The footmen bowed, and Flavian took Claire’s arm.
“So I’m to eat without company?” complained Mrs. Gower. “And what have I done to deserve such an honor, other than being an old woman incapable of conversation lively enough to interest the young?”
“Forgive me,” Flavian said. “Lady Claire has something she wishes to tell me and I thought I’d give her some privacy.”
“I know what she say.” Arabella came in the door, pretty as a picture, her eyes dancing with an odd expression that shifted between glee and concern. “Is terrible accident, because I dancing and kick, kick. Then this wine fall, and Lady Claire maybe get hurt. I scared, and run for help.”
He glimpsed at Claire. The trembling was worse, and her gaze fixed intently on Arabella. “Holly and rats. Thousands of them, and no berries,” Claire said, her voice thick and choked. She shook so hard, he tightened his grip on her arm, afraid she might faint.
Wringing her hands, Arabella focused pleading eyes on him. “This holly for Hernando’s horse, and I take off berries because maybe they no good for horse.”
Claire shook her head. “No, it was to poison us.”
A furious light sparked in Arabella’s eyes, and Flavian led Claire swiftly from the room. “In my study,” he reminded Acker. “And Bella, I’ll speak with you when we’re done.”
* * *
In the safety of Flavian’s den, and with two stiff brandies on an empty stomach, Claire brought her fractured nerves under control. As she told him about the stained and ragged gown his ward intended to wear in London, how the girl reacted when Claire found the holly stripped of berries, and the cask of wine that could have killed her, his gaze grew darker and darker. With each detail he tensed more, until she worried he’d explode in rage.
“In quantity, holly berries are poisonous, but not to horses,” Claire said. “I know now that she used them to turn the household against me.”
“Why would she want to harm you?” Flavian said, rising to pace the confined room. “Her fits are just that—fits without forethought.” Violently, he ran a hand through his hair.
His pacing came to an abrupt halt when his mother appeared in the door. “This was a premeditated attempt to drive Lady Claire away,” she said in a voice that would brook no argument.
He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, “By God, it makes everything so much worse.”
“She told me you’d poisoned the rats. I just… I just can’t believe she didn’t lure me to the tower intentionally.”
Perhaps sensing that Claire struggled to tell him the awful news, he paused to put his hands on her shoulders. “I believe you, I believe you, it’s just… my Bella… this is a side I’ve never seen, and it’s a bitter pill to swallow.” Pounding a fist into his thigh, he repeated, “A bitter, bitter pill.” He sat heavily in the chair behind his desk. “The tower is my fault. I told her to collect things for a memorial to her brother…”
Lady Monroe sat in the secretary’s chair gazing sadly at her son while Claire studied the scratches raking her hands, the abrasions already risen to red welts. “But vermin?”
He rubbed his temples and in a husky voice continued, “When Hernando died, I promised her we’d build a shrine to him. Everything he needed in life, he would have in death.”
“You told her to collect torn clothes and rotting wine?”
Flavian took a deep, controlled, breath. “No. My idea was to have a bronze made of him standing amongst plenty—bronzed bags of grain, bronzed ammunition.” Unable to sit, he rose to pace again. “Day after day she returned with—” He stopped and shook his head. “The family is generous. Arabella has an allowance, which she uses to pay my servants to add to her miserable collection. I tried to forbid them, but she got the townsfolk to do the work, then there was so much resentment from the staff… So, the tower keeps filling.”
What Claire experienced that morning came back with a rush, and suddenly furious she blurted, “But how can you live passively with the horror of that tower? The place is a filthy, rat-infested mess, and your mother is imprisoned in her own home.”
Flavian whipped around, fists balled. “I had the servants scrub the place, Claire, and we buried everything she’d collected. She screamed—deliberately trying to ruin her voice. Nothing calmed her, and then she got so sick, we thought she would die. She couldn’t breathe, and her forehead was on fire! So, I told her where we’d disposed of her collection. My God, Claire, she dug it all up.” He collapsed into the desk chair again and scrubbed his temples.
