Instead of joining in her gaiety, Flavian’s lips drew tight. “I’m so sorry. What an awful greeting.”
Trying to cheer him, she said, “Oh, forgive the perpetrator. Accidents do happen.”
“Isn’t she sweet?” Mrs. Gower crowed. “Imagine what a lovely mistress of the house she’d make.”
Claire cringed. It really was too bad no one else could accompany her. Snap, her sister, was too young for a come out, her other sisters, Peggity and Ellie, had husbands and homes to look after, and her father refused to “abandon his research for a lot of London ne’er-do-wells.” Why couldn’t he make do without Mother just this once, when Claire faced the most important mission of her life; namely, to find a proper husband? She let a little sigh escape. But fortunately, the tiniest speck of light had sneaked back into Flavian’s eyes. Being burdened with Mrs. Gower wouldn’t be quite so bad if the chaperone amused him.
“Now, here’s what I suggest we do,” he said, “You ladies freshen, and while the servants prepare your rooms, I’ll take you on a tour of the picture gallery. Unless you’d rather not stare at my dour ancestors?”
“I would be delighted to meet the dourest of your family,” Claire said, blushing at her forwardness.
“So my gel is to acquaint herself with the Monroe’s, eh?” Mrs. Gower said with a sly lift of one brow. “Now, whatever could a handsome young bachelor want so urgently with a beautiful, wealthy, unwed girl?”
Without a hint of amusement, Flavian looked away, and a haunted expression extinguished the green in his eyes.
* * *
Bloody fool, Flavian muttered to himself as he paced the marble floor of the reception hall waiting for the ladies. He gave his thigh a sharp slap and started back across the room. Why did he invite her here? Did he honestly believe those blue eyes wouldn’t affect him; that the bloom of her cheek wouldn’t stir him as it had two years ago? Bloody, selfish fool.
His agitation was cut short by Claire floating like a vision down the stairs. By God, her beauty took his breath away, and as if that weren’t enough, she fixed those blue eyes on him and opened her lips in a smile as bright as stars on a summer night, and his blood beat like an African drum.
The interior of Bingham Hall had been scrubbed and dusted, yet no amount of suds and elbow grease could clear the gloom of its naked interior. Claire, in her pretty peach linen, was like a Botticelli stranded in a sea of gray. Touch her, his body cried. Instead, he clasped his hands behind him and shifted his weight, rocking a little as she approached. Fool, fool, fool, he thought, fighting a surge of desire. He shifted his gaze to the diamond-shaped stoneware on the floor, but it did no good. Her face was etched in every tile. The scent of roses preceded her, but he didn’t look up as the soft sound of her footfalls grew closer.
“My lord,” she said, and her voice warmed him like the gentlest music. For a moment he couldn’t speak; his throat tight as a vise. Keep her at arm’s length. Don’t drag her into all this.
He moved to offer his arm, and as she took it her ivory skin brushed his sleeve, causing his heart’s drumbeat to quicken. “Shall we visit the old codgers then?” he asked, keeping his voice light.
She was about to respond when Mrs. Gower appeared around the corner. “What a marvelous idea.”
He proffered an arm to the chaperone, but the older woman waved it away. “You assist Lady Claire. She’s able-bodied, but delicate.”
At the fireplace halfway across the hall, Mrs. Gower paused to catch her breath in front the hall’s sole decoration—a Sevres clock of biscuit porcelain sporting two loosely clothed lovers cavorting beneath a standing cupid.
“Now, that’s a racy time piece.” Mrs. Gower wiggled her brows suggestively. “But it’s so high on the mantle, I couldn’t say if it’s noon or bunting time.”
With a chuckle, he explained, “It’s Mother’s. She bought it in France before the war.”
“And where is the lady of the house?” Mrs. Gower asked.
“She stays in her apartments mostly. When I sent word of your arrival she was taking an afternoon nap.”
Shaking a scolding finger, her expression bright with amusement, Mrs. Gower chided, “Then I’m glad I’m here to see that you behave proper around the young lady.”
