She rubbed her face with a filthy arm. “Oh, my lord, the blessings be on you and your family.”
A blessing on my family, Flavian thought. I could certainly use that right now. He steered Killen onto the Lyndhurst Road and pushed the horse into a smooth, sustainable canter. Curse the delay; he should have known not to trust the meanness in that butcher’s eyes. Time and again his mind strayed back to the man’s words: “Not a cull in Christchurch’ll forget her performance.” Arabella might find herself in the worst kind of trouble if he didn’t get to her soon.
Just north of Burley, a flock of birds took to the sky. Flavian could hear their squawks of alarm though they must have been a quarter of a mile away. Their flight appeared panicked, and an ominous fear made him spur Killen to a hand gallop as the birds swooped toward him, a black cloud against a graying sky.
Around a bend and up a steep hill, he was startled by the sight of a coach and four headed straight for him at full gallop. So taken aback was he, that at first he didn’t notice the fifth horse racing by its side. The rider, who appeared half dressed in a white sheet, tugged at an object hanging from the window. “Arabella!” he screamed. “No!”
Though the road was hemmed by New Forest trees and scarcely wide enough for the coach and Arabella’s mare, he spurred Killen toward the oncoming vehicle. The coachman bellowed and hauled back on the break, but to no avail. Nothing could slow the panicked animals as they thundered blindly down the narrow road.
As the distance closed, Flavian caught a look on Arabella’s face that made him gasp. Distorted, maniacal hatred gleamed in her eyes. Even in pitched hand-to-hand combat, he had never witnessed a being so bent on destruction. Every trace of the pretty young daughter he loved was consumed by this demented being. Black hair streaming in the wind, Arabella rode bare breasted and indecent—like a wild animal—and at the end of a ribbon clenched in her hand, was Claire, her flesh blue from lack of oxygen. “Arabella, let go!” he commanded, “For pity’s sake, let go!”
He slapped Killen’s sides with his whip, sending his steed faster toward the onrushing coach.
Consumed with her deadly mission, Arabella appeared heedless of his presence. Seconds before they would have crashed, the girl’s mare swerved closer to the coach, nearly tangling its legs in the spinning wheels.
Wind scudded past Flavian as the mare passed within inches of his knee. The din of the stagecoach was deafening. Drawing back on the reins, he pulled Killen to a sliding halt and had the horse turned around and bolting after the coach a second later. The passengers screamed, dust blinded, but nothing could blot the image of Claire’s stricken face. “Unhand her!” he yelled, but Arabella held her murderous trance. She twisted the ribbon away as hands from inside the compartment struggled to untie the bow.
Fish and rope lines could kill a sailor, so Flavian had learned to carry a folded gully knife in his boot. Freeing it from the leather, he flipped the blade from its wooden sheaf and whipped his tiring horse with the end of the reins. Up the hill the riders and coach flew. The stage was now only a few hundred yards from the precipitous bend in the road, where the vehicle would surely topple, sending all its passengers to their deaths. Knife at the ready, he pushed Killen as close as he dared beside Julitta and her churning hooves.
Beyond all reason, Arabella clung to her quarry, stretching dangerously far in the saddle to keep a vice grip on the pink noose. He reached past her and with an upward slash, cut the ribbon free.
The tension on the bonnet had been all that held Arabella in the saddle. “Help!” she shrieked, as she plummeted sideways towards the spinning spokes. The knife dropped from Flavian’s hand, and he grabbed for the white sheet encircling the girl’s waist. A loud rip split the air just as Arabella slipped beneath Killen’s heaving sides. The fabric held, and Flavian yanked her into the saddle.
Riderless, Julitta careened off the side of the road. “Faster,” Flavian yelled, kicking his exhausted horse. Killen lengthened his stride, gaining on the first animal in the stagecoach’s team. Now the haunches of the lead horse lay just ahead. A few more strides and Killen came up beside the panicked animal.
Flavian strained to reach the bridle, his fingers touching the black leather, but before he could grip it, Arabella threw herself back against his chest. He shoved her down against Killen’s neck and pressed a powerful elbow into her back. The deadly curve in the road was coming up fast. Once more, he tapped Killen’s sides and the animal responded with what was surely the last of his strength. Stretching as far forward as he dared, Flavian’s hand at last closed on the harness.
Slowly, he eased the frightened animals to a standstill, halting only a dozen feet from the start of the bend.
“Vav,” Arabella said, twisting in the saddle to hug him. “You save my life. You come my rescue.”
Her tear-stained face filled him with rancor. He wanted to turn the girl over and beat her until her cries of pain soothed his livid anger. Instead, he dumped her into the dust of the road and dismounted. “Cover yourself,” he growled.
