PART 2
“The gentleman in gray,” Julian said quietly.

Clara’s breath caught.

“By the supper-room.”

“Yes.”

“He’s looking at us now.”

“Then smile.”

She stared at him.

“What?”

“Smile at me.”

“I don’t know how.”

“You’ve been smiling at society all evening.”

“That was before.”

“Then pretend this is easier.”

His voice remained calm.

Almost bored.

To anyone watching, the Duke of Wexford was simply dancing with a young woman.

Nothing more.

Clara forced a smile.

Julian’s hand settled lightly against hers.

“Good.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

“I am convinced.”

“Of what?”

“That you are frightened.”

Her smile nearly disappeared.

“Don’t look at him.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You were.”

“Then stop me.”

She looked at Julian.

He was watching the room over her shoulder.

Not the gray coat.

Everyone else.

The musicians.

The doors.

The servants.

The mirrors.

The windows.

The people near the supper room.

He was taking in everything.

“How long?” he asked.

Clara swallowed.

“Six months.”

“Since when?”

“April.”

“What has he done?”

She hesitated.

“Nothing.”

Julian’s eyes finally met hers.

“Nothing?”

“That is exactly the problem.”

She told him.

The market.

The church.

The dressmaker.

The streets.

The letters.

She told him about the four pieces of paper hidden inside her bedroom drawer.

She told him how her mother had listened to everything and then asked whether Clara was quite certain she was well.

“She said I had been unhappy since winter.”

Julian’s expression hardened.

“And Mr. Vane?”

“My mother trusts him.”

“Why?”

“He handled my father’s affairs.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

“He carried my father’s coffin.”

Julian was silent.

Clara looked down.

“I know how it sounds.”

“No.”

She looked at him.

“You don’t?”

“It sounds like a woman who has been frightened for six months and has been repeatedly told that her fear is inconvenient.”

Her eyes stung.

She quickly looked away.

The music carried them into the next figure.

Julian spoke again.

“You’ve been counting his appearances.”

“Yes.”

“How many?”

“Nine.”

“And tonight?”

“Three.”

“Four.”

She looked up.

“What?”

“Four.”

He guided her through the turn.

“In twenty minutes, he has changed positions four times.”

Clara stared at him.

“You counted?”

“I count everything.”

“Why?”

“Because people lie.”

She almost missed the next step.

Julian continued.

“He has spoken to three different men. He has changed rooms four times. Each movement occurred less than thirty seconds after you moved.”

Clara’s throat тιԍнтened.

“You see?”

“I see.”

“He’s following me.”

“Perhaps.”

Her heart sank.

“Perhaps?”

Julian’s voice became quieter.

“I said perhaps because I haven’t finished watching him.”

The music continued.

Five minutes.

Then ten.

Then fifteen.

Julian never once looked directly at Silas Vane.

Instead, he watched reflections.

Movement.

Distances.

Patterns.

At last the final notes began.

Julian leaned closer.

“A man who follows a woman because he is fascinated by her looks at her.”

Clara said nothing.

“This man doesn’t.”

The music ended.

Applause rose around them.

Julian did not release her hand immediately.

“He has not looked directly at you once tonight.”

Clara felt suddenly cold.

“Then what does that mean?”

Julian’s eyes moved toward the gray coat.

“It means he isn’t following you because he wants to be noticed.”

Clara’s stomach тιԍнтened.

“Then why?”

“I don’t know yet.”

The answer frightened her more than certainty would have.

Julian escorted her back toward her mother.

“I shall call tomorrow.”

Clara looked at him.

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.”

“You might regret involving yourself.”

“I might.”

He paused.

“But I don’t think I will.”

He left her beside her mother.

For the rest of the evening, Silas Vane did not come within thirty feet of Clara.

She should have felt relieved.

Instead, she felt watched in an entirely different way.

At nine the next morning, a note arrived.

Her mother read it over breakfast.

“The Duke of Wexford asks whether he may call this afternoon.”

Clara’s hand тιԍнтened around her teacup.

“He said he would.”

Her mother looked up.

“You danced with him for twenty minutes last night.”

“Yes.”

“And you have said nothing.”

Clara looked toward the window.

Because there was something she had not told the duke.

Something she had only admitted to herself after midnight.

Her mother was not safe to tell.

Not because her mother would betray her.

Because Silas Vane was the man her mother trusted with everything.

The household accounts.

The estate repairs.

The coal deliveries.

The legal papers.

Every problem eventually pᴀssed through his hands.

And every secret told to her mother had a way of becoming known to him.

Clara had spent six months wondering whether she was imagining things.

Now she wondered something worse.

What if Silas Vane had never been following her at all?

What if he had been watching the house?

What if Clara herself was not the reason?

Her mother lowered the letter.

“Well?”

Clara looked at her.

“What?”

“Did the duke say anything to you last night?”

Clara opened her mouth.

Then stopped.

Because she remembered Julian’s final words.

I haven’t finished watching him.

And suddenly, she understood that the duke had not been merely protecting her on the dance floor.

He had been conducting an investigation.

Clara lowered her eyes to her untouched tea.

“Mama,” she said softly.

“Yes?”

“Do you remember the week Father died?”

Her mother’s face changed.

Only for an instant.

But Clara saw it.

And for the first time in six months, she realized something that frightened her more than the man in the gray coat.

Her mother was afraid, too.

She simply had never told Clara why.