Clara recalled how badly her hands had shaken as she’d held the newspaper a week later, desperately scanning the employment advertisements. That there was a listing for a lady’s companion was nothing short of a miracle. Clara responded to it at once, and within a fortnight, was on a train to York—as far away from Hertfordshire as she could manage.

She’d thought never to see Andrew Bryce-Chetwynde again. Never to hear his name.

And yet it would have been a lie to say she hadn’t thought of him in the years that followed. Indeed, she’d spent that first six months in York going over and over every interaction the two of them had had, trying to light on the instance she’d first misconstrued things. The moment she’d diverged onto a course that had very nearly ruined her, and her mother and brother along with her.

She’d never discovered it.

Which just went to show that her own judgment was faulty. That she’d spent too much time with her head in a book, daydreaming about epic poems and legends.

She’d resolved then and there to be done with such foolishness. If her imagination was so powerful it could make her see things that weren’t there, she couldn’t afford to keep feeding it. Better to starve it of its sustenance. Of poetry, novels, and plays. To force it to function, instead, on a diet of provable scientific facts. Everything sensible and orderly, fitting into neat rows and columns.

Coins clinked onto the table as Mr. Trent settled the bill for their tea. “Do you have relatives hereabouts?”

“Why do you ask?”

“You’ll need somewhere to stay. I’d offer you a room myself, but…” He stuck a finger into his cravat, tugging the rumpled linen as he cleared his throat. “The lads and I have rented a hunting lodge for the holiday. It’s no place for an unmarried lady.”

“You’ve no need to trouble yourself. I’m already established here. I see no reason I shouldn’t remain for the night.”

“At the Bell and Swan?”

She cast a pointed look around. “It appears respectable enough.”

“Yes, but wouldn’t you rather return to wherever it is you came from? It’s still early. I could easily find you a cab. And Simon would—”

“My brother can discuss matters with me directly when he returns. I gather he’s one of the lads with whom you’ve rented your hunting lodge?”

“He is.”

A fresh flicker of anger sparked in Clara’s breast at the imagined expense of such a thing. “Then you may tell him where I am, and that I shall remain here until he sees fit to call on me.”

“Simon won’t like it,” Mr. Trent said before taking his leave. “He’ll rake me over the coals for not putting you directly back onto the train.”