She’s utterly charming, thought Claire. I wonder why Flavian didn’t mentioned her?
With a bolt of energy, the girl’s fingers descended on the ivory keys. They danced over them, striking bright, happy notes. She played with mesmerizing ability, but when she started to sing, each note was as clear and sharp as mountain air. There could not be a more glorious sound.
“Of all the girls that are so smart, there's none like pretty Sally,” Arabella sang, “She is the darling of my heart, and she lives in our alley.”
Claire sat forward and stared at Arabella’s face. As the singer’s lips moved, sound emanated in crystalline trills, but her voice seemed almost disembodied—as if God himself were singing instead of the shiny-eyed miss.
Her father he makes cabbage-nets,
And through the streets does cry 'em;
Her mother she sells laces long
To such as please to buy 'em
The music swelled in Claire’s body, tugging her gently side to side with its rhythm. She felt unimaginably happy. Mrs. Gower tapped her thigh with a forefinger, keeping the lively beat.
Before they could burst into wild applause, however, Arabella began her next song—a ballad so slow and wistful, Claire’s eyes instantly filled with tears.
“But my kisses bring again, seals of love, though sealed in vain,” she sang, while visions of graveside partings filled Claire’s mind. Try as she might, she couldn’t stop weeping. Tears trickled down her cheeks, and she brushed them away, praying Flavian wouldn’t notice. An involuntary sob shook her, and he reached across Mrs. Gower with a handkerchief that the older woman snatched to swab her own eyes.
“Enough, my little songbird,” Flavian said. “You are destroying our guests.”
“Oh goodness,” Arabella said. “I play pretty tune. That cheer you.”
“Forgive me,” said Claire, pushing words through a choked throat. “But you have the most extraordinary voice. Absolutely brilliant.”
Arabella clapped her hands. “You so nice.”
“And I’m usually bored by concerts,” Mrs. Gower announced, blowing into the handkerchief.
“Shall I sing, Ruggleton’s Daughter of Iero?”
“I think not.” Flavian looked suddenly uncomfortable, but Arabella plinked the keys of the pianoforte.
O if your dinner you must have,
Then get it yourself; I am not your slave,
Said Ruggleton's daughter of Iero.
Instantly, Claire’s heartbreak dissipated, replaced by euphoria. Decorum couldn’t keep her from laughing outright. How extraordinary that her emotions could be so easily manipulated just by the sound of this girl’s voice.
O you shall brew and you shall bake,
Fal lal lal lal lal li-do,
And you shall make your white hands black,
To Ruggleton's daughter of Iero.
Arabella sang the verse straight to Claire, her eyes glittering with good humor. But as she sang, a threat seemed to form in the notes. Slyly raising her eyebrows and nodding her head, the girl continued, “He took a stick down off the rack, fall al lal lal lal li-do, and on the back went rickety-rack, of Ruggleton’s daughter of Iero.”
Laughter died on Claire’s lips as Arabella raised her hands from the keys with a flourish. Had the girl just issued a warning? The frightened bunny inside her hunkered down, ready to take flight. Claire took a deep breath. Nonsense, why would she?
As Arabella bowed, the three of them rose, clapping their hands in unfettered appreciation.
“Magnificent, my Bella,” Flavian declared, as his ward swept to his side, and snuggled under his arm.
“Now you do not cry,” Arabella told Claire, her expression so sweetly happy that the frightened rabbit relaxed.
“You are magic,” said Claire. “Honestly, it was as if your voice compelled me to feel every emotion. I was helpless in your spell.”
“You so sweet!” cooed Arabella. “Oh Vav, I like her so much!” Then she laughed—a sound as pretty as the tinkling of icicles.
* * *
At supper, Flavian felt nothing but relief. Claire couldn’t suppress her elation following Arabella’s performance, and the two glowed like twin lanterns, giggling over their meals.
“Lord Monroe, you must sponsor a singing debut for Arabella in London,” Claire said. “The ton will be at her feet.”
Arabella pressed her hands to her chest. “You think this?”
