The Dark Affair

by Máire Claremont

  Matthew swayed, mesmerized by Patrick’s fallen body.

  “Matthew,” she cried softly.

  He jerked toward her. Wordlessly, he slipped the knots free before he staggered to his knees. Margaret couldn’t help herself. She let out a great wail and then collapsed beside her brother. She grabbed his arms as if she could hold him in this world.

  He blinked up at her. “I love you. Please forgive me.”

  Tears blinded her, but she wouldn’t let go of him. Instead she held him with a fierce grip. “I love you too. Please don’t leave me.”

  Matthew sucked in a shuddering breath. “It’s cold.”

  “Matthew?” she called, the signs far too clear. She couldn’t ignore them, not with her training, no matter how much she wished to.

  “I’m going to see them,” he said suddenly, his face taking on a peaceful sheen.

  “Who?” she asked, dumbly.

  “Mother and Father. I’m going to see them soon.”

  A sob racked her body. She smiled through her tears, unable to send him on his journey without that. “Tell them I love them.”

  “I w-will.” And with that, Matthew’s eyes fluttered closed and his body relaxed into the deep slumber from which no man awoke.

  She sat silently by his still body, unable to believe that the little brother she had loved so powerfully was gone.

  Not quite able to believe it, she pressed her fingers to his neck. Hoping. Waiting. His skin remained unresponsive beneath her fingers.

  She had no idea how many minutes passed before she realized it wasn’t safe for her to stay there. She said aloud, “I need to go.”

  Nodding to herself, the world strangely dark, she stumbled to her feet and made her way to the stairs.

  As quietly as she could, she ascended.

  The door, which had been unlocked by Patrick, swung open. Margaret peered into what seemed to be an abandoned warehouse. Complete silence met her. She allowed her eyes to adjust to the gloom, then spotted what appeared to be a doorway across the space. Taking quiet but determined steps, she crossed to it, then drew in a steadying breath.

  Cracking the panel open, she stepped out into the cold night.

  A loud voice met her. “Put your hands in the air.”

  Margaret blinked, focusing on the voice.

  A constable, all in blue, stood not ten feet away. Behind him stood ten more.

  Margaret’s heart sank. They’d been saved, but it was too late for her brother.

  “Margaret?”

  She shook her head. Not believing her ears.

  “Margaret, thank God.” James darted forward, but he stopped just shy of her. “My God, are you hurt?”

  She’d never seen anything more beautiful than this man waiting for her, a veritable army ready to save her. Why did he think she was hurt? She glanced down.

  Blood blackened her gown, and her face crumpled. “It’s not my blood.”

  James swung his gaze from the stained gown to her face. “Whose is it, sweetheart?”

  “My brother’s,” she replied, barely recognizing the sound of her own voice. “He’s . . . he’s dead. The body. It’s down in the cellar.”

  The constable eased his stance, then gestured to a few of his men. “Was there anyone else, my lady?”

  “No, Constable.” Was that her voice, so firm? “It’s quite safe.”

  “Right, then.” The constable gestured for his men to go down. He hesitated. “I’m sorry for your loss, my lady.”

  She drew in a harsh breath. “Thank you.”

  At last James covered the few feet of ground and yanked her against his chest. “I thought I’d lost you.”

  She let out a cry of relief. “How did you know I’d been taken?”

  James pressed a kiss into her hair. “I know you. You’d never leave me without some note. Not even to go to your damned soup kitchen. You’re many things Maggie, but cruel isn’t one of them.”

  She let out a half sob, completely overwhelmed.

  James tucked her under his arm and whispered, “Let me take you home.”

  She jolted in his arms, her temporary relief fading. “Home?”

  James turned back toward the constable, who was writing in his book. “Do you have everything in hand?”

  The constable looked up from his notes. “I do believe so, my lord. The others are in the wagon.”

  James stretched out his hand.

  Stunned, the constable took it. “It’s an honor, my lord.”

  “You will never know how grateful I am for your assistance. Now, I should like to take my wife away. She’s had a terrible shock.”

  The constable’s mouth twisted with indecision. “Normally, we’d like to question—”

  “Surely you can wait until tomorrow,” James prompted.

  Margaret stared at the dark ground, lost except for the feel of James’s arms about her.

  “All right, then.” The constable touched his cap. “I’ll call upon you tomorrow.”

  Margaret snuck a glance at James. “Thank you.”

  They hurried to a hackney and squeezed in.

  James gave orders for them to return to the West End.

  “He’s dead,” she said blankly.

  James took her hands in his. “I’m sorry. I know how much you loved your brother.” He hesitated. “From what I understand, he had a very good heart.”

  “He saved my life,” she answered, still disbelieving the turn of events.

  “And you risked everything for him. You married me, for God’s sake, and promised my father anything to gain help for him.”

  She bit her lower lip, hating the hot tears that sprang to her eyes. “Yes, I did. And for all my brother’s faults, he brought me to you.”

  James tucked her against his chest, and she allowed her tears to flow, allowing herself to share her grief.

  Margaret stuffed her fist into her mouth, biting hard, lest she let out a wail.

