As You Are (17 page)

Clara pushed out a tight breath. “So either his goal is to let the law do away with me or imprison me again himself in the home I only barely managed to escape?”

“I believe so.”

She dropped her head into her hands. This was her nightmare, the very thing she’d feared the past six months. How hard she’d worked to stay hidden, to choose a place she thought Mr. Bentford wouldn’t look for them. She’d done something almost unspeakably frightening in fleeing Bentford Manor. She’d gone out into the world alone to create a new life for herself. All that effort. All her hopes. Crumbling.

“Our best course of action is to prevent the case from being heard,” Jason said.

“How do we do that?” Corbin asked.

There had to be a way. There simply had to be.

“How quickly can you dispatch an express to Philip?” Jason asked.

“As quickly as you can write it,” Corbin said. “But . . . but I do not think he can leave Scotland yet.”

“He doesn’t have to leave,” Jason said. “A letter from the Earl of Lampton should give the circuit judge second thoughts about the case presented to him.”

“I’ll write one as well,” Crispin said. “And I am certain Lord Henley, my brother-in-law,” he explained, apparently for Clara’s benefit, “would add his voice.”

“I see now my role in this,” Lady Marion said from beside Clara. “I am assuming you wish me to send an express to my cousin, the Marquess of Grenton.”

Jason nodded. “Precisely. And to the Duke of Hartley.”

Clara snapped her head up. “The Duke of Hartley?”

“Do you know him?” Jason asked, studying her closely.

“Only as a passing acquaintance. He has a small estate in Sussex, not ten miles from Bentford Manor.”

“Would he be acquainted with Mr. Bentford?”

“I think so, though I don’t believe he approved of either Mr. Bentford.”

“Perfect.” Jason’s look of confidence was remarkably reassuring.

Clara found herself breathing a little easier.

“I will write to Roderick this instant.” Lady Marion rose from her seat and crossed to the desk.

“Will it be enough?” Corbin voiced the question Clara herself was silently asking.

“If His Grace will testify, even in writing, against Mr. Bentford’s character, and Philip, Crispin, Henley, and Grenton will throw their weight behind a formal objection to the charges,” Jason said, “there are few judges who would continue with the proceedings.”

They were using rank and titles and influence, Clara realized. She had heard of such a thing but never imagined anyone doing so on her behalf, especially not a roomful of men. Why would they do that? She was nothing to them.

“Wouldn’t our . . . knowing Mrs. Bentford has allies . . .” Corbin said to Jason. “Wouldn’t that alone be enough for Mr. Bentford to not pursue the charges?”

“It might,” Jason said.

“It won’t.” Clara heard a tremor in her voice. Every face in the room turned to her again. “He doesn’t like to be thwarted. He is arrogant and proud and—” She took a breath, trying to calm herself. “He would continue to try simply because he has been humiliated. Because he has lost, he will feel he has to prove he can win. And even if that weren’t enough, he needs the money. From all I could gather, he needs it desperately.”

“Horrid man,” Lady Marion muttered.

“I will write to Lord Devereaux as well,” Crispin said with a look of determination. “He has some influence at King’s Bench and might be able to put a little fear into whomever is conducting the assizes in Sussex next month.”

A flurry of activity erupted: quills flying across parchment, servants being instructed to prepare the fastest mounts in the Havenworth stables. Most of the express missives would be sent to London, which simplified the campaign. Catherine entered in the midst of the flurry.

“Mater has set out tea in the sitting room,” she said quietly to Clara. “She is convinced the boys are starving you up here.”

The boys.
Clara looked around the room at Crispin and the Jonquils. There was far too much drive and power in the room for her to possibly think of them as
the boys.

Her gaze settled on Corbin.
Dear Corbin.
He’d come to her rescue. He’d held her tenderly. Now he and his brothers were attempting to save her once more.

“They are a force to be reckoned with, aren’t they?” Catherine looked around with obvious familial affection. The Jonquils, it seemed, had adopted Catherine as one of their own.

“They are writing to the people they know who have the most influence,” Clara explained, feeling herself blush beneath her pallor. She didn’t feel worthy of their efforts but didn’t dare object. They were, possibly quite literally, saving her life. “They hope it will be enough to have the charges against me dropped.”

