Dark Hero; A Gothic Romance (Reluctant Heroes)

by Silver, Lily

  The butler stood with hands clasped behind his back. He groaned like an old bulldog and then said, “I discovered something disturbing, sir, but as her ladyship is ill and you are distracted with her care, I thought it prudent to postpone my report until a more opportune time.” He glanced at the form on the bed, and back at Donovan, his face a study in sorrow.

  Seated next to the bed with his booted calf balanced across his knee, Donovan gave an exasperated hiss. “She’s sedated. She can’t hear a word. Out with it, man!”

  “My lord, you are being slowly and efficiently robbed by that wretched woman.”

  “What!” Donovan thundered, dropping his foot to the floor. “Explain yourself.”

  Giles started. His gaze darted to the bed. Seeing the mistress was unmoved by the master’s loud outburst, he ventured further in a low voice. “I thought it prudent to acquaint myself with the cost of maintaining the household, given my new position. I discovered the sums in the household expense ledgers have been fixed. It appears you have been feeding a full staff of servants here for the past four years, sir. I believe Miss Wilkes pocketed the difference and has managed to put away a tidy sum at your expense.”

  Half an hour later, Donovan sat at his desk in his laboratory. Giles stood to his right, directing him to the suspicious entries in the ledger. There it was, in Tabby’s hand, the inflated supply bill from Basseterre for each month, the dry goods exaggerated beyond what was needed to feed the two gentleman, three servants and three stable boys residing on the estate before Donovan’s marriage. He summoned Tabby and asked her to explain.

  Her reply was fraught with a rancid bitterness she’d kept hidden over the years. “I played his twisted games of dominance and submission. He promised to make me his wife. I gave that man twenty years of my life. He didn’t leave me a damned shilling—“

  “Whatever promises my grandfather made to you in the throes of passion is of no concern to me. I repeat, why have you stolen money from me, Madame?”

  “You’re his heir. It’s all the same to me.” She responded tartly. “I should be mistress here, not that pathetic twit upstairs. She needs a keeper and a locked room if you ask me.”

  Donovan had never hit a woman in his life. He was dangerously close to it now. With Giles and Pearl beside him, he struggled to contain his fury with the shameless, ungrateful tart. “Giles, have Duchamp and O’Leary escort Miss Wilkes to her room to pack her things and then take her to Basseterre. And you, Miss Wilkes, had best hope some pox ridden sailor will take you in, because you are no longer welcome under this roof.”

  Donovan returned to his suite. He resumed his vigil near the bed. The silence was maddening. He cursed himself for his eagerness in giving Lizzie Laudanum.

  Drumming his fingers on his upraised knee, he went over the bizarre conversation with Lizzie before she fell asleep. Why was she desperate to make him believe she was untouched?

  Why now? Her abuse was a long established fact between them.

  There was one way to determine the truth, by examining her, as she suggested. Doing so when she was unconscious would prevent further upset when his findings countered her outlandish claim about being a virgin.

  A short time later, Donovan sank into the chair again, greatly troubled.

  Lizzie was telling him the truth. Her maidenhead was still intact.

  “Oh, I shagged the wench!” Captain Sully had insisted.

  Elizabeth claimed her menstrual flow repulsed her attacker.

  Her story could be true. The difficulty came as he considered her profound fear of intimacy. Her terror was not contrived. She had merely to look at his groin and a paralyzing fear claimed her features. That reaction was too severe for a maid unacquainted with male passion.

  He gazed at his sleeping angel, dread gnawing at his insides as he tried to resolve her fear of intimacy with the physical evidence of her inexperience. He could not reconcile the two facts. Not without coming to a disturbing conclusion: something happened to this girl on that ship. Something that left no visible damage, yet something so perverse she felt guilt over it and feared the discovery of said act would damn her in his eyes forever.

  Donovan sat forward in the chair and held his head in his hands, disturbed the cruel workings of his own mind as he considered the ways a man might pleasure himself with a maid and leave no evidence of his intrusion. “Oh, you sick son-of-a-bitch!”

  Impulsively, he stood and was bending over his wife. “Elizabeth, wake up. I need to ask you something.” His tone was brusque. He regretted it instantly.

