“Did you find out the next morning?”
As if he hadn’t heard, Flavian stayed as silent as a man in prayer. A moan escaped him, and at last, he whispered, “I cut her down.”
Claire hid her face in her hands. “Oh, dear God.”
“I went to tell her I’d find a way to save them, but she’d tied a knot to the wrought iron railing outside her window, put a rope around her neck and jumped. Her feet were inches, just inches from the stones in the courtyard.”
Doubling over, he wrapped his arms around his stomach as if the pain were about to rip his insides apart. “I begged her to breathe.” He began to rock forward and backward. “I beseeched God to let her live. I walked with her in my arms, weeping until my legs gave out.” Then he covered his eyes, and his body shook with emotion. “But when she begged me, I had said no. No.” He used his fist against himself, slamming it over and over into his thigh, until Claire, tears coursing down her face, flung herself from the chaise and grabbed his wrists. “Stop, Flavian, stop! You were fourteen years old, a child trapped behind enemy lines in Spain. How could you help?”
He shook her off and scrambled to his feet as if he couldn’t wait to put distance between them. Eyes ablaze, he pointed straight at her. “I was a soldier in His Majesty’s Royal Navy and the son of a viscount. With all those resources, I could have devised something.” Turning on his heel, he stormed to the sideboard and poured a stiff whiskey.
Slowly, Claire collected herself and returned to the chaise. She gave him time, but when he’d had a few gulps and seemed calm, she said, “I’ve seen sadness in your eyes—a sad look, and when you said you couldn’t marry . . . Did you think I might die like your first love?”
His chin jerked up. “She was my first infatuation. You are my first and only love.”
That was comforting, but not an explanation. A little afraid of his answer, she said softly, “Your sorrow, then… is it Arabella? She disturbs you?”
He looked at her askance. “Not really.”
But he was lying, and she knew it. The frustration and fear she’d dealt with all these weeks ground like a lead ball in her stomach. “Then I don’t know what to do. I only know I can’t live here afraid of Arabella all the time.”
“You will be safe with me.” He addressed her, back straight, command in his gaze. “I understand my ward now. We’ll have qualified people to care for her.”
His confidence struck like a blow across the face, and she shrank back; little bunny girl, retreating to her burrow. But fear wasn’t working; had never worked, and now either her life or her love was at stake. She hurled the blanket to the floor and hit the chaise with her fist. “What kind of hold does this girl have over you? Hernando saved your life, but he couldn’t expect you to care for a murdering madwoman the rest of your days!”
His face went hard, eyes flat as polished stone. He left the side table, and carrying the whiskey in one hand, stalked behind a desk, where he flipped papers as if meaning to read them.
“You talk to me,” she commanded. “Tell me what’s happened to you, or I leave for London on the next coach.” But he went on shuffling papers, tamping them even, every movement a display of granite determination.
She grabbed her cane and limped to the far side of the desk, where she stared him in the eye.
He continued with the papers. “It’s not a simple debt,” he finally spat.
Looking at his features, the color heightened in defiance, it was as if Claire had been sitting in a darkened theatre and the curtains opened suddenly on a brilliantly lit stage. “You love her, despite what she’s done to me, and even though she’s ripping our future apart.”
His mouth drew into a thin line. “Yes.”
Cold seeped through her skin, and she rubbed her forearms for heat. Her voice husky with emotion, she added, “More than you love me?”
“I love you both, but Bella in a different way…”
Tightness choked her. She tried to swallow, but couldn’t. “But you won’t live without her?”
Though he remained ramrod straight, though his eyes never left the desk, he filled the room with despair so thick she could feel it on her skin. He cleared his throat and she prayed he would say, ‘I’ll send her home to Spain.’ But instead, the corners of his mouth twitched with emotion. “If you’ll excuse me, I have some business to which I must attend.” Lifting a sheaf of documents, he bowed, went to the door then closed it behind him without a sound.