The coachman jumped from his box, while the men and boys on the roof silently stared. “Take my horse,” Flavian directed a youth, who hastily climbed down.
In the compartment, the women wept, leaning over Claire and patting her lifeless hand. Flavian yanked open the door, lifted her in his arms and carried her outside. “No, you cannot die,” he commanded. “You must come back to me.”
He lay her in the grass by the side of the road, her head cradled on his lap. “Breathe!” he ordered, then more softly, “Please, Claire. Please, my love.”
Her eyes did not flutter; her lips did not part. Still and cold, she seemed to recede deeper into the sod. Desperately he chaffed her hands, loosened her corset, and smoothed the corn silk hair from her brow. “Breathe, my love,” he repeated, but Claire remained limp.
“She’s gone,” said one of the women.
“My lord,” the coachman patted him on the shoulder, “we’ll take her wherever you need. She’ll get a proper burial.”
Their looks of sympathy were more than he could bear. He leaped to his feet. “Out of the question,” he said, lifting her into his arms and burying his face in her breast. “No, you’ll not go! My life . . . my love . . .” He carried her aimlessly, weeping, unable to control his flood of grief.
“Come give her to us now, my lord,” another woman crooned. “It’s best not to dwell too long. You’ll want to remember her how she was.”
But he could not give her up, not while her body stayed warm against his own, not while her heart beat in her chest. “Her heart,” he cried, “Her heart is beating!”
The women rushed over, “Give her air, give her air,” they shouted, waving their fans frantically in Claire’s face. Indeed, now that he listened, he heard the faintest whistle of breath. He put her on the ground again and was rewarded with the tiniest rise of her ribcage. “Look,” he cried. Relief burst from him, so that he pounded the ground beside her. “She’s alive.” He kissed her hand, and then slammed his fist into the dirt. “My dearest love, you’re alive.”
His Lordship's Darkest Secret: Chapter Fourteen
Sitting at Claire’s bedside, Flavian watched anxiously until her lids closed in peaceful rest. The laudanum must have finally masked the pain enough to let her sleep. He put the cup back on the table. The sight of her bruised throat stabbed like a thousand dagger points. He’d failed her. Failed utterly to protect her, and in fact, had introduced her to mortal danger. Shame gnawed so hungrily, his bones ached.
And he wasn’t just responsible for Claire’s condition—Arabella’s disgrace was also his fault. If he hadn’t avoided upsetting her all these years, she might not have run away. She might not have exposed herself in that revealing costume, or nearly perished under the wheels of a runaway coach. “You’ve been a fool, Monroe, a bloody fool.”
Now was the time to own his mistakes. He would not waste another minute bemoaning the past, but he would secure the future. If it
took his last breath, he would make Bingham Hall into a home where Claire could be happy, and then he would implore her on bended knee, to stay.
Gently, so he wouldn’t wake her, he touched his lips to her brow then left the room.
Minutes later, he opened the heavily padlocked door to the tower, and followed by a cadre of household staff, called up the stairs, “Arabella, it’s time to clean.”
* * *
Claire sat on the sofa in the library, book in hand, legs tucked under a light blanket, as the rich scent of autumn flowers poured through the open window. A warm breeze stirred about the room like a fragrant ghost, and the sun warmed the backs of a thousand leather-bound volumes awaiting her reading pleasure. Yet, despite the efforts of nature and Jane Austen’s Mansfield Park, she could not concentrate. Arabella was singing from the tower. The lyrics were mournful—about lost love and soldiers lying unfound in fields of wildflowers. The girl’s voice was admirable in its crystalline beauty, yet it simultaneously filled her with dread. As the song continued, Claire pulled the blanket closer.
The sound of approaching footsteps announced Flavian’s arrival. He smiled, a radiant, beautiful smile that pierced her heart. “We’ve got our man,” he said.
She touched her throat. Though the coach incident happened a few days ago, it still pained her to speak. “Who?” she rasped.
“He’s a Quaker by the name of William Tuke. For the last ten years, he’s operated an asylum called the York Retreat. The institution believes in humane care, good food, and a beautiful setting.”
She swallowed, “But York . . . it’s far.”
He bent over and kissed the top of her head. “What a wonder you are. After all Arabella has done to you, that you would care to have her within a thousand miles is amazing.”
Claire didn’t actually, but she knew the distance would be hard on Flavian.
He pulled a chair close, and taking both her hands in his own, the hints of green faded in his eyes as his expression grew serious. “There’s a secret I’ve kept from you, my darling, and it’s time to confess it if I’m ever going to win your trust.” The fear that washed over his features alarmed her. Dropping his gaze, his jaw worked as if trying to form words, but nothing came out. At last he said, “Arabella… is my daughter. My blood is tainted with madness.
