“A solicitor is involved?” If a twenty-guinea debt didn’t ruin them, a lengthy lawsuit certainly would. Either way, things were far worse than Clara had imagined. “Do you know, Mr. Trent, I believe I shall have that cup of tea, after all.”

Mr. Trent immediately waved a hand to one of the tavern maids and ordered a pot of tea, along with a plate of bread and butter. It was brought almost at once.

Clara poured for both of them, rather amazed at the steadiness of her hands. “You had best start at the beginning.”

Mr. Trent stirred sugar into his cup with an agitated clink of his teaspoon. “You’ll forgive me, Miss Hartwright. I never thought I’d be the one doing the explaining. I confess I’m that put out by it.”

“As am I, sir. But here we are.”

“Quite.” He lay down his spoon. “The truth is, I don’t know the whole of the story myself. Simon has been extraordinarily tight-lipped about the business. And none of us were there that night. So we only have his word on the matter. And that of a half dozen or so witnesses who appeared on the scene in the aftermath. You see…your brother was involved in a brawl.”

Her teacup froze halfway to her mouth. A brawl? Simon? It was impossible. She slowly lowered her cup. “I don’t believe it.”

“It’s the truth, ma’am. It happened a month ago, at the railway station. That is to say, it began at the railway station and then made its way into the street. The altercation was, er, rather violent.”

She stared at Mr. Trent, at a complete loss for words. Her brother didn’t have a violent bone in his body. He was a scholar. A lover of books, and nature. He was no brawler.

“It was late in the evening,” Mr. Trent went on. “Which was a blessing. Fewer witnesses, you know. But the authorities were on the scene in a trice. And it looked to them as though Simon was the aggressor.”

“He can’t have been.”

“Oh, but he was. He admitted to it.” Mr. Trent helped himself to a slice of buttered bread. “As much as I can understand it, he saw this fellow at the station, and the two of them exchanged harsh words. They’d both been drinking, and”—he shrugged—“one thing led to another.”

“Are you claiming that my brother is some variety of violent drunkard?”

Mr. Trent gave her a bemused look. “A drunkard? Lord no. Simon can hold his ale better than any of us.”

“Then why—”

“It wasn’t the drink that caused the dustup. It was whatever the blackguard said to him.”

“My brother wouldn’t just go about assaulting strangers willy-nilly, sir. It doesn’t matter what they said to him. He has more countenance than that, and a great deal more self-control. Whatever he’s being accused of—”