* * *
Locked in his study, Flavian tried to keep in his seat and focus on conducting business, but his mind snarled and raced back to his conversation with Claire in the library. Damn it! Arabella would swallow him whole and digest his life in the process. Mad thing, doomed villainess… songbird… his—his responsibility. Bloody, bloody hell…
He forced his attention on a document for the fourth time, maybe the fifth time, struggling to make heads or tails of it. Was it about cows? A tenant? The town requesting land for a school? He shook the paper and stared hard at the first few words. ‘In accordance with our previous…’ God’s teeth! He dropped the scrap on his desk and went to the window where his gaze briefly caught the landscape before images of Claire crowded the scene. In every likeness, her eyes were troubled, and from their blue depths came the same persistent question. Self-disgust so thoroughly flooded him, he raised a fist to slam it through the glass and shattered that haunting countenance, but Marlow’s tap, tap on the door disturbed his thoughts. “Come in.”
The butler entered and cleared his throat. “As the footmen are busy with Lady Claire’s bags, there will be a slight delay before they can serve dinner. I hope that’s not an inconvenience to you, my lord.”
“By God, you’re not serious?”
Normally unflappable, Marlow took a step back over the threshold. “I’m afraid I am, my lord, but I can serve you immediately if that is your preference.”
Flavian scarcely heard him. She was leaving already! He couldn’t allow it. And what the hell was she thinking, anyway? Travel this late in the afternoon could be dangerous. If they didn’t reach an inn before nightfall, there were highwaymen everywhere. The horses could spook and tip the carriage, yet no one would be along to rescue them, or unscrupulous men might break her door down at an inn. “Bloody hell, Marlow!” The butler’s jaw dropped. “Dinner will not be delayed, and be sure the table is set for Lady Claire and her chaperone.”
* * *
The sound of Flavian’s footsteps on the wooden floor of the corridor to Claire’s bedroom caused a prickle of perspiration on her upper lip. She wiped it and took a deep breath. There had never been a possibility of sneaking out of the house. She would have had to tell him sometime.
He came through the door with the force of a bull charging heifers, but upon seeing the servants and opened trunks, he came to a brutal halt. “So you want to leave?”
Without giving him the satisfaction of an immediate answer, she addressed the servants. “Could you all excuse us a moment?”
“Shall I take this trunk down, my lady?” asked Hancock, “It’s all packed.”
She smiled coolly. “Yes, thank you.”
Flavian cut the man’s exit. “Leave off,” he roared. The pack of them scuttled out. Before shutting the door, he bellowed down the hall, “And if I catch anyone eavesdropping, it shall be their last act in this house.” Then he slammed the door so hard the walls shuddered and the pictures banged in their frames. “By God, Claire!”
Claire perched on the edge of the needlepoint chair as that old rabbity fear sneaked in, so she stood, fists at her sides. “Are you actually questioning my reason to leave? I asked you what you meant to do with Arabella. Your answer is that you’ll bring her here, where she will surely make another attempt on my life.”
“I have told you, she shall be watched—”
Claire cut him off. “Don’t be a fool, Flavian. Your ward only kept me alive as long as she thought I’d take her to London, and she will not sh
are you with anyone, of that you can be sure.”
The sound of servants bickering in the hall distracted him. “Quiet out there,” he roared, and landed a punch to the wall that cracked the plaster.
His violence frightened her, but now that she’d finally found the courage to come out of the burrow, she wasn’t about to turn tail and promise to stay. He paced the floor, tearing his hair and shaking his head. Passing a small table by the door, he slammed his fist on it, splintering it from the top down with the blow. “Arabella is jealous. I have to prove to her she won’t lose me by accepting you—”
“Accepting me! It’s me who cannot accept her. Your ward is a murderer, and violently insane. Smash all the tables you want, but I can never be your wife as long as she is under the same roof.”
Turning her back on him, Claire scooped unguents and remedy bottles into a tight formation on the vanity, ready for packing.