Embarrassment flickered across Claire’s luminous eyes, but Flavian was grateful for Mrs. Gower’s antics. She distracted him from the vibrancy of Claire’s slim elbow, and the way her frock swished over her thighs. Afraid of the growing heat in his groin, he dropped her arm. “Shall we ascend to the long gallery?”
Claire looked at him quizzically. Her honest blue eyes questioned his sudden distant behavior, and it pierced his heart. You’re a scoundrel, Monroe. She shouldn’t be here at all. He thrust his hands behind his back. “Then we’re off.”
“My late husband’s family had a long gallery,” Mrs. Gower said, trundling after them. “Floor to ceiling lords and ladies and the like.”
“Mrs. Gower married my mother’s cousin,” Claire explained.
“Aye, and it were quite the scandal—me being the daughter of a maritime insurance merchant and all, but I’ve spent a lifetime in London, so I know a thing or two. Her mother finds me invaluable as a guide to her young brood. Four girls and I’ll see all of them wed and fat with babes.”
Flavian laughed and Claire’s cheeks went rosy—a most attractive hue. He tried to catch her eye, but she was lifting her skirt to ascend the stairs and for a fraction of a second an exquisite ankle was revealed, and he had to look away.
Wrought iron gates guarded the arched entries to the long gallery, and he worried Claire would think them strange. If she had such thoughts, however, she kept them to herself as the gate swung soundlessly open.
Sunlight poured through the gallery’s mullioned windows. Rectangular beams of light stretching across the floor and up the wall, illuminating six massive tapestries. The hangings depicted religious scenes of varying horror and beauty. In one, Mary cradled her innocent babe; a few panels down, John the Baptist’s vacant eyes looked heavenward as his severed head rested on a silver platter. Tacked over the tapestries were portraits of Monroe ancestors: bloody tyrants, uniformed adventurers, gentle masters, fiery maidens, plain women, and pretty children. They were his history, and he was their future.
“Who is this intimidating gentleman?” Claire asked, stopping before a portrait hung in a place of honor above a gilt sideboard. The picture depicted an officer in full dress. Behind him crashed a raging sea, the Union Jack whipping on the mast of the HMS Indomitable. Though canyons of flesh lined the man’s face, eyes as fierce as a badger’s shone beneath tufted white brows.
“That, my lady, is my father, the viscount, Admiral Gareth Geraint Monroe, God rest his soul.” Flavian executed a sharp salute.
Claire’s flute-like chuckle made him smile. “You salute as if you’d served.”
“Starting at thirteen.”
“My legs don’t like the sea,” Mrs. Gower interrupted, plunking into a heavily carved chair. “Myself, I find water bracing, but my legs won’t go near it.”
With a note of hurt, Claire said, “But you never mentioned you were in the Royal Navy.”
Suddenly wary, Flavian regretted having revealed so much. As if the information were nothing, he shrugged. “The subject never arose.”
“But we spent weeks together at the Davenport house party, and through all our conversations—”
“My late husband never spoke of his time in the service,” Mrs. Gower said. “He got a mighty wound in the buttocks— kept him mum.”
With a hand to her breast, Claire said, “Were you wounded, my lord?”
“Not in the classic sense of the word.” Unwilling to say more, he pointed at the next portrait. “Meet my great aunt, Tillie and youngest brother Percival Be—” Before he could continue, a small thud followed by a ping sounded. At the far end of the hall, a button rolled across the floor. Claire caught the movement. “What was that?”
Sweeping
past her, Flavian grabbed the button, and jammed it in his pocket. Louder and with more menace than he intended, he said, “It must have fallen off the tapestry.”
Claire’s brows lifted.
Dear God, not yet. Not yet! Ignoring her curiosity, he led her to a painting of a man with an arrogantly lifted chin. His restless gaze looked out from the canvas as if seeking adventure, and a feathering of sandy hair curled back from a high, lined, forehead. “The rightful heir, my brother, Lancelot. May he also rest in peace.”
“The artist certainly captured that square Monroe jaw,” Claire said. “You, your father, your brother. Even your Aunt Tillie has it.”
“The cards, the other men’s wives, and the poor investments were left off, but you’re right, Lancelot’s jaw is perfect.” Flavian lifted his chin. “We’re very proud of our boxers’ target.”
