She addressed Mr. Clayton, who was gazing out at the passing scenery. “Sir, I came upon your valet earlier in the private parlor. At the time, he referred to you as ‘Your Grace.’ But I find it difficult to believe you’re an archbishop. Unless the religious clergy in England are very well heeled.”

He turned the full force of his gaze on her, one of his dark eyebrows cocked. “It is the proper form of address for one of my stature. I am Hadrian Ames, the Duke of Clayton.”

Duke?

The news jolted Natalie. Even in America, she’d heard of the highest rank of aristocrats who ruled English society and possessed vast riches, all of it inherited in a long line dating back centuries. Here, one’s class depended upon heredity instead of hard work. The concept of possessing such wealth and power by a mere accident of birth disturbed her innate sense of fairness.

“You’re not Mr. Clayton, then.”

“No. I’m afraid you assumed that, and I saw no pressing reason to correct you.”

Miffed, she sat back and studied him. Of course he wouldn’t tell her, he’d probably deemed her unworthy of the truth. No, that judgment was uncharitable given her scant knowledge of his character. Perhaps it was just that he wished to avoid any more fawning.

Remembering the buzz of interest in the taproom when he’d walked to the door, she realized that all the other guests had been privy to his exalted stature. But for her, there had been no opportunity to gossip with anyone. The previous evening, she and Leo had arrived late and had taken their meal in their room, after which he’d run downstairs to hide in the parlor while she’d gone to the kitchen to fetch his bathwater. Once she’d found him again, it had been nearly bedtime.

That was one mystery solved, at least. It explained why Mr. Clayton—the duke—had appeared disconcerted when she’d offered her hand instead of a curtsy. He would be accustomed to obeisance from all those beneath his lofty rank. Perhaps it was a blessing she’d soon see the last of him, lest such homage be expected of her now, too.

“I cannot pretend to know much about the English aristocracy,” she admitted. “What am I to call you, then, if not Mr. Clayton? I cannot imagine myself saying Your Grace to anyone other than clergy.”

He lifted his hand in a dismissing wave. “Duke will do. Or simply Clayton. Whichever one you prefer.”

“All right, then, Clayton it shall be, though that, too, seems improper without the mister. It appears there are a number of things about the nobility for me to learn. In America, we are more egalitarian, you see.”

Leo had been playing with his toy ship, but he piped up, “What’s egal-i-tar-ian?” He sounded the word out carefully.

She turned her head to smile at him. “It means that we do not have dukes and kings and nobles who inherit their position by virtue of birth. In America, one’s success in life is entirely up to each person. You must work hard to raise yourself to a position of authority.”