  “It’s over now,” James said softly, rubbing her back. “It’s over.”

  She dropped her hand to her lap, wishing she could see his face more clearly in the darkness. But perhaps that darkness would give her the freedom to speak. “I thought I was never going to see you again.”

  “I refused to believe that.”

  “I’m glad you did. But I’m glad I didn’t.”

  “Why?” James asked, his knuckles caressing her cheek.

  “Because I realized what a hypocrite I have been. I have protected myself from pain, all the while encouraging you to open your heart. I was too afraid to afraid to give myself to anyone. I was just afraid. All my life.”

  “Margaret, you’ve given me back myself. You’ve given me a chance at joy.” He smoothed his thumbs against her tears. “You’ve taught me how to love again.”

  “But what about happiness?”

  “You make me happy, you do, you mad Irishwoman.” He tilted her head back. “I love you, and we will work through all this together. We can find happiness together, sweetheart. I truly believe it.”

  Margaret crawled into his lap, not giving a damn if she threw all dignity to the wind.

  As he cradled her close, she declared, “It’s a good thing we’re already man and wife, isn’t it?”

  “Why is that?” he asked gently.

  She pressed a slow, soft kiss to his lips before murmuring, “So I can go home with you and give myself over to the safety of your arms. Forever.”

  Epilogue

  Margaret couldn’t stop smiling. It was a rare condition for her. But she adored it. It had taken more than a year of mourning for her brother, longer even, but she and James were finally beginning to feel a semblance of joy again.

  James still struggled with the urges to head to the East End and have his brains pounded in. To w
hich she reminded him that it would be far more pleasurable if she were to receive all that . . . pounding. Still, on the days he insisted on going to fight, she accompanied him, cheering him on louder than anyone.

  It had taken her gradual steps to open up to him even more about the famine and her experiences in the Crimea, but she had, and she’d never felt more at peace.

  Nor had she had more friends.

  Mary had turned out to be as great a friend to her as her husband, and though certain special conversations were reserved with James, Margaret felt Mary far preferred to laugh with her whenever the chance arose. After all, her husband could be quite a troublesome fellow.

  “Maggie, what the devil are you thinking?”

  Margaret gave her husband a playful scowl. “None of your business.”

  He rolled his eyes. “You’re always my business, and you’re supposed to be helping me compose my lecture for my club on the benefits of promoting the rights and health of women.”

  She strolled toward him, her hands behind her back. “Do you remember what you threatened to do to me when we first met?”

  He paused. “No.”

  “You threatened to tear off my arms.”

  “How utterly barbaric,” he observed, then pulled her tightly to him, pressing his hips into her stomach. “Do you know what I was thinking?”

  Her eyes widened. “No, as a matter of fact.”

  “Well,” he began. “It involved the floor and your skirts being in a much higher position than they are now.”

  “James,” she cried, her cheeks heating.

  His gaze grew soft with love and passion. “You know, I think it would just be best if I showed you.”

  She grinned. “I wholeheartedly agree.”

  Miss the first book in the Mad Passions series?

  Read on for an excerpt from Máire Claremont’s

  THE DARK LADY

  Available now wherever books and e-books are sold.

  England

  1865

  The road stretched on like a line of corrupting filth in the pristine snow. Lord Ian Blake clutched the folds of his thick wool greatcoat against his frigid frame as he stared at it.

  If he chose, he could simply keep on.

  The coach had left him at the edge of Carridan Hall a quarter of an hour past, but if he took to the muddy and ice-filled road, he would be in the village by dark and on the first mail back to London. Back to India.

  Back to anywhere but here.

  For perhaps the tenth time, he faced the untouched wide drive that led up to the great house. Snow lay fluffed and cold, crystal pure upon the ground. It dragged the limbs of the fingerlike branches toward the blanketed earth. And after almost three years in the baked heat and blazing colors of India, this punishing winter landscape was sheer hell.

  Despite the ache, he drew in a long, icy breath and trudged forward, his booted feet crunching as he went.

  Eva hated him.

  Hated him enough to not return his letters. Not even the letter begging her forgiveness for her husband’s death. But then again, Ian had failed her. He had promised her that he wouldn’t let Hamilton die in India. But he had. He’d made so many promises that he’d been unable to keep.

  Now he would go before his friend’s widow, the woman he had held in his heart since childhood. To make amends for his failures, he would do whatever she might command. His soul yearned for the ease she might give him. For, even as he walked up the drive, following the curve to the spot where the trees suddenly stopped and the towering four-story Palladian mansion loomed, he didn’t walk alone.

  The unrelenting memory of Hamilton’s brutal death was with him.

  He paused before the intimidating limestone edifice that had been built by Hamilton’s grandfather. The windows, even under the pregnant gray sky, heavy with unshed snow, glistened like diamonds, beckoning him to his boyhood home.

  The very thought of standing before Eva filled him with dread, but he kept his pace swift and steady. Each step was merely a continuation on the long journey he’d set upon months before.

  Even though the cold bit through his thick garments and whipped against his dark hair, sweat slipped down his back. Winter silence pounded in his ears, blending with his boot steps as he mounted the brushed stairs before the house, and as he raised his hand to knock, the door swung open. Charles, his black suit pressed to perfection, stood in the frame.