“There’s not a doubt in my mind.” Claire lifted wine to her lips, but before taking a sip, placed the glass back on the table. Her blue Botticelli eyes took him in. “Have you any friends in London who would open their salons to a magnificent songstress?” But before he could reply, she cut him off. “No, don’t ask a soul.” She turned to Arabella. “My sister Ellie is married to Lord Hugh Davenport, and he has a marvelous house in Mayfair. What a sensation you’d make! All of London would be talking about the new Lady Davenport and her extraordinary musical find. Promise me you won’t debut anywhere else?”
Mrs. Gower waved her fork. “Ooo, if you have a concert, I’d like that song; the one that goes, ‘la, la, la.’” She sang three notes that sounded exactly the same.
Overcome with excitement, Arabella left her seat and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. “Oh Vav, isn’t this maravilloso? A salon in London!”
And now he would ruin their evening. He shut his eyes and gently untethered himself from Arabella. “Um hum,” he said, avoiding further discussion by loading a forkful of beef into his mouth. He avoided their glances, but in the ensuing silence, he heard the coming onslaught.
“Did you have something else in mind for her?” Claire said, confusion heightening her tone.
He shook his head and continued chewing, making sure not to look at her.
Oblivious, Mrs. Gower added, “There’s that other tune, too. …What is it?”
“Vav such a worrier.” Arabella tickled him under the chin. “I be wonderful. I promise.”
He swallowed. “I’m sure you’ll have doors opening for you everywhere, my sweet one. Let’s talk about it another time.”
“But Vav,” Arabella said pitifully, “all I ever want is share my voice.”
He nodded, pretending he couldn’t respond because he was chewing.
Yet, Claire pressed her argument. “London isn’t nearly as dangerous as they say,” she told him, “especially for the well-to-do. It’s the children in the poorer neighborhoods who die of scarlet fever and measles. Arabella will be safe at my sister’s home.”
“I’m sure,” he grunted. “Bella, sit down and finish your dinner.” He nudged her toward her seat.
“Lady Claire, tell him to let me go to London. If I went with you, it be magnifico!”
“La, la, la, la” sang Mrs. Gower, positioning a finger in midair as if marking four separate notes. “It would be nice to hear that…”
Claire fixed those brilliant blues on him again, and they were full of the most wistful pleading. Dear God, how he wanted to say yes! Perhaps sensing his desire, she winked and held a forkful of partridge aloft in silent community with Arabella. His ward speared a bit of partridge as well, and lifted it in a toast. He groaned inwardly.
His Lordship's Darkest Secret: Chapter Three
Shadows soared up the walls in the orange glow of a candle Flavian held as he led Claire to her room, having just deposited Mrs. Gower at her apartment. Though Claire tried to rein in her feelings, she couldn’t help but imagine them retiring to bed together many years from now, a married couple with little ones snug in the nursery. He shifted the light, causing his shadow to loom beside her. The outline of the slope of his shoulder and the cut of his chin came within reach on the wall. Discreetly, she lifted her hand and stroked the darkness. How tender, how fine the reality would be. She pictured his body–the glow of flesh by candle fire—and a rush swept through her, so powerful she breathed, “Oh.”
“Did you bump something?”
Mortified, she dropped h
er hand from his outline. “No, no. I’m fine. What a darling Arabella is,” she added, to distract him from her involuntary moan. “Why didn’t you tell me you had a ward? She’s exceptionally talented.”
“I’m glad you’re getting on so well,” Flavian said. “She doesn’t take to people, usually.”
“Well, she’s charming, and I’m sure you’re very proud of her.”
“When I look at her . . . her beauty and her voice . . . well, she is an extraordinary little girl.”
“You must stop viewing her as a child. In fact, it’s time your songbird flew the nest—”
“But Arabella’s not like other girls her age,” he interjected.
“No, she’s special. The refinement of her looks and talent make her superior.”
Flavian turned, the candle blinding Claire with sudden brightness. “I hope I don’t underestimate her advantages,” he said, “but unfortunately I cannot let her go with you to London.”