Catherine crossed to where her husband was writing a letter. “Crispin, dear.”

“Yes, love?” he replied without looking up.

“To whom are you writing?”

“Devereaux,” he answered, continuing to write.

“You really ought to write to the Duke of Kielder.”

The entire room grew instantly silent, all eyes turning to Crispin. Even Clara had heard of the Duke of Kielder. He was legendary. His influence was limitless; even the uppermost levels of society stood in awe of the duke. No one contradicted him. No one dared earn his wrath. It was said he could command the kingdom with a single snap of his fingers.

“You know the Duke of Kielder?” Jason asked, awe in his voice.

Clara had never heard Jason sound impressed.

“We have worked together on several bills in Lords.”

“Would he add his weight to this?” Jason asked.

A smile spread across Crispin’s face. “I think he would.”

“No one gainsays the Duke of Kielder,” Catherine said.

“I have told you before, Crispin,” Jason said. “Your wife is a genius.”

Catherine colored prettily. Crispin kissed her quite unabashedly and then quickly finished his letter and began another.

“Mrs. Bentford.” Jason turned to Clara. “I believe you may rest easy now. It seems you are to have the entire House of Lords on your side.”

Corbin felt entirely useless. He had little interaction with the aristocracy or the influential in society. His brothers were going to save Clara. He was grateful for that, more than he could possibly say, but he wished he could do more.

Only willpower and his brothers’ continuing insistence that beating the life out of Robert Bentford would not help Clara’s precarious situation kept Corbin from hunting down the dog. No wonder Clara never spoke of her past. Everything she
had
told them occurred
after
her husband had died. Edmund described the late Mr. Bentford as a monster. The rogue had broken the boy’s arm. Broken his arm!

The letters had been dispatched. Jason himself had left for London. Crispin and Catherine would follow in the morning. Crispin had written to the Duke of Kielder—the charges would never stand if Kielder spoke against them. Layton and Marion had sent word to Grenton and Hartley.

Everyone had helped except for him, and it was
his
family that was in trouble—they felt like his family, Clara and the children.

The children.
Corbin would forever be haunted by the sheer terror he’d heard in Alice’s cry when she’d caught sight of Mr. Bentford. He needed to check on them, be sure they were resting and unafraid.

Catherine had whisked Clara from the library nearly two hours earlier, no doubt at Mater’s insistence. Clara had looked terribly pale and worn. Corbin hoped Mater had seen to it that Clara had something to eat and went to bed. He would have suggested it himself, but he’d needed to dispatch the letters necessary to ensure her freedom.

Corbin climbed the stairs to the nursery wing.

Edmund had said his stomach ached when Corbin had left him with Caroline’s nursemaid. No doubt he was ill from worry and tension. He hoped Edmund was feeling better. He hoped Alice had stopped crying. He hoped Clara would allow him to hold her again.

Corbin could still remember how she’d felt in his arms, as if she was made to be there.
His other half.
He’d let her go very reluctantly, knowing he’d likely never have another opportunity to hold her.

He knew which room in the nursery wing Edmund had been given and crossed directly to it. A light burned inside. He stepped through the doorway. Edmund was sleeping, curled in a ball on his side on the bed. In a chair very near him sat Clara, Alice asleep in her arms.

Corbin stood still and quiet, taking in the scene. It was the closest he’d ever come to seeing perfection.

The illusion dissolved at the sound of a muffled sob, one he knew did not belong to either of the children.

“Clara?”

She looked up at him, and he saw tears streaming down her face. Pain pierced him at the sight of her hurting like she was. Even in the retelling of her encounters with Robert Bentford, she hadn’t cried so openly, without any effort to control her emotions. Corbin crossed to where she sat and gently took Alice from her arms. He laid the girl on the bed beside Edmund, careful not to wake her as he slipped the blanket around her as well.

Clara hadn’t risen when Corbin turned back toward her. He held his hand out to her, wondering if she would accept it. He’d been less than heroic during her ordeal, letting his brothers undertake the rescue efforts. She might very well have written him off as useless.