  She stirred at his insistence. Lethargic from the opiates, she gazed up at him with confusion. That was good, he reasoned. She’d never be able to confess the truth without its influence. And it might prevent her from remembering this conversation come morning.

  “Captain Sully didn’t interfere with you in the usual way, did he?” Donovan was careful to keep his tone light, and coaxing.

  “N-n-no . . .”

  “But he did hurt you. In a perverse, wretched manner, didn’t he?” The slight dilation of her pupils confirmed his suspicions. “Tell me what he did to you.”

  “I can’t. He said you’d despise me if you knew. He said you’d cast me aside in disgust.”

  “He lied to you.” Donovan insisted. “I love you, Elizabeth. Nothing will change that. I promise. Tell me what that man did to you so I can help you through the pain.”

  Elizabeth’s hands flew up to cover her mouth. She let out a tortured whimper.

  He went cold with fury as she gazed up at him with unshed tears, the implication clear; the perverted swine had defiled her sweet mouth.

  “My poor little girl!” Donovan embraced her as that whimper became a wail of anguish.

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  “Kieran, my boy! Still so glum? I have something to cheer you.” Barnaby glided into the shop, wielding a newspaper triumphantly. He seemed pleased after the weekly guild meeting of shopkeepers and merchants. The meetings usually left the man in a sour mood.

  Kieran set down the pestle. “What is it, a potential client for the Midnight Bell?”

  “Something better.” Barnaby danced a little jig around the shop, waving the folded paper in the air like wizard’s wand. “It’s a miracle, my boy.”

  Barnaby routinely scanned the obituaries for the best customers, the rich who would pay dearly to keep an angry relative from coming back to bother them with unfinished business. He read the death notices just as fastidiously as the society pages, as the old man liked to speculate on the scandals inferred in the bland reports of domestic occurrences.

  “Someone died and left you his plantation?” Kieran was amused at the old man’s antics.

  “Not me. This concerns you. Look.” He placed the paper on the counter. Sure enough, it was opened to the society page. “Read it aloud.” The old man tapped the paper insistently. “Third one down, in the marriage column.”

  “Dr. Donovan O’Rourke Beaumont, Count Rochembeau, owner of Ravencrest Plantation recently returned from England with a bride. The new Countess du Rochembeau, formerly Miss Elizabeth O’Flaherty,” Kieran paused, giving Barnaby a significant look.

  “Read on!” Barnaby insisted. “It gets better.”

  “Formerly Miss Elizabeth O’Flaherty, is the daughter of the late Viscount Shawn O’Flaherty of County Galway, Ireland and Angela Wentworth-O’Flaherty-Fletcher of England, also deceased. The new Mrs. Beaumont is the maternal grand-daughter of James R. Wentworth, the ninth Earl of Greystowe. Master Michael Fletcher, Lady Beaumont’s younger brother, heir to the Wentworth title and fortune, resides with their grandfather, Lord Greystowe in England.”

  “Sit, lad.” The old man coaxed, pulling him toward the stool.

  “Fletcher said mama died in childbirth.”

  “He was hardly telling the truth, was he?” Barnaby shrugged out of his coat and crossed his arms about himself. “Apparently your mother lived long enough to have two children after you were sold on the do
cks.”

  Kieran stared at the paper while Barnaby paced about him with distraction.

  Pausing in his pacing, the grey eyes fixed on him with excitement. “Kieran, my boy, do you realize what this means? You are the eldest grandson of Lord Greystowe. By the laws of primogeniture, you should be the next Earl of Greystowe, not Michael Fletcher.”

  Barnaby’s arrogant presumption revealed another sobering implication. “Do you think this is why Captain Fletcher sold me as an indenture and had me shipped to the Indies?”

  Barnaby gave a grave nod. “Once you were out of the way, all he had to do was produce a son with your mother, a son who would inherit Lord Greystowe’s title and fortune in your place. Your sister would pose little threat to Fletcher’s schemes. That is, until she was old enough to marry and produce a son that might threaten his claim.” The apothecary made a sour face and gestured at the society page. “You know how these things become twisted when people have fortunes to bestow. Affections change. Promises settled upon one heir can be revoked in favor of a more promising one.”

