know His Grace will wish to be informed of your arrival,’ Mrs Stratton said gently. ‘Later. I will ask Smithins to let him know you are here. In the meantime, may I show you to the parlour?’
Confused, Claire could do no more than smile and nod. She followed the housekeeper through the kitchen, with its gleaming pots and huge open fire. The chef looked up from a pot over the stove, his dark gaze meeting hers with an intensity that sent trickles of heat through her blood.
Unnerved by her strange reaction, she looked away and hurried after the housekeeper, along the servants’ corridor to the columned entrance hall and up the stairs into the family wing.
As they walked, Claire’s heartbeat returned to a more moderate rate and she was able to take in the familiar sights of her old home. Hope once more began to build. She ruthlessly tamped it down. The duke might yet toss her out of his house.
And if he did, somehow she would manage.
The small parlour was light and airy and faced south to get the afternoon sun. The blue paint on the walls contrasted delightfully with the heavy white and gilt ceiling mouldings. Landscapes and the occasional portrait decorated the walls, and tables were littered with Greek and Roman artefacts collected by her father as a young man on his grand tour.
She sat down on the gold-and-blue-striped sofa beside the hearth and Jane wriggled up beside her. ‘Do you think they will bring us something to eat soon?’
‘We can hope.’ She cupped her daughter’s face in her palm and gave her cheek a pat. The child was worth any amount of humiliation, if humiliation was what she had in store. For all she knew, Rothermere might still hold a grudge for her disobedience. Their ages were too far apart for closeness and he had always seemed more like an uncle than a brother.
The door opened. The butler, old Mr Lumsden Claire was pleased to see, ushered in Joe the footman carrying a silver tray. Lumsden proceeded to set a small table in front of her and the footman placed the tray on it.
The tray held the ducal silver service and crested china plates displaying the daintiest sandwiches and most artistically prepared sweetmeats Claire could ever remember seeing.
Her stomach clenched with visceral pleasure at the sight of the food. Jane eyed the plates like a starving wolf, or rather a starving child. Which she was.
‘Will that be all, madam?’ Lumsden asked. His voice was carefully blank. In that blankness was a wealth of disapproval.
Her appetite fled. The butler would remember her fall from favour, of course, as no doubt Mrs Stratton had. He would know she was returning cap in hand and that left a bitter taste in her mouth that did not go with dainty sandwiches and spun sugar arrayed in a fountain of colour.
‘Thank you, that is quite sufficient,’ she said calmly.
The butler bowed and left.
A coiled spring could not have been tenser than her daughter as she stared at the food on the tray. ‘Are we really allowed to eat those?’ She pointed at the sweetmeats. ‘They look too pretty.’
Claire wanted to cry. ‘Yes. They are for us. Take what you want.’ She handed her one of the small frilly edged plates. ‘Would you like tea or milk?’
‘Milk, please.’ Jane’s hand hovered over the sweetmeats.
‘Try some sandwiches first.’
Disappointment filled the child’s face. Claire couldn’t bear it. ‘Take whatever you want.’
The little girl filled her plate with sugarplums and sugared almonds and comfits. She popped something dusted with sugar in her mouth. She closed her eyes. ‘Oh, good,’ she said after a couple of chews and a swallow.
Claire poured tea for herself and milk for her daughter.
Her teacup rattled in its saucer as she picked it up. Nerves. Weariness. She sipped at the scalding brew. It was perfect. Brewed only once too. What was she thinking? Dukes didn’t need to reuse their tea leaves.
‘Aren’t you going to try them?’ Jane asked, pointing at the tray.
The thought of putting food in her mouth made Claire feel ill. How could she eat when their fate hung in the balance?
Hopefully the duke would see her today and she could have their interview over and done and know where she stood.
A moment later the door opened. Her heart seemed to still in her chest as she steeled herself to meet the duke. But it was only the kindly Mrs Stratton, her blue eyes a bit misty, the smile on her face still tense.
‘His Grace cannot see you today, Mrs Holte.’
‘Cannot?’ Her heart felt as heavy as lead. ‘Or will not?’
‘Smithins says his melancholy is bad today. He rarely sees anyone at all. The vicar sometimes. Lord Giles when he must.’
Numbness enveloped her. That was that, then. No help here. She looked at the plate of food and wondered if she could somehow slip some of the sandwiches into her reticule for later. She had enough money for one night at an inn, but not for supper.
She’d have to find work again. Somewhere else. Not nearby. The duke’s pride would never allow that. Nor would her own. She would never let her family see the depths to which she had fallen. ‘Please present my good wishes to the duke.’ Claire rose to her feet.
‘Smithins said he is sure the duke would be pleased to see you on a better day.’
Smithins, the duke’s valet, had been with her brother since before Claire was born and it was kind of him to offer hope, but there would be no coming back.
‘I will have your old room prepared for you,’ Mrs Stratton said. ‘And the adjoining one for Miss Jane.’
Her heart stilled. Her spine stiffened. ‘Is this on the duke’s instruction?’
Mrs Stratton cheekbones stained pink. ‘I can only guess at what His Grace might instruct us, Mrs Holte, but I know Lord Giles would insist.’ The woman tilted her head. ‘That is unless you have other plans?’
They could stay. She felt suddenly weak. ‘No. No other plans. Not today.’
‘Dinner is at five,’ Mrs Stratton said. ‘His Grace keeps country hours.’
A roof over her head for the night and a dinner promised. It seemed too good to be true. She just wished she could be certain of Crispin’s eventual forgiveness. That he would agree to give them a home. Only then could she feel easy in her mind. Or at least as easy as she could be until she had settled matters with Ernie Pratt.
Chapter Two
Two more finicky appetites to tempt. Andre’s hands fisted at his sides as he looked at the tray returned from the drawing room. The sandwiches were untouched and only one plate had been used even though the gaunt woman and child he’d seen in the kitchen had looked half starved. Madame Holte had eaten nothing and the child had eaten sweetmeats. The more he knew of them, the more he thought the English aristocracy were completely mad.
Ire