She could hear him pacing behind her like an outraged bull. A peek in the mirror showed him flexing his hands, as if deciding whether to crush more furniture or tear the walls down. A bunny would scamper, but she was no rabbit; not any more. Let him spend his fury—she had no comfort to offer.
At last, he appeared to calm down. “I’m sorry. It’s all so much to take in at once. Arabella . . .” He held his wrists as if he didn’t trust his hands not to strike something. “I’m trapped; she’s my responsibility.”
“She is deeply ill, and if she doesn’t harm me, she will harm someone else who makes her jealous.”
He nodded and looked down. A long minute passed before his eyes met her’s. “Please don’t go.”
She sighed. “Then you must choose.”
For a moment, his body tilted toward her, causing her heart to speed. Then he bit his lip and moved away. “What if I confined her to the tower? She knows she’s done wrong. She understands there are consequences.”
Claire shook her head. “The girl is mad, but she cannot be held like a prisoner. And you’ll relent—you know you will.”
He took her shoulders gently and his gaze was filled with pleading. “But please let me try.”
“It won’t work.” Claire struggled from his grasp. “I can’t risk my life for her sake, as much as I care for you. Please send for the coach and let me finish packing.” Limping slightly, she put the bed between them and continued organizing the dressing table.
Softly, his footsteps approached the door, then she heard the knob twist. Thinking he’d left, she turned, but he was still there watching. The hurt in his eyes made a sob rise to her throat, but instead of bursting into tears, she beat back her agonized heart and said, “I’m so sorry, but this is how we end.”
His Lordship's Darkest Secret: Chapter Thirteen
With only four passengers in the stagecoach, the ride should have been comfortable. The sun shone and the horses pulled easily over the hard road, but for Claire, it was as if rain pelted the landscape and she were crammed in the corner by a crowd of drunken soldiers. Resting her head against the leather squabs, she tried to ignore the misery tunneling through her.
By the time she and Mrs. Gower had finished organizing their trunks in the front hall and the coach arrived, Flavian was gone. Obviously so upset that he didn’t wait to say goodbye. So that was it—her last memory of him would be of a room riddled with smashed furniture, their love equally crushed beyond repair.
The servants knew her new status as the woman who had scorned their master. They lined up in the drive, every eye fixed, resentment boiling. It was like running a gauntlet as she and Mrs. Gower crunched over the stones to the waiting vehicle. Then, just as she put her foot on the step, Marlow, stiff and reluctant, presented a letter and a small package. “It’s from his lordship,” the butler said. She still hadn’t managed to open it, though the coach had rattled over about four miles of road.
Their fellow passengers were an elderly woman, perhaps a grandmother, sporting a crown of unruly gray hair and a fine set of chin whiskers, and a little boy. They sat together on the opposite seat. The child sneaked curious glances at Claire, his gaze flicking to the letter and package. But whatever Flavian had written, kind or damning, she wouldn’t be able to control her emotions, and there was no sense in frightening the little one. She kept her face turned to the window, and fought wave after wave of despair. Despite monumental efforts, single tears kept escaping the corners of her eyes, intermittently sliding down her cheeks as she desperately concentrated on whatever bleary landmarks they passed. She faked a cough so the child would think she had a cold, and tried to chase all thoughts of Flavian and their ruined future from her mind.
Another mile or more rolled by, and Mrs. Gower gave her a nudge. “Have a little something, won’t you?” Claire shook her head; she couldn’t swallow, her throat was too tight.
“There’s a world of good in it,” the chaperone insisted.
“Just something to drink then, please.”
A bottle of ale appeared, along with a sandwich of bread and cheese. After a few sips and a nibble, the hollow pain of her wretchedness eased off, and she felt a little more in control.
Mrs. Gower leaned close and whispered, “A small package is a good sign. Aren’t you going to open it?”
“I thought I’d wait until we’d settled for the night.”
“What’s she got there?” asked the lad eagerly. “My daddy give me a ball and cup at Christmas.” He wiggled off the seat, and stood close, staring at the package.