She hesitated only a moment before placing her hand in his and allowing him to help her to her feet. Holding her hand, he discovered, was not nearly enough. He wiped the moisture from her cheeks with the heel of his hand. She closed her eyes. She was still too pale, her eyes red-rimmed from prolonged crying.

“What can I do, Clara?” Corbin asked, desperate to be useful.

She looked up at him, anguish in her eyes.

Corbin slipped his hand from hers and cupped her face. He’d never kissed a woman before, something most gentlemen would never admit to. He’d often wondered if, when the opportunity arose, he would even know what to do. But in that moment, instinct simply took over.

He gently pressed his lips to hers, holding her face in his hands. Slowly, gently, he kissed her, breathing in the sweet scent of her. Every thought fled from his mind, every sound silenced. He was aware of nothing but her.

His hand slid from her face to her shoulders, then down her back, his arms wrapping around her and holding her close. Clara didn’t pull back, didn’t object. He felt her grasp his waistcoat as she kissed him in return.

“Mister?”

Clara broke away first, though she didn’t flee his embrace. Corbin was certain he was as red as a strawberry.

“Yes, Alice?” He kept his arms around Clara as he glanced at her daughter.

She still appeared half asleep. “Kisses for me too?” She held her arms up in an obvious request.

If he hadn’t been red before, Corbin certainly was then.
Kisses too.
Obviously, they’d had an audience.

He met Clara’s gaze. She gave him a small, tremulous smile.

He moved to the bed, hunching down beside Alice, and kissed her forehead. “Good night, sweetheart,” Corbin whispered.

“G’night, Mister.” She curled up beside Edmund.

Corbin smoothed back her hair, watching her for a brief moment. She seemed to have recovered to some degree from her earlier ordeal. He hoped Edmund had as well.

Corbin rose and turned to Clara. She was no longer there.

“Clara?” he quietly called after her, not wanting to disturb the children. She wasn’t outside the door in the schoolroom.

Had she fled from him? Certainly his kiss hadn’t been so unwanted, so unpleasant. No. She had returned the gesture and, as far as his inexperience could ascertain, had enjoyed it. Corbin’s heart sank. She’d had a difficult evening. She’d been tired and upset. Had he taken advantage of that? Had he pressed unwanted attentions on her?

Corbin closed his eyes and leaned against a wall of the nursery, hoping he hadn’t ruined everything with that kiss, a kiss he knew he would never forget.

* * *

More than a moment passed after Clara awoke the next morning before she realized where she was. The events of the evening before rushed over her. She was tempted to simply crawl under the blanket again and pretend it was all a horrible dream.

You are no helpless hothouse flower, wilting at the first difficulty.
She had set out on her own and saved herself and her children—at least temporarily—from her brother-in-law. She would not sit by helplessly when there was a problem to be addressed. The Jonquils were helping her. She didn’t know their reasons, but she was grateful for all they’d done. She would, she vowed, help them in any way she could.

She sat up, her head faintly aching from a night of weeping. She walked barefooted across the cool, wood floor to a dressing table. Her eyes were a little puffy but far better than she would have anticipated.

“Are you awake, then?” a voice asked from the doorway.

Clara looked over to see a servant girl, probably no more than sixteen or seventeen years old, smiling kindly at her.

“Mr. Jonquil had your things sent over this morning.” The girl crossed to the clothespress and opened the doors. Her clothes, probably very nearly all of them, hung neatly inside.

Clara crossed to the clothespress herself and opened the drawers. Her underthings and stockings sat inside.

“The children?” she asked quietly.

“Their things as well,” the girl confirmed. “Mr. Jonquil said you would want your things here. ’Specially the children’s. ’Twould make them feel more at home.”

“It certainly will,” Clara said.

“Now, what would you like to wear today? I’m to be your maid, if you’ve no objection.”

“None whatsoever.” She hadn’t had a lady’s maid since Mr. Bentford’s death. “What’s your name?”

“Fanny,” the girl answered.

Fanny? Why did that sound familiar?

“Thank you, Fanny.”

An hour later, Clara made her way through the long corridors of Havenworth, having broken her fast in her room and looking, in her opinion, better than she had in some time.