterfuge, Your Grace. Have you considered a career as a spy? The navy, I’m sure, would be happy to have you.”

“Clara—”

“Does anyone know?” Not that it mattered, really. Eventually everyone would. Legacies died, priorities shifted, and progress ruled. The rational part of her knew that if August hadn’t bought this land, it would have been bought by another who would have eventually seen what August had. But another hadn’t kissed her on a stone fence with a sunset at their backs. Another hadn’t danced with her in a studio before he made love to her. Another hadn’t made her believe that she might have what she had long ago thought lost to her.