Sometime later she was awakened by the sound of a knock at her door. She sat bolt upright in the bed. Outside, the sun had lowered in the sky, bathing her room in shadows. She lifted a hand to her rumpled hair. Goodness. She must have fallen asleep.

“Yes?”

“There’s a gentleman come for you, miss,” the tavernkeeper’s wife called out. “He’s waiting in the dining room.”

“Thank you!” Clara called back. “I’ll be right down!”

She scrambled out of bed, swiftly combing her hair, slipping on her boots, and tugging her skirt and bodice back into order. Her hands brushed over the wrinkled fabric. There was nothing she could do about it. And Simon wasn’t likely to care anyway.

Making her way down to the tavern’s public dining room, she heard a chorus of deep, masculine voices rising from the tap room. A crowd of gentlemen must have arrived while she was asleep. They sounded a trifle rowdy.

The dining room was less boisterous. Two older gentlemen sat together at one table, a small family at another. And near the back, not far from the fire blazing in the cavernous stone hearth, a young gentleman was seated alone. As she entered, he leapt to his feet.

“Miss Hartwright?” He crossed the room to greet her. “I’m Oliver Trent. A friend of Simon’s.”

She looked around for her brother but didn’t see him. “He’s not with you?”

“Alas, no. He was called away yesterday and doesn’t return until tomorrow.” Mr. Trent tugged at his cravat. He was a slim fellow, with a shock of chestnut hair. “Will you sit down?” He motioned to a small table. “I can order tea, or coffee if you—”

“No, thank you.” She sank into a chair. “I’d prefer you simply tell me the worst of it. I’ve come a very long way.”

He sat down across from her. “How much do you know?”

“Only that my mother believes Simon is in danger of being rusticated.” Her words were met with silence. “Is it true?”

“I believe we’ve managed to prevent that, at least. I’ve convinced him to offer a written apology, both to the school and to the gentleman involved. All that remains is to speak with the local authorities.”

Clara’s breath stopped in her chest. “The authorities?”

“A mere formality. That, and twenty guineas in compensation. But we’ve taken up a collection, and—” He broke off with a look of concern. “I beg your pardon, ma’am. Are you quite all right?”

Twenty guineas?

She paled at the very thought of it. Families had been brought to ruin by less.

“Compensation for what?” she asked.

“Lord knows. It’s a figure the fellow’s solicitor has come up with. But there’s nothing to worry about. We’ve taken up a collection, and—”