Nausea ground in Claire’s stomach. “How, when she was so ill?”
Shaking his head, shoulders slumped, he rested an elbow on the desk and put his head in his hand. “She stood there in the night, and trip after trip, forced the staff to bring it all back—covered in dirt, foul beyond measure. I tried to reason with her—begged her to let me burn the old things, send them to heaven as a gift to Hernando, but she wouldn’t listen. There is no reasoning with an unreasonable mind.” He went still, as if too tired to go on.
“You should have warned Lady Claire of Arabella’s behavior before she came,” his mother said. “Then at least she would have had the choice to avoid the wretched creature.”
The lines on his face deepened, and the last light in his gaze snuffed out. “Yes.” He rubbed his face, digging the knuckles into his eyes. “But she’s never actually tried to harm a person before, Mother. Break things, yes. Throw tantrums, scream until her voice ran out, drive caregivers away, but she never physically harmed anyone. ”
Seeing him so devastated, Claire’s acrimony died. His suffering wrung her heart, even though her own suffering still inflamed her skin. If Arabella were away even for a few short months, perhaps he could regroup—perhaps he’d reconsider marriage. “Could Arabella’s mother help?”
He flinched. “Her mother . . . can’t take her back.”
“What about relatives, cousins?”
“Stop.” He held up a hand. “I’ve been asked to look out for her. Hernando saved my life.” He kicked back his chair and was about to leave when he halted by the door. “Every day I will watch her take the remedy, and she will be instructed never to take you to the tower again, on pain of being permanently locked in there herself.”
Helplessly, he looked back at her. “So please, will you stay with me a little longer?”
His Lordship's Darkest Secret: Chapter Nine
Ten days later, Flavian’s gaze wandered from the correspondence on his desk as the thought occurred to him that for the first time in years, he rose in the morning without the weight of Arabella’s illness pinning him to the bed. She didn’t admit she’d poisoned the household, but she tried to apologize to Claire for sullying her reputation with the servants by laying flowers outside Claire’s door each day. Yet Claire remained leery, avoiding Arabella except at mealtimes. He didn’t press her, sensing her desire to flee this house with its rats and bare walls.
Instead, he made up excuses to be with her. They worked on the remedy together, standing over the steaming pot, him murmuring suggestions and watching her slender fingers break stems, spoon in sugar, and add water.
He’d confined Arabella to the music conservatory, letting her sing to him until she stopped for refreshment. That’s when he told her she’d have no food or water until she drank the medicine. Raging, screaming, she kicked over the piano stool and tossed chairs about, but as he suspected, she didn’t harm the pianoforte or tear up her music. With her voice hoarse and cracking, she sang for another hour out of defiance, rested, and finally, when she could emit scarcely a sound and he hadn’t relented, she drank the remedy. After that, he made sure she did took it every day.
And the tincture was working. The collecting had stopped. The outbursts at the table had ended. Arabella’s concerts weren’t quite as lively, but it appeared that peace—a lasting peace—had settled on Bingham Hall. Even his mother ventured beyond the confines of her apartment to sit with Claire in the parlor.<
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Marriage tugged at him. The idea spoke in his mind in hushed, but insistent, tones. Why not? the voice asked. He knew the answer. Still, Claire possessed such a generous, forgiving spirit, and she loved him, perhaps as much as he loved her… But then there was Valencia. Valencia... Yet even the image of the cinnamon-skinned beauty, her black shoes dangling inches above the cobblestones, even that nightmare couldn’t derail the incessant voice telling him to possess Claire, to make her his wife.
But with the cure achieved, Flavian’s excuse for keeping her from London was gone. Soon she would be at Almack’s surrounded by a hive of marriage-seeking dandies. Her intelligence, beauty, gentle spirit, breeding, and her damned money, would make her a prime target. It made him sick to think about it.
An overwhelming desire to see her lifted him from the desk chair and propelled him to the window, though the letter he’d been working on wasn’t finished and a stack of bills demanded attention. His secretary glanced up worriedly, then lowered his eyes and broke the seal on yet another envelope.