  That now greatly wrinkled face slackened with shock. “Master Ian.” He paused. “Pardon. Of course, I mean, my lord.”

  Ian’s gut twisted. It had been years since he had seen the man who had chided him, Hamilton, and Eva time and again for tracking mud from the lake upon the vast marble floors of the house. “Hello, Charles.”

  The butler continued to linger in the doorway, his soft brown eyes wide, his usually unreadable face perfectly astonished.

  Ian smiled tightly. “Might I be allowed entrance?”

  Charles jerked to attention and instantly backed away from the door. “I am so sorry, my lord. Do forgive me. It has been—”

  Ian nodded and stepped into the massive foyer, shaking the wisps of snow from his person. He couldn’t blame the old man for his strange behavior. After all, the last time Ian had seen the servant had been when he was invested as Viscount Blake, just before he’d left for India. The title should have prevented his traveling so far and risking his life. But life didn’t always unfold according to the dictates of tradition.

  Three years had passed since his departure with Hamilton. Now, Hamilton would not join his return. “I should have informed you of my visit.”

  As the door closed behind them, it seemed to close in on his heart, filling his chest with a leaden weight. Not even the beauty of the soft blue and gold-leafed walls of his childhood home could alleviate it.

  Charles reached out for his coat and took the wet mass into his white-gloved hands. “It is so good to see you, my lord.”

  The words hung between them. The words that said it would have been preferable if he had not returned alone.

  He pulled off his top hat and passed it to the butler. “I should like to speak to Lady Carin.”

  Charles’s mouth opened slightly as he maneuvered the coat into one hand and stretched out the other to take the last item. “But . . .”

  Ian glanced about as if she might suddenly appear out of one of the mazelike hallways. “Is she not in residence?”

  Charles’s gaze darted to the broad, ornately carved stairs and then back. “Perhaps you should speak to his lordship.”

  Ian shook his head, a laugh upon his lips, but something stopped him. “His lordship? Adam is not three. Does he rule the house?”

  A sheen cooled Charles’s eyes. “Master Adam has passed, my lord.”

  The unbelievable words, barely audible in the vast foyer of silk walls and marble floor, whispered about them.

  “Passed?” Ian echoed.

  “Was not Lord Thomas’s letter delivered to you in India?”

  The world spun with more force than his ship had done rounding the Cape of Good Hope. “No. No, it was never delivered.”

  He had never met the boy. Nor had Hamilton. They had both only heard tales of him from Eva’s detailed and delightful letters. In his mind, Ian had always imagined the child to be an exact replica of Eva. Only . . . he was gone. He shifted on his booted feet, trying to fathom this new information. “What happened? I don’t understand.”

  Charles drew in a long breath and stared at Ian for a few moments, then quickly jerked his gaze away. “I shall leave it to Thomas, the new Lord Carin, to inform you.”

  What the devil was going on? Charles had never avoided his eyes in all the years he’d known him, and now . . . ’Twas as if the old man was ashamed or fearful. “Then take me to him at once.”

  Charles nodded, hi
s head bobbing up and down with renewed humbleness. “Of course.”

  They spoke no more as they turned to the winding staircase that twisted and split into two wings like a double-headed serpent.

  They followed the wide set of stairs that led to the east wing. Their footsteps thudded against the red-and-blue woven runner. Ian blinked when they reached the hallway. Hideous red velvet wallpaper covered the walls and massive portraits and mirrors seemed to hang upon every surface. “Lady Carin has redecorated?”

  Charles kept face forward. “Lord Thomas is undergoing renovations, my lord. He began with the family rooms but intends to alter the ground floor this spring.”

  Decorations should have been the lady of the house’s domain. Another mystery. One that added greatly to his unease.

  The place looked little like the house he had left. Gone were the cool colors, beautiful wallpapers of silk and gold or silver, framed with stuccoed accents. Once, this house had been the height of beauty, with airy hallways and bright colors. Now dark, rich tones wrapped the house in melancholy. The elegant honeyed oak had been ripped out and replaced by mahogany to match the red velvet wallpaper. In the brief days since his return, he’d noticed the change in society’s fashion, the departure from light and the acceptance of oppressive furnishings.

  But he’d never thought to see Carridan Hall so changed.

  At last, the two men paused before the old lord’s office.

  Charles knocked. Quickly, he opened the door, edged into the room, then shut the door behind him. The panel was thick enough that the voices were muffled. But Ian didn’t miss the sharp silence that followed the announcement of his name.

  The door opened and Charles announced, “Lord Blake, my lord.”

  Ian strode into the space. As he entered, Charles made a swift retreat, shutting the door with a thud.

  Tension crackled in the room. So thick Ian was sure he could reach out and grab it.

  Hamilton’s little brother, Thomas, sat behind a solid desk of walnut. His brownish blond hair thinned out over his pale scalp and a light brushing of hair curled at his upper lip. His sunken green eyes watered as he stood. ’Twas hard to believe the man was not even five and twenty.