Read Chapter 11: The House Party

The morning of the house party dawned grey and reluctant, as if the sky itself disapproved of the charade we were about to enact. I stood at the window of the blue drawing room, watching the first carriages wind their way up the long drive, and tried to remember that this was strategy, not deception.

Julian appeared beside me, adjusting his cuffs with that meticulous precision I had come to recognize. He had forgone his glove entirely this morning, and the scarred skin of his right hand seemed darker against the white of his shirt.

“Lord Ashworth arrives within the hour,” he said. “His note suggests he wishes to discuss the estate.”

“Colonel Ashworth is my father’s cousin,” I replied, keeping my voice even. “He has not visited in nearly a decade. I suspect his interest is less about family and more about confirming the rumours of our ruin.”

“Then we shall give him nothing to confirm.” Julian’s gaze swept the room. The silver had been polished, the drapes aired, the pianoforte tuned. Mrs. Hale had worked miracles with the remaining staff, and the house—despite its threadbare grandeur—presented an appearance of settled prosperity.

The first guests arrived in a cascade of silk and polite exclamations. Lady Pemberton, whose husband owned half of Derbyshire’s textile mills. Sir Geoffrey Marsh, who had made his fortune in the East India trade. A smattering of lesser gentry, all of whom had been carefully selected by Julian for their potential utility as investors.

I played my part with a smile that had grown practiced over the years—greeting, enquiring after health, steering conversations toward neutral ground. Julian moved through the crowd with an ease that surprised me, his sharp mind finding purchase in every exchange.

It was nearly two hours before Colonel Ashworth made his appearance.

He was a broad man in his sixties, his military bearing only slightly softened by age and good living. His eyes, however, had not dulled. They swept the room with the assessing gaze of a man who had spent his career reading terrain and found this parlour no less strategic.

“Clara.” He took my hand with a warmth that felt almost genuine. “You have grown into your mother’s likeness.”

“Thank you, Colonel. I trust your journey was pleasant.”

“Long.” He released my hand and glanced about the room. “I had hoped to find your father here. The letter I sent last spring received no reply.”

I felt the words land like stones in my stomach. “Father passed last autumn, Colonel. I wrote to you myself—did you not receive my correspondence?”

Something flickered in his eyes. “I was abroad, in the Peninsula. Correspondence has a way of going astray.” He paused. “My condolences. Your father was a good man, though we disagreed on matters of—economy.”

Julian appeared at my elbow. “Colonel Ashworth. Julian Thorne. I am overseeing Lady Clara’s affairs.”

The Colonel’s gaze sharpened. “Thorne. I recall the name. You handled the Merridan bankruptcy case, did you not?”

“I did.”

“Messy business, that. The family lost everything.” The Colonel’s tone was neutral, but his meaning was clear. “I trust you are more successful in your current endeavours.”

“I am,” Julian said simply. “Shall I show you the library? Clara has had it restored.”

It was an artful deflection, and the Colonel allowed himself to be led away. But I caught the look he cast over his shoulder—the assessing glance of a man who was not yet finished with his questions.

The afternoon passed in a blur of small talk and strategic positioning. Julian secured tentative interest from Lady Pemberton’s husband, who spoke of a consortium of textile investors seeking stable properties. Sir Geoffrey proved more cautious, though he did not refuse Julian’s offer to tour the estate’s clay seams.

It was during the lull before dinner that Colonel Ashworth cornered me in the conservatory.

The air was thick with the scent of camellias, and the glass walls caught the last of the grey afternoon light. He stood before a display of my mother’s favourite roses, his hands clasped behind his back.

“This house has changed little,” he observed.

“We have maintained it as best we can.”

“Hmm.” He turned to face me. “I have heard whispers, Clara. Whispers that your father’s debts were more extensive than the family has acknowledged. That the estate is mortgaged to its foundations.”

I kept my expression serene. “Whispers are rarely accurate, Colonel. Father’s affairs were in order when he died. The estate is sound.”

“Is it?” His voice was soft, almost gentle. “I ask because I saw something curious in London last month. A man I thought I recognised, passing himself off as someone he was not.”

My blood chilled. “I do not take your meaning.”

“Your father’s steward. Finch.” The Colonel’s gaze did not waver. “I would have sworn it was him, though he gave a different name. Said he was a merchant from Bristol, here to settle accounts.” He paused. “When I approached, he vanished into the crowd before I could greet him. Odd behaviour for a man who should have no reason to hide.”

“I am certain you were mistaken,” I managed. “Finch left our service shortly after Father’s death. I have heard nothing of his whereabouts since.”

“Have you not?” The Colonel studied me for a long moment. “You have your mother’s composure, Clara. She could lie with a smile that would convince the devil himself. I hope you have not inherited that particular talent.”

“I have inherited only her love for this house.” I stepped closer, holding his gaze. “And I will protect it by any means necessary.”

Something shifted in his expression—surprise, perhaps, or grudging respect. “Then I wish you luck.” He turned toward the door, then paused. “One more thing. The man Finch was meeting in London—the one he called his employer. I saw his face only briefly, but I would recognise him anywhere.” He lowered his voice. “Lord Umbridge is not a man whose interests intersect benignly with those of others. If he has designs on this estate, you would be wise to discover them before they come to fruition.”

The door closed behind him, and I stood among the camellias, my heart hammering against my ribs. Finch, disguised, meeting with Umbridge in London. Finch, who had vanished after Father’s death. Finch, whose last ledger entry had been crossed out.

I found Julian in the library, alone, staring at the portrait of my father that hung above the fireplace. He turned when I entered, and something in my expression must have betrayed me, for his brow furrowed.

“The Colonel has been speaking with you.”

“He claims he saw Finch in London,” I said. “Disguised, calling himself a merchant. Meeting with Lord Umbridge.”

Julian’s jaw tightened. “That would explain the payments Finch received before his disappearance. The ledger at the Golden Hind showed regular deposits, but the names were obscured.”

“My father trusted Finch,” I said slowly. “He was with him for twenty years. If Finch has betrayed the family, if he was working with Umbridge all along—” I stopped, the implications settling like frost on my skin.

“Then your father’s debts may not have been gambling losses at all.” Julian finished the thought I could not voice. “They may have been engineered.”

I looked at the portrait of my father, at his kind eyes and steady expression. Had he been deceived? Or worse—had he known?

The door opened, and Mrs. Hale appeared. “Dinner is served, Lady Clara.”

I nodded, schooling my features into the pleasant mask required of a hostess. But as I followed her from the room, I felt Julian’s hand brush mine, brief and deliberate.

“We will find the truth,” he murmured, too low for anyone else to hear. “Whatever it costs.”

I wanted to believe him. But as we entered the dining room, where the Colonel sat watching me with knowing eyes and the other guests chattered about investments and seasons and the price of wool, I could not shake the feeling that we had only just begun to glimpse the shape of the conspiracy closing around Ashworth Park.

And somewhere in London, Lord Umbridge was waiting for his next move.