  “You make it sound like a chess game; rooks blocking knights to steal the queen.”

  “Ah.” Barnaby nodded, fingering his snowy goatee. “When money is involved, you’d be surprised at how often family interactions mimic the movements of a chessboard.”

  “I have to go to her. I have to see her.” Kieran rose, as the sense of urgency he’d felt earlier returned.

  “You should write to her first.” Barnaby placed a hand on Kieran’s arm to restrain him. “One does not simply sail across the bay to Ravencrest and knock on the front door. Our count does not welcome visitors. It’s invitation only. Those who tried when he first came were driven off--at gunpoint.”

  “She’s my sister. And she’s suffering. I can’t wait for an invitation to Ravencrest.”

  ******

  Elizabeth recalled little after the captain left. She recalled trying to tell Donovan the truth and then being given a strong sedative that made her sleep until morning.

  She experienced a wondrous dream under the opiate’s sway. Sheila would say she’d been visited by the fairy folk while she slept. She had been lying on a bed of soft moss in a dark forest. A dim light nearby allowed her to make out tree trunks laden with verdant foliage. She wasn’t afraid to be in the forest alone at night. The Oak King was guarding her. Oddly, the ancient lord of the woodlands looked just like her husband. In the dream Donovan possessed arched brows, luminous eyes and quick, unnatural movements of one from the magical realm.

  The dream was disjointed. One moment, she was floating on a feather, buoyed up on a breeze and the next she was falling from the sky, sinking into that incredibly soft, mossy bed. The Celtic god of the forests had worked some enchantment over her. At one point, he was weeping as he held her close and pledged his love to her.

  Her insides grew warm as she recalled the tender-sweet dream. She wished she could go to sleep and return to that secret glen and be in the arms of her fairy lover who looked so much like Donovan. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and with it the absurdity; men like Donovan didn’t become spoony over a woman!

  It was a hallucination, conjured by loneliness, longing and a heavy dose of Laudanum.

  Presently, Elizabeth was reclining on several plump pillows in her husband’s bed with a breakfast tray across her lap. Puck was beside her, purring, and busily grooming his face after enjoying his breakfast of chopped meat and a saucer of milk.

  Chloe was sitting in the chair next to the bed, declaring her gratitude for being raised to the position of lady’s companion. Elizabeth listened with bewildered apathy as she tried to banish the cobwebs in her head with a bracing cup of tea. Chloe’s advancement was news to her. Apparently Donovan made the decision yesterday, while she was sleeping. It seemed a great deal happened while she was asleep these days. Elizabeth sipped her tea, hoping to make it out later.

  “And that old Tabby cat has been dismissed!” Chloe informed her brightly.

  “Tabby’s been let go?” She asked, uncertain she’d heard correctly.

  “It happened while we were all in the servant’s hall last night, just finishing our dinner. Duchamp and O’Leary marched her out the back kitchen door, each holding an arm.”

  “Why?”

  The doe eyes sharpened. “She was stealing from his lordship. Fudging the household accounts, for years, apparently! Giles wouldn’t say a word, but I asked Mr. O’Donovan about it this morning—oh, he is such a handsome man.” Chloe waved her hand about as she spoke with her usual animation. “We had breakfast in the dining room, just the two of us. Gareth said--“

  Chloe placed a hand over her mouth and giggled as she looked askance at Elizabeth.

  “Mr. O’Donovan,” She corrected, “Said we must not use the breakfast room until you are recovered as you are responsible ‘for its rescue from darkness, dust and neglect’. Oooh, that man has the soul of a poet!” She placed a hand on her breast dramatically, as if ready to swoon.

  Elizabeth stretched, attempting to shake off this annoying languor. She usually didn’t mind Chloe’s chattiness. Today, it was just too much to keep up with the exuberant woman. She longed for silence with her tea. She yearned for her husband’s quiet, soothing presence.

  Where was Donovan? More importantly, what might his mood be after the upset she’d caused him with the captain? She searched the forest green canopy above, uncertain how her lord might be feeling toward her after such high dramatics. A queer impression made her do a quick review of the four solid oak bedposts festooned with luxuriant green curtains. Her fingers brushed the velvet coverlet that could easily be mistaken for a bed of moss.