“Don’t be bothering the young lady, Henry,” his grandmother scolded, making a swipe for his arm. But the lad tucked closer to Claire’s knee, putting himself out of reach. Brown eyes gazed at her. “You want me to open it?”
Claire couldn’t help but smile, yet the package filled her with dread. What if it contained a ring, and the letter was a request that she keep it as a consolation prize? What if he railed that she’d heartlessly condemned Arabella to an asylum where she’d be tortured? But worst of all, perhaps, what if he begged her to return?
“I could do it, you know,” Henry said, scratching the package with a less than pristine fingernail. “I don’t mind or nothing.”
“Or anything,” corrected his grandmother.
Out of politeness the grandmother should call the child off again, but both she and Mrs. Gower were silent. Obviously, they shared Henry’s curiosity.
The urge to burrow somewhere safe seized Claire, but hadn’t she just vowed to face her fears? Rubbing the back of her neck, she mustered every ounce of poise and offered the package to Henry. “How kind of you to be so helpful. Here we go.” Holding out the brown-paper wrapped package, she allowed him to untie the string binding it. The paper corners unfolded, and a green leather box came into view.
“Ooo, it’s something expensive,” Mrs. Gower said, clapping her hands with delight.
It would be something wonderful, she knew, but if she opened the box could she keep from falling apart? Swallowing, she closed her eyes, lifted the tiny gold latch, and listened to a chorus of admiring gasps. With another swallow came the strength to peek. Cradled in green velvet was a magnificent pair of pearl ear bobs. They hung at the bottom of a row of three diamonds and were nested in a white-gold bezel. Henry’s fingers hovered over the jewelry.
“Don’t touch!” cried the grandmother, snatching him away.
“Did you ever see their like?” Mrs. Gower breathed.
Leaning on his grandmother’s knee, Henry blurted, “Who gived ‘em to you?”
One word and she’d break; Claire didn’t speak.
Mrs. Gower cawed with laughter at the child’s antics. “There’s no stopping your investigation, now is there? An admirer bought them for her.”
“He must be quite the admirer,” beamed the grandmother. “And what about the note? That ought to set the wedding date.”
“No,” Claire said misery cramming her chest. “It’s just an apology.”
Still, the expectant expressions remained on her fellow travelers’ faces, so, w
ith utmost reluctance, she broke the wax on the envelope, and silently read.
My dearest Claire,
Please forgive my earlier behavior, which was inexcusable. It is the war within myself you saw, and I made you its unfortunate target. Yes, I have had two years to understand the true nature of Arabella’s illness, but I am lost as to whether I should forgive or condemn her. Her mind betrays her, abandoning her in irrational thought and violent actions, but does that excuse her? All the same, you are right; she cannot remain a threat to others. If I don’t find a suitable asylum, then I will finance one myself. She shall have the best of care. I will not shirk my responsibility to her, and I will visit often, for in spite of all she has done to you, my darling, I cannot help but love her.
Please fulfill your plan to travel to London. Enjoy your come out, dance at the balls, chatter at the parties, but keep the coxcombs at bay. When I have found and settled Arabella, I will join you and begin the difficult task of winning your trust and admiration once more.
I am not at Bingham Hall to say goodbye because “goodbye” is a word I intend never to say to you at all. Good morning my darling; hello, my wife; goodnight, my love. These phrases I shall repeat to you every day for the rest of our lives if you will deign to accept my company once again.
I am yours forever,
Flavian
A sob of relief escaped her throat, and another and another. Dear God, she hadn’t lost him. She hadn’t lost him after all.
“Is she crying?” asked Henry, gently tugging her skirt.
She couldn’t answer the lad as a torrent of tears poured down her cheeks.
But when would she see him again? How soon could they be together?
* * *
The coach rumbled onto the cobblestoned main street of Lyndhurst and stopped in the village square, almost at the front door of the Oak Inn. “Changin’ the ’orses,” the driver called. “Ya got thirty minutes.”
Her Perfect Gentleman: A Regency Romance Anthology Page 90
