//CLARA//
I spent the morning calculating the exact value of a man's guilty conscience.
It wasn't something I could bring up at breakfast. Not with Aunt Cornelia sniffing around the marmalade like a bloodhound with a grudge and a fresh bottle of smelling salts. And certainly not with the servants hovering like silent, lace-trimmed ghosts.
I needed Casimir alone, in his natural habitat, where it would make my demand feel like the ransom it actually was.
By midday, the opportunity arrived. Higgins mentioned the master was in his study and under no circumstances to be disturbed.
In my world, that was basically an engraved invitation.
I didn't knock. I simply turned the heavy brass handle and stepped into the room. The smell of leather and tobacco greeted me, the particular brand of gloom that seemed to follow Casimir everywhere. He was hunched over a mountain of ledgers, drowning in work and pretending he preferred it that way.
