“It’s all right,” he murmured again. He sat her carefully on the bed and made short work of removing her cloak and gloves. Crouching in front of her, he took her hands and warmed them briskly between his own. They were like twin blocks of ice. “You’ll feel b-better soon. After you’ve had some tea.”

Her head hung on her neck, her shoulders shaking with every sobbing breath. “I’ve made a spectacle of myself.”

“No one saw. Only that woman.”

“I c-can’t stop weeping. I knew…once I started…”

Releasing her hands, he withdrew a large linen handkerchief from his pocket and used it to dry her face. It was a futile exercise. The tears continued to come, at an alarming rate. In the end, all he could think to do was to hold her again. He sank down beside her on the bed and drew her back into his arms.

“What happened?” he asked. “Won’t you tell me?”

She didn’t answer, only wept into his shoulder.

He brushed his lips to her temple. And he let her weep. All the while, a lump of helpless torment formed within his vitals. A mass that was equal parts anguish and anger. If someone had hurt her, he would—

What?

What would he do?

He wasn’t an inherently violent person. But at the thought of all the things that might have happened to cause Clara’s tears, he felt as though he could tear a man limb from limb with his bare hands.

Long minutes later, a knock sounded at the door. “Your tea, sir!”

Neville eased Clara from his arms and went to open it. The tavern keeper’s wife entered with a tray. A stripling lad in patched trousers followed after her with Neville’s portmanteau.

“I’ve brought a plate of biscuits, as well.” She placed the tray on a chest of drawers near the washstand. Her eyes flicked to Clara and then back to Neville. There was no suspicion in her gaze. “Begging your pardon, sir, but the room’s only paid through noon. If you mean to stay, that’ll be another shilling and sixpence. Two shillings if you want meals.”

Neville withdrew two shillings from his purse and paid the lady. He had no intention of staying with Clara overnight, but neither did he intend to have her rushed out of the place by noon. She was in no fit state.

“Very good, sir.” With a bow, and one last sympathetic look at Clara, the tavern keeper’s wife exited the room, the servant boy in her wake.

Neville bolted the door behind them. When he turned back to Clara, she was blotting her tears with his handkerchief. Her hair was coming loose from its pins. Several long flaxen strands had fallen forward to frame her face.

“Tea?” he asked.

She nodded mutely.