Late afternoon sun filled the western sky. Across the sweep of lawn, clover, daisies and yellow gorse dotted the green.
And then the secretary exclaimed, “How extraordinary . . . My lord, a piece of good news.”
“What’s that?”
The man waved a letter. “It’s from your solicitor.”
Flavian scanned the missive then read it slowly.
Dear Viscount Monroe,
In the matter of fifty thousand pounds owed by your brother, the late Viscount Lancelot Monroe, to one Edmund St. John Abernathy, we have recently learned of a verdict against this gentleman for embezzlement in a scheme formed in conjunction with Baron Herbert Wadsworth. Your brother had purchased a fleet of two Baltimore Clippers from these gentlemen, which were never transferred in title to the viscount. In point of fact, many inexperienced investors proffered similar sums for full ownership of the same craft. I regret to inform you that the purpose of said vessels was for the illegal transport of slaves from Africa to the shores of America. It appears that because of the nature of the ships’ intended use, your brother and others like him failed to inform the proper authorities when the clippers did not materialize.
While the baron has avoided arrest, Mr. St. John Abernathy was recently tried, convicted, and sentenced to a lengthy term at Newgate Prison. The result of his conviction and subsequent indenture is that your entire debt to St. John Abernathy, and any of his partners or associates herewith, has been rendered null and void.
We congratulate you on this most fortunate turn of events.
Your most obedient and faithful servant,
Jonathan Von Breuning, Esq.
“By God,” said Flavian, shaking his head in wonder. “This is astounding!”
The secretary removed his glasses and wiped them with his waistcoat. “Barring unforeseen disaster, my lord, this year’s livestock sale should cover the rest of your debt. For the first time in a decade, Bingham Hall will be unencumbered.”
Flavian circled the room, reading the letter once more just to be sure he hadn’t misinterpreted it. “Astounding.” If only Claire were here, he’d kiss her to celebrate. He’d kiss her several times—over and over, in fact. Battening down desire, he returned to his seat and crossed his legs. “We’ll have a feast and invite the town. Roast pig and venison. Vats of ale and pies filled with harvest apples.”
The secretary, who usually hid his smile, now exposed a full row of twisted teeth. “The locals will like that, but do we want to tell them what they’re celebrating?”
“There’s probably not a single one of them who won’t guess. All of Bournemouth suffered from my brother’s greed and bad judgment. Still, let’s not announce it. Besides, one mention to Apple Bess and she’ll have the news out faster than a rabbit grows a new hare.” The secretary hid his mouth, as Flavian threw his head back and laughed.
The room suddenly darkened as a cloud squatted before the sun. Dusk was falling, and that cloud would likely grow its shadow until morning. The desire to see Claire gripped Flavian with the power of a brawler at a pub. Before lunch she’d declared a desire to collect more St. John’s wort while the herb’s yellow flowers still bloomed. Beyond the broad sweep of lawn, the horizon was dotted with white puffed clouds floating on pink underbellies. Not a trace of her. The image of her hip, the sharp angle of the bone illuminated in the moonlight, the flat of her stomach with its round little bellybutton cleft in the center, vied with the tug of responsibilities waiting on the desk and the undeniable fact that he shouldn’t. He just shouldn’t.
“Beverage-Haugh visited earlier,” the secretary droned, “Though his message was not urgent, Squire Radcliff has apparently dammed a portion of the stream running through the north pasture. The note says, ‘His action caused a slowdown in the water’s flow. In turn, our fish now lack sufficient depth to spawn.’”
The secretary folded his hands on the desk and sniffed, expecting a reply.
“Oh, to hell with it,” Flavian said.
“Beg pardon, my lord?”
“Write to that fool Radcliff and tell him I’ll tear his dam down with my bare hands if he doesn’t release more water.” Without waiting for the secretary’s answer, Flavian strode through the door.