Claire’s step faltered. In the stark light, the hollows of his face deepened, and a grave, troubled look darkened his features. But his attitude irked her; men underestimated women’s value to the world. Hadn’t Mrs. Gower warned her not to tell suitors about her aptitude for healing? Somehow, she’d thought better of Flavian. Employing her gentlest tone, she opened the argument. “Arabella’s artistry would guarantee her success. Would you want anything less for her—especially when it’s her heart’s desire?”
His features hardened. “I understand my ward. She wouldn’t thrive in London. In fact, exposing her to the city might harm her in ways you cannot comprehend.”
His stubbornness astounded her. “What am I not comprehending? Her personality is fragile and excitable, I can see that, but the heart of a woman is stronger than you think.”
“And yet, she shall not go.” Flavian turned his back and continued down the hall.
Always one to acquiesce, never to argue, Claire closed her mouth and followed. But perhaps because he’d hurt her, a wave of anger suddenly halted her footsteps. “But why?” she said.
He whipped around, the candle spitting wax on the floor. “She needs help. Arabella is sick, diseased, and I cannot permit her to leave.”
Claire couldn’t believe her ears. “If that’s your excuse then put your heart at peace; I’ve seen many patients, and your ward is healthy as a horse.”
Bowing his head, he murmured, “There are sicknesses, apparently, beyond your understanding.”
Stung, Claire could only stare at the irrational brick wall who had suddenly appeared in front of her. “What I do understand, is that you are not the man I thought you were.” She brushed past him and walked swiftly down the hall. When she reached her room, she twisted the knob and was about to open the door when he came up behind and caressed her upper arm.
“Don’t . . .” he said. “Please don’t be upset with me. It’s my despair… You see, I think she suffers in the mind.”
Oh how men tortured themselves over nothing when it came to women. The slightest aberration, and they either condemned them as a whore, a harridan, or mad. Keeping her voice steady, she said, “You’re referring to lunacy, my lord, and I have met people so afflicted. But Arabella is fine. A few lessons in proper decorum, and English pronunciations, and she’d be the toast of the town.”
“Did you treat them, the lunatics you’ve met?”
“No, but there are many herbs that could cure them.”
Such a fierce light of hope lit his eyes that it almost scared her. “Oh dear God, if that were the case… Could you try them on her? It would mean the world to me, and I’d pay any price.”
She laughed. “Goodness gracious, my lord, of course there’s no cost. I’d be happy to help her, but I honestly believe she’s fine. She didn’t bang her head, or shout obscenities, or scratch where she shouldn’t in public.”
He tore a hand through his hair. “You need to see something… Perhaps in the morning.”
She sighed—a sound rich with exasperation. Why was it men held all the cards? Why did she have to wait for him to write, and why should a talented young lady be shuttered away because her behavior was odd? “I don’t wish to sound shrill,” she said, “but whatever you wish to show me, I can’t imagine it’s something I can’t witness now.”
Searching her face, he gave a slight nod. “Then come.”
* * *
As they traversed the long corridors of Bingham Hall, Claire sensed that only the thinnest thread of gentlemanliness was preventing Flavian from a firestorm of emotion. His mental state wasn’t about her, she could sense that, but whatever it was, she began to wonder if she should have pushed so hard on Arabella’s behalf. Perhaps the bunny should have stayed in its burrow…
The heels of his boots sounded loudly on the floor, each step echoing with grim determination. When she fell slightly behind, he took her hand, and she felt it almost twitching with something too powerful to fully contain.
At last, they reached a door Claire guessed led to the crenellated tower that jutted above the eastern wall of the house. He gave her the candle, and fished in his pocket for a key. Metal squealed against metal in the chamber of a padlock bolting a thick wooden door. As it swung open, she noticed grain sacking on the floor. It had been stuffed into the gap at the jam.
Flavian studied her, as if searching for the slightest sign of weakness. “Let me know the minute you wish to leave.” A pang of fear rattled through her. But it was too late to back out now, or she’d appear a total ninny. With an upward tilt of her chin, she replied, “Don’t worry about me—worry about your ward’s gift to the world.”
The line of his lips stretched in an unreadable grimace. Without answering, he pulled an immaculate handkerchief from his pocket and gave it to her. “Hold it to your nose if you need to.”
