By the time he had descended, Tom had already opened the front door and Clara and the strange gentleman were standing there, with Tom glaring at the young man.
It was only then that Kit noticed Clara was distinctly dishevelled. Her bonnet was crumpled on one side and her gown was mud-stained. When she turned her head towards Kit, he saw her cheek was red and grazed.
“Clara!” Kit exclaimed. “My God! What happened?”
“Oh, Kit!” she sobbed, and threw herself into his arms.
Kit pulled her close. She was shaking and giving awful, strangled sobs, but somehow Kit managed to turn and meet the gaze of the strange gentleman she had arrived with.
He was a very young gentleman, and quite handsome. His clothes were very fashionable, his high collar points forcing his chin into a slightly raised position that gave him a haughty look. He was saved, however, from appearing entirely arrogant by the anxious look in his eyes.
“My apologies for intruding,” he began, “I escorted your sister home after she was attacked in the park—”
“Attacked?” Kit said, alarmed.
“Yes, I caught sight of her being set upon and began to run towards her. Unfortunately, her attacker saw me coming and made off before I could apprehend him.”
Kit stared at him, shocked. Who would attack Clara? On the heels of that thought came another: it seemed Clara had not been imagining things when she thought she was being followed.
“I wish I could tell you more,” the young gentleman said unhappily, “but I saw very little of the man. I was some way off when I noticed them struggling, and he was long gone by the time I reached your sister.” He shook his head. “Perhaps she will be able to tell you more when she has calmed.”
Kit nodded at him. “Thank you for helping her home, sir. We are indebted to you.”
“Not at all,” the young gentleman said. “I'm glad I could be of service.”
Clara had gone still in his arms now, which was somehow worse than the shaking. Concerned, he said, “I’m sorry to be rude, but if you’ll excuse us, I think my sister needs to lie down.”
“Of course,” the young gentleman said promptly. Then, addressing himself to Clara, he added gently, “I hope you feel better soon, ma'am.”
“Thank you for helping me,” Clara managed to whisper.
Kit nodded at the young man, then turned to help Clara upstairs, leaving Tom to see him out.
When they were nearly at the top of the stairs, Clara said in a strangled tone, “Is Peter in the kitchen with Mrs. Saunders still?”
“Yes."
“Don’t tell him I’m back yet,” she said quickly. “And can you ask Mrs. Saunders to keep him down there until I’ve washed and made myself presentable? I don’t want him to see—” She broke off, pressing her hand to her mouth.
“Don’t worry, my dear,” Kit said gently. “Go and fetch fresh clothes from your chamber. You can bathe and change in my rooms—Peter won't even know you're home until you’re ready to face him. I’ll go and speak to Mrs. Saunders and get hot water sent up. And then we’ll eat and talk. Does that sound all right?”
She lowered her hand and took a shaky breath. “Yes. Thank you, Kit.”
An hour later, Kit and Clara were ensconced in his small sitting room. She'd bathed and dressed in clean clothes, and they’d eaten a light luncheon. Now Clara was lying back on the chaise longue with a vinegar poultice on her cheek to take out the bruising and swelling that was coming up.
“So,” Kit said mildly. “Are you going to tell me what happened?”
Clara didn’t move her gaze from the ceiling. “I’ve been a fool,” she said bitterly, and her eyes brightened with sudden tears for a moment before she screwed them tightly closed. A tear slid from the outer corner of her eye, down her temple and into her hair.
Kit waited, silent, for her to speak.
At last, she let out a shuddering breath and said shakily, “A few weeks ago, I went to see Percy Bartlett. I asked him for money. I told him I wanted it to help with Peter’s upbringing, and if he didn’t give me it, I was going to see Sir Algernon.” Holding the poultice in place with one hand, she turned her head to meet Kit’s gaze, her own defiant—she knew already what Kit’s view would be.
Percy Bartlett was Peter’s father—and Peter was not a love child. Clara had been a servant