  Oh, Bollocks! The bed bore an uncanny resemblance to the fairy bower in her dream. And her ‘enchanted lover’ looked too much like Donovan to be a coincidence— and hadn’t the lord of the woodlands been demanding to know her deepest, most disgusting secret?

  Sunshine was streaming in the open windows. A refreshing sea breeze wafted in from the veranda doors. The birds were singing. Everything appeared just as it should be, and yet, Elizabeth knew everything had changed in the past hours.

  “Where is my lord?” She asked when Chloe paused in her nattering. “Did he seem angry? Did he tell you where he was going, or when he would return?” Her hand trembled. She set the teacup on the tray before she doused herself with the tepid liquid.

  “I forgot to tell you, he made Mr. Duchamp the steward of the estates to replace Mr. O’Rourke. He was meeting with Duchamp at ten this morning. He said that he was going to speak to Alice after that. She is to be your new maid. I am so relieved, Madame. It would be a shame if Sally were given that position. She’s lazy and a terrible gossip.”

  “Yes—but--did my lord seem unduly upset when you spoke to him?”

  “Well, he was not our sunny O’Rourke, if that’s what you mean. His lordship left strict orders that you must not become distressed and agitate your poor nerves. ‘She needs rest and quiet’, he said to me.” Chloe mimicked the count’s stern, deep voice. “He was most adamant about that. Oh, is this not the most wonderful of news, Madame?” Chloe clutched Elizabeth’s hand, jubilant and irritatingly pleased.

  Elizabeth blinked. What was so wonderful about her husband believing she was a pathetic twit needing to be coddled by the household staff?

  “Is it not wonderful that I am to be your lady?” Chloe clarified, swinging their clasped hands as she gushed on with unspoiled delight. “I’ve been given a room on this floor instead of the servant’s quarters, directly across from Mr. O’Donovan’s room. It overlooks the back courtyard and the stables, but I don’t mind. It’s a lovely room. And I’m to have new gowns made, suitable for my position and am to be called Miss Ramirez by everyone. Papa would be pleased, he had hoped to take me to Cadiz once I was of an age and present me . . . “

  Chloe kept blathering on about her father’s family in Spain, oblivious to her lady’s distress. Where was Donovan? She needed to feel his ar
ms about her. She needed to hear his voice assuring her once more that he loved her and nothing could ever change his love, just as he promised so sweetly last night—in that peculiar . . . dream?

  “Madame, you’re shivering. Are you cold?” Chloe removed the uneaten tray from Elizabeth’s lap and tugged the blankets up about her bosom. “What is wrong?”

  “I’m afraid. What am I going to do?”

  “You are safe in his lordship’s room. The spirit will not attack you here.”

  “The spirit?” Elizabeth gasped, having forgotten about her mother’s harassment in her distress over Donovan’s absence. Mama’s behavior was becoming more malevolent with each encounter. Perhaps Chloe was right; Mama wouldn’t trouble her with Donovan nearby.

  “Do not be frightened, Madame. I will make a charm of protection for you. I know plenty of spells for warding off evil spirits. My grandmother taught me--”

  “What the devil is going on?” A voice boomed like cannon-fire from the opened veranda doors. “I left you with the admonition that my lady is not to be upset for any reason.”

  “My lord!” Chloe dropped Elizabeth’s hand and backed away from the bed. “I-I tried to talk only of cheerful things. Still, she became upset. I do not know why. I think she is frightened by her illness, yes, is that not so, Madame?” Chloe’s eyes were beggars, silently imploring Elizabeth to agree with her.

  Elizabeth stared at the woman, not sure why Chloe should feel threatened by Donovan’s appearance. And then it came to her; being overheard in a conversation about magic. Chloe didn’t know that Donovan did not believe in magic or fear those who claimed to practice it.

  “C-Chloe didn’t upset me!” She stammered, attempting to deflect his ire from her friend. “I-I-I’m s-s-sorry—I-I-I” Oh, Bollocks! Why was it so difficult to form words?

  “Don’t apologize, my sweet.” Donovan’s tone softened as he addressed her. “You’ve done nothing that warrants an apology.”