She handed it back. “I’ve smelled gangrene. Nothing could be worse.”
His features tightened even more. Taking back the candle, he drew a deep breath and plunged into the tower’s dark stairwell.
Flavian didn’t wait. She had to make do with what little light reflected off the spiraled walls. On the final turn before they reached the landing to the third floor, she caught sight of him. His face was cut with shadow at the ridges of cheek and jaw—an ominous, harsh expression. As she joined him, he lit the wick of a mirrored sconce and light flooded the space.
At first she couldn’t grasp what she saw, then her breath strangled in her throat.
Floor to ceiling, the tower overflowed with crates, broken chairs, tattered blankets, gnawed grain sacks, and dead and dying plants. Only a small, barely visible path led through the piles. The smell of rodent feces thickened the air and coated what little she could see of the floor.
She felt faint, and revulsion gripped her stomach. Wordlessly, he passed her the handkerchief, and she pressed it hard to her nose then closed her eyes.
“It’s not what you were expecting,” Flavian said.
Barely able to speak, she murmured, “No.”
“I’m sorry.” He took her hand and led her through the teetering mass. They passed ruined tables, cracked shovels, bales of moldering hay, piles of yellowed newspaper, wine barrels, decimated children’s toys, and a settee, propped on one end with horsehair bursting from the seat.
Her mind balked and skittered, unable to comprehend the chaos. Nothing made sense. The piles were so high she couldn’t see the walls or even the ceiling. Chairs hung upside down by ropes from the rafters, and torn pictures were stacked every which way. There was no up or down. It made her feel as if her mind had been turned inside out—broken thoughts stacked into piles of useless, crumbling memory. For the first time in her life, Claire felt truly afraid. “What has happened here?”
Instead of answering, Flavian parted a stained bed sheet revealing a narrow trail through the jumble. He gently drew her into the tiny passage. “Oh no,” she whispered, overcome with apprehension.
But Flavian didn’t hear. He pulled her through the cave of debr
is into a room where the shadows seemed alive with menace. Shapes in the wavering candlelight took on human form, shifted to animal, and then settled as the light steadied, illuminating piles of clothes, books, shoes, and broken china. In the midst of the mess was a bed—a nest, really—with old blankets, linens, and pillows heaped in a torn, yellowed pile.
Nausea rocked her. She held fast to Flavian’s hand. “Where did all this come from?”
“This is only the top floor of the tower. Two other levels below are packed even tighter than this. Arabella calls it her ‘collection.’ It’s been only two years in the making. She started it when she became my ward, shortly after the house party at Hugh Davenport’s.”
Claire swallowed. “But . . . did you know when you took her in?”
Before Flavian could respond, the pile on the bed moved. Claire backed away in horror, stumbling against a filthy mound of clothing. The clothes separated and slid. Rats leaped from the mass and scuttled toward her. She screamed and ran toward the tunnel, but the hole had disappeared. Desperately clawing at piles of books, they cascaded to the floor. Banks of rags shifted and flopped and more rats squealed, darting this way and that, their claws scratching the floor boards, their cries blinding her with terror.
An arm caught her waist—a warm, powerful arm. “It’s all right,” she heard Flavian say, as if from a great distance.
She turned into his chest, sobbing. “Get me out of here.”
He pulled her close. “I’ll take you downstairs.” The warmth of his body brought her shattered thoughts back to reason.
“Dear God,” she said, clinging to him, trying to catch her breath, trying to fight the buzzing, the black dots crowding her vision, trying to keep from climbing into his arms—anything, so the rats wouldn’t swarm her ankles.
“Lady Claire, you come visit me,” Arabella’s sweet voice pierced the coming blackness.
Shocked, Claire peered past the comforting folds of Flavian’s coat. Arabella sat on the filthy bed in a spotless white nightgown, looking like a fairy in a field of bramble. Her hair, loosed from pins and ribbons, fell in a black river around her flawless complexion and over her thin shoulders. A happy, excited smile played on her lips.
Her Perfect Gentleman: A Regency Romance Anthology Page 79