* * *
In the hall, Flavian caught himself just before he put his foot on the stairs. Not one minute ago he’d vowed not to seek Claire, yet here he was on the verge of heading to his room to change into outdoor wear. He circled the hall, a hand on the back of his neck, brooding, scolding himself for wanting to see her, and simultaneously grappling for reasons he should.
Mother—he’d talk to Mother. If anyone deserved to hear they’d soon be out of debt, it was she.
“Are you all right?” she said, looking up from her embroidery the moment the lady’s maid admitted him. “You look quite flushed.”
“I am more than all right, Mother.” He kissed her on the cheek and threw himself into a wing chair. “We just heard from the family solicitor. Lancelot’s debt was fraudulent. Every last farthing is forgiven.”
The embroidery frame dropped to her lap, the needle swinging like a pendulum. “Oh, it’s a miracle! How can I voice my relief when there’s no end to it.” It appeared she might cry, so Flavian pressed his handkerchief into her hand and chuckled. “By God, what a week.” He slapped the arms of the chair. “Arabella seems finally under control, we’ve little debt, and if cattle sales are strong, Bingham Hall might actually pay for itself this year.”
He patted the dowager’s hand. “Do you want to take up your travels again, Mother? Everyone’s rushing to France, but you might wish to see Portugal.”
“My pleasures can wait, but yours, my son, are more urgent.”
He eyed her askance. “What ‘pleasures’ are you referencing?”
With a lifted brow, she said, “Lady Claire.”
Taken aback, he let out a snort of confusion. In response, his mother hoisted both brows and deliberately transferred the embroidery frame to a pie-top table. “Well, I thought I knew the signs of affection, but perhaps I was mistaken.”
He shifted in his seat. “I can’t make her happy.”
“You can’t?”
“Suffice it to say, it’s true.” In case she doubted him, he gave her a hard look.
With a sigh, she eased back in her chair. “War changes a man. It can plague him for the rest of his life with terrible nameless fears. Are you whole… down there?”
“Yes!” he nearly shouted. “That’s got nothing to do with it.”
Leaning forward, she took his hand, and looked straight in his eyes. “Then I wish you’d tell me what happened.”
“I’m sorry, Mother, and I really must go now. There’s an enormous pile of work on my desk, and—”
But she didn’t let go of his hand, wouldn’t let him leave the chair. “You were too young, and incidents that happen to the young are not easily forgotten. But you are only afraid, Flavian. We’l
l be debt free, Arabella is much improved—go find Lady Claire. All impediments have disappeared.”
He sat in stupefied silence a moment then, tapping a thumb on the upholstery, replied, “If only you understood how wrong you are.”
Her lips straightened in a skeptical line. “You refuse to tell me, and there is no point in arguing with you, but ask her how she feels, my son. I want your happiness, and she is lovely.”
* * *
Minutes later, Flavian slammed through the door to the garden and stepped into the soft gray of dusk. Heat rose in his blood as he surveyed the area, wondering where Claire might be. Why was he looking for her? What was he about to say or do? He had no answers—all he knew was that his body compelled him outdoors.
Because of the moisture in the air and the lateness of the hour, the sky behind the Greek temple had turned mauve. He scanned the horizon. If I were an attractive maiden, where would I wander?
“Mr. Ross,” he shouted to a worker, who had just thrown a fistful of weeds onto the path of the formal garden. “St. John’s wort— where does it grow?”
“Are you looking for the young lady, my lord? I sent her to the lake. Sandy soil. Plenty of sun.”
“I’m that obvious, eh?”
The gardener grinned and lowered his gaze. “Perhaps, my lord.”
As Flavian passed the barns, he thought of getting his horse, but restlessness kept his legs in motion. A dangerous fire burned in his groin; perhaps the long walk would cool his ardor.
Plunging into the fringe of trees ringing the lake, his temperature climbed. She’s a healer, here for Arabella only. Don’t ask for more. With each stride he repeated like a mantra, “Healer. Healer. Healer,” but his words died with the memory of her breasts, warm and round in his hands. “Claire!” he yelled, “Claire!” He started to run. “Claire!”
Her Perfect Gentleman: A Regency Romance Anthology Page 86