“My husband’s family had matching feet,” Mrs. Gower chimed in. “Ugly things with the big toe flopping over the others. I used to make him wear socks to bed so they wouldn’t scare me in the morning.”
Claire shot the older woman a look of annoyance, but Flavian laughed till his eyes watered.
When he’d got hold of himself, Claire pointed at the portrait. “How did he die?”
“Stupidly.”
“Is that the Monroe got a hole put in him in a duel some years back?” Mrs. Gower interrupted. “Now, that was a scandal the gossip mongers . . .”
“That was he,” Flavian confirmed.
Another pinging sound came from the end of the gallery, and blast it, Claire heard. She walked quickly down the corridor. “Something hit that painting again.” She peeked through the iron tines into the hall. The padding of footsteps retreated down the stairs. “Does someone want me to see this picture?”
Drawing breath, Flavian carefully regulated his expression. “The picture is of Hernando Vargas Duarte, and below is a miniature of his parents. He was a dear friend of mine who once saved my life. He’s gone now.”
“Oh dear, so many deaths,” said Claire.
“You’ll have no one to talk to if you keep this up,” Mrs. Gower brayed.
Claire peered through the iron bars, clearly looking for the person who tossed the buttons. Bloody, bloody hell. “Hernando was drafted into Napoleon’s Grand Army and died in Russia,” he said, trying to distract her. It had been some time since he’d studied Hernando’s bronze complexion and sculpted brows. The gentleness in his almond-shaped eyes was perfectly portrayed in paint.
How bitterly Flavian had fought with his mother two years ago, the night before his departure for Spain. But the very evening the letter arrived, he’d swung a cloak over his shoulders, and insisted, “I owe Hernando this much, and I owe her much more.” Then he’d slammed the door, deadening the sound of his mother’s weeping.
A crash downstairs broke his reverie. Hands shaking, Flavian unlocked the gate and took the stairs two at a time, but when he reached the reception hall, it was empty. On the floor before the fireplace lay the shattered remains of the Sevres clock.
His Lordship's Darkest Secret: Chapter Two
What is happening? Claire wondered, as she followed Flavian. When she reached the reception hall Flavian and an elderly woman were crouched together over shards of porcelain on the floor, and cupped in her palm was a broken cherub from the Sevres clock. At Claire’s entrance, the woman straightened. Perfectly coiffed white hair circled her brow, and though her purple gown was years out of fashion, its tailoring, fine silk, and expensive trim of velvet and grosgrain appeared more elegant than any plate in La Belle Assemblée. The clock had been far too high on the mantel for an elderly person to reach it, so how had it come to be broken?
The woman smiled a warm welcome that immediately put Claire at ease; clearly this was the dowager viscountess. There was nothing imperious about her, but she appeared to be a woman whom everyone would wish to obey out of concern for causing her discomfort. That must have been how she handled three rambunctious boys.
“Lady Claire, I presume,” she said.
Flavian left the broken clock. “Allow me to introduce my mother, Lady Monroe.”
Claire dropped a curtsey then took the dowager’s outstretched hand. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“And I yours, my dear. Was your journey uncomfortable?”
“Not at all.”
“How extraordinary,” Lady Monroe said. “The roads can be so difficult these days; one has to be quite athletic to survive them.”
“Your son told me you travel often,” Claire said.
The woman shot a guarded glance at Flavian, who shifted uneasily. “She did,” he said, “but Mother has been unable to get out as much as she used to.”
Lady Monroe nodded and looked at the cherub. “I’m quite the hermit these days.” The corners of her mouth stiffened.
Just then loud footsteps resounded from a hallway leading to the east wing of the house. A look of near panic lit the dowager’s pale eyes. “Take me to my rooms,” she said, gripping Flavian’s arm.
The footsteps grew closer.
The viscountess began walking with short, pain-filled strides, west from the reception hall, taking Flavian with her.
“Mother, I can’t leave Lady Claire here,” he said. But rather than stopping, the dowager quickened her halting pace.
“Yet, you cannot leave me either,” she said, a note of panic in her voice.
“If you’ll excuse us,” Flavian called over his shoulder, hastening after her.
