“But this fellow wasn’t a stranger, Miss Hartwright. Simon knew him. Or used to know him. He was Simon’s old tutor from Hertfordshire. A gentleman by the name of Bryce-Chetwynde. Perhaps you remember him?”

The remaining blood drained from Clara’s face. If not for the strength of her corset holding her upright in her chair, she might have crumpled straight to the tavern floor.

Andrew Bryce-Chetwynde.

It was a name she hadn’t heard spoken in four long years. One she’d hoped never to hear again.

She pressed a hand to her midriff, willing herself to breathe. “Yes,” she said at last in a voice quite unlike her own. “I remember him.”

Chapter 20

North Devon, England
December 1860

Neville ran a brush and currycomb over Adventurer’s dappled neck and shoulder, loosening the hair from his thick winter coat. Rain pattered gently on the roof of the stables. The storm had passed sooner than expected, leaving the cliff road swimming in rainwater and knee-deep in mud—but passable. Only that morning, Danvers had pronounced it so.

And now, Neville could leave.

The possibility of it had been preying on his mind since the day Clara departed for Cambridge.

It was a ridiculous idea.

What need had Clara of him? She was intelligent and competent. Capable of taking care of herself. Who was he to interfere? Not her brother or any other sort of relation. He was only her friend.

Only. As if it were nothing very important.

“Friendship is a precious thing,” she’d said.

Infinitely precious. He hadn’t realized quite how much her friendship had meant until she’d gone.

“The turning isn’t as swampy as I feared.” Justin’s deep voice sounded from the entrance to the stables. He entered with Danvers at his side. The two of them had been out inspecting the road. “You don’t think the wheels will get stuck?”

“I reckon we could add more crushed stone,” Danvers said. “It would bind it up nice.”

Justin nodded once. “See to it.”

Danvers disappeared down the aisle, shouting for two of the grooms.

Justin lingered to address Neville. “The dogs aren’t with you?”

“They’re in the kitchen b-by the fire.” The Cook, Mrs. Whitlock, had given them each a bone. Earlier, when Neville had left, Bertie had looked up from his, but he hadn’t followed. Some dogs did better in a pack, and the little pug was one of them. He was beginning to take his cues from Paul and Jonesy.

“Good thing,” Justin said. “It’s vile out here.”

“Less than it was.”

“True. Miss Hartwright was wise to leave when she did. Lord knows what state the road might have been in if the storm hadn’t passed.”

Neville focused on brushing Adventurer. Tried to focus. “She’ll…have arrived by n-now.”