Page 83 of Kathryn

“I am sure she would have done so eventu—”

“I was her husband’s mistress.”

The words tumbled out in such a rush that Katie had to play them over in her head before their meaning hit home. Her mind immediately lurched to another duke’s mistress who also lived in a cottage on the estate, although not nearly so grand.

How convenient for the Dukes of Dulverton!

An echo of Mrs. Clare’s hysterical laughter bubbled up inside her. “I see,” she said in a high-pitched voice.

“I am terribly sorry, Your Grace. I—I should have conveyed that in a less shocking manner.”

“I cannot think of a way that would make such information any less shocking.” Katie felt shrewish when Mrs. St. Clare’s cheeks darkened but could not bring herself to apologize.

Rather than look offended, Mrs. St. Clare gave her a self-deprecating smile. “I thought I had come to terms with my position in life more than forty years ago, but I find that every decade or so it…chafes.”

Thankfully, the door opened just then, and a maid deposited a tea tray.

Katie’s mind raced as Mrs. St. Clare fussed with the tea. She should leave. Immediately. To sit here with this woman was deeply disloyal to Betje.

And yet she burned with curiosity. Mrs. St. Clare obviously wished to say something to her. Why else would she force such an unorthodox meeting?

“How do you take your tea, Your Grace?”

“Black, please,” Katie said.

Such was the soothing miracle of making tea that by the time the older woman handed Katie her cup and saucer she looked almost serene when she spoke. “Gerrit told me the dowager returned to Spenwood several days ago.”

The sound of her husband’s Christian name—a name she did not feel welcome to use—made Katie want to fling the cup and saucer at Mrs. St. Clare. Thankfully, she kept that impulse in check and took a sip of tea, her stomach roiling with jealousy, not only because this woman could casually refer to Dulverton by his name, but also because he appeared to visit her and talk to her.

“You are wondering why he would confide such a thing in me,” Mrs. St. Clare said.

Katie was actually wondering if Anna Wilson and Mrs. St. Clare sat in this room and enjoyed tea with one another while reminiscing about their lovers. Did Mrs. St. Clare have children, as well? Only pride kept Katie from asking.

“Nothing my husband does surprises me,” she said coolly. “Because I don’t know enough about him to guess what he would or would not do.”

Rather than look startled or embarrassed at such an intimate confession, Mrs. St. Clare nodded. “Yes, Gerrit is a very private person.”

“Yet he confides in you.”

“I have known him since he was a little boy.” She smiled, but the expression was strained. “In many ways, I stood as a mother to him.”

Considering that he could not abide the presence of his own mother, that seemed like an obnoxious claim. Katie set down her cup and saucer with a clatter. “Perhaps you might tell me why you wished to speak to me, Mrs. St. Clare.”

“You are angry now—on behalf of the dowager, which does you credit as she certainly deserves your loyalty.”

Katie gritted her teeth; when would she learn not to broadcast her every emotion to the world?

“But this isn’t about the dowager or me,” Mrs. St. Clare went on. “This is about her son, whom I love a great deal. Did you know that Gerrit—I beg you will excuse my familiarity, but I will call him that to avoid confusion between him and his father, the man I will always think of as Dulverton. Did you know that Gerrit spent all his school holidays here at Briarly from the time he was nine years of age?”

“All of them?”

“Yes, every single one.”

Katie thought back to what the dowager had said about not having visited Briarly for more than twenty years. Had Betje meant she had not seen her son in that long?

“Why would he have done that? More to the point, why did the duke allow it?” Katie asked.

Mrs. St. Clare hesitated. “I believe Gerrit should tell you that.”