As they were about to disappear around a corner, Lady Monroe hesitated. “If you ever need anything, you may come to me, but I’m afraid my health will prevent me from being present often during your visit.”
Claire returned her best smile. “Perhaps I can give you something to make you feel better?”
The viscountess nodded thoughtfully. “Flavian mentioned your interest in healing. How wonderful that would be, my dear. How very wonderful . . .” She patted her son’s arm, and as she turned, Claire noticed the woman was shaking.
Now it sounded as if someone were intentionally stomping to make as much noise as humanly possible. Bewildered, a shadow of trepidation reared over Claire as she stood alone in the vast reception hall.
* * *
The loud footsteps ceased. Alone, and not knowing what else to do, Claire picked up bits of the shattered Sevres clock. On a console table, she pieced together its center panel, which depicted a man and woman sitting together in a meadow while a cherub cavorted between them. The scene was surrounded by gilt and offset with sky blue porcelain. Such a pretty object. What a waste.
“I can see you,” said a girlish voice. Startled, Claire flinched, and the china scattered. There came a peal of giggles, and then a young lady jumped from behind a massive urn. “I’m like zee little cat,” she said in a strong Spanish accent, “sniff, sniff, sniff, and then I pounce!”
“Hello, little cat.” Claire offered her hand. “I’m Lady Claire Albright.”
“Oh, you come visit my Vav?” Huge dark eyes gazed at her with open curiosity. They were the most expressive eyes Claire had ever seen—the pupils, chestnut colored and flecked with gold, oscillated between interest, and somehow both innocence and mistrust. Perhaps fifteen or sixteen years old, the young woman had a flawless olive complexion framed by glossy black hair that shone even in the entrance hall’s dim light. But the distinguishing feature of the girl’s exquisite face was a pair of black brows that tapered to the thinness of knife blades. Instantly, Claire remembered the portraits of Hernando and his parents in the gallery. “You must be a member of the Vargas Duarte family.”
Flavian rushed into the hall from his mother’s apartments, not waiting to join them before beginning introductions. “Arabella, this is Lady Claire Albright. Lady Claire, my ward, Arabella Carmencita Vargas-Duarte.”
“Vav, he talk about you. He say this Lady Claire . . . perilous?”
Claire didn’t know how to respond. “Perilous?” she said, c
huckling. “My family finds me quite dull.”
“Oh, they don’t know you as I do,” the girl replied, with a cascade of giggles.
Claire laughed too, caught in the giddy tide of her humor.
“Precioso,” Flavian corrected. “Precious, or ‘lovely,’ in your native tongue.”
“Ah, forgive me, Lady Claire. I make zee mistakes, but I make up to you. Come hear me sing.”
“I was about to speak with Lady Claire privately,” Flavian said gently.
“That’s right,” Mrs. Gower called, descending the stairs, as wobbly as a tilting hand cart. “You need to talk, but it goes no further than that. No shenanigans, mind you.”
Arabella flashed an undecipherable look at Claire. “What is this, ‘shenanigans’?”
Heat rose to Claire’s cheeks, but Flavian answered. “It’s nothing. Just an expression.”
For a moment, the girl’s face went dark then she brightened to a radiant smile. “You on coach a long time, si? Oh, I make feel fresh like child when you hear me sing.” She stroked her throat like a shopkeeper displaying his finest wares. “Muy bueno. Forget all about dat old coach.” When Mrs. Gower reached them, Arabella took the older woman’s hand as well as Claire’s and pulled them toward the hall.
“Actually,” Flavian said, following them, “the birds stop chirping to hear Arabella sing.”
* * *
Cooing with delight, Arabella established three chairs in the center of an airy music room, placing them near the pianoforte. “Sentarse, por favor,” she commanded.
“’Sentarse,’ that’s an adorable little melody,” replied Mrs. Gower.
“No, it means sit,” explained Flavian.
The chaperone threw her hands in the air. “Fancy that.” She took the center of the three chairs.
Arabella pulled her skirt aside and gracefully perched on the bench before the instrument. Her hands hovered above the keyboard, and she raised a black eyebrow with impish suspense.
Her Perfect Gentleman: A Regency Romance Anthology Page 78