Claire squeezed his hands, trying to get him to look at her, but he only squeezed back then rose like a sleepwalker. He approached a globe fixed on an elaborately carved pedestal, and gave it a spin. Intently, he watched the earth go by, as if looking to each passing country for the right words. Brooding, aging right before her eyes, Claire knew that he revealed this secret at great emotional cost.
He stopped the globe at Spain. “When we fought the battle of Algeciras, I had just turned fourteen. But Hernando made a terrible mistake when he fished me out of the water. Valencia, his sister, was sixteen, and to me she was a thing divine. She tended the wound on my thigh, and fed me, and she was beautiful—like Arabella—with black hair and dancing eyes.”
Furrows on his forehead deepened. “She pretended to know more about the world than I, yet she was just as ignorant . . . perhaps more so. At any rate, I was infatuated with her, and she said she loved me.”
He traced the outline of Spain with an index finger then tapped the blue surrounding it. “I’d heard talk from the sailors, but scarcely knew what I was doing. We kissed and fumbled . . .” He spun the globe again, this time in disgust then abandoned it and fixed himself a brandy. When he sat beside Claire again, his back was stiff and his eyes remote. “Valencia was more than four months gone by the time we realized she was with child. That’s how innocent we were.”
He shook his head and swallowed half the drink. “One night, I lay with her and we fell asleep. Her father, Caballero Vargas-Duarte, found us. Who knows what woke me, but before he could attack, I managed to leap out of the window in time. But, dear God, the trouble I caused that poor girl.” He swirled his brandy and took a long, mournful breath. “Her mother shunned her, drawing on the full power of the Catholic Church to shame her. And her father . . . oh her father . . . he used the pregnancy to indulge his sadistic tendencies, treating her as if she were a whore, just to name a few of the tortures she endured.
“As for me, Hernando hid me at a friend’s house, where I lived in jolly comfort, drinking amontillado and eating fine Spanish cuisine. I didn’t see Valencia until after Arabella was born. Hernando forced his parents to bring her to a masquerade ball we contrived to hold at the friend’s house. It was a ruse so I could talk with her.
“I should have donned the costume of a fool; instead, I went as Romeo. She dressed as Death—all in black.”
Running a hand through his hair, he swallowed the last of his drink. “She was radiant that night, but I saw beneath her excitement what her father had done to her. There was no flesh on her bones. All of it had gone to nursing Arabella. Her arms were bruised, her face gaunt beneath the powder. She begged me to help her, to take her and the child away. She wept in my arms. In my arms . . . she was . . . I could feel her breaking in two. Yet, I did nothing. Fourteen years old, a hunted alien in a strange land where we were at war . . . But why did I have to say it? Why couldn’t I have given her hope?” He dug the heels of his hands into his eyes and rubbed hard.
Claire touched his shoulder and he shuddered. Springing to his feet, he returned to the decanter and poured another snifter. After he’d tossed it back, he looked at her as if suddenly remembering she was in the room. “I’m sorry, would you like a drink?”
She shook her head, hoping he’d continue. Everything needed to be out in the open—everything revealed—before healing could begin.
About to pour more brandy, he let his hand fall from the decanter. “After the party, I decided to throw stones at her window. She would come to the balcony like Juliet, and I would tell her I would find a way to help her escape. But by the time I got there, she’d already stepped onto the balcony. She’d already listened to a voice telling her of another way to escape. She’d tied a rope around her neck and jumped. I cut her down. Her body was warm, her toes a fraction away from the cobble stones.”
The image of Valencia’s hapless body seemed to split him limb from limb. Hand trembling, he reached for the decanter again, but halted, closing his eyes in anguish. “My blood is tainted, tainted… Claire. That’s why we can’t have children.”
Claire threw off the blanket and rose abruptly. He was so deep in despair, he didn’t seem to notice she’d moved. Ignoring a twinge in her ankle, she raced up the stairs. In her room, she tore open a little drawer in the bedside table, and snatched an envelope containing a single folded sheet of paper.
Two minutes later, she slowed her pace just outside the library, and tried to calm her pounding heart. Come what may, it was time. She opened the door, and silently prayed. At the far end of the library, he stood by the window, bent in grief, his hands on the sill as Arabella’s forlorn ballad filled the air. When he looked at Claire his eyes were wells of misery.
She handed him the paper. Rather than unfold it, he stared at her in confusion. Taking the slip back, she opened it and waited as he read. “Registro Baptism.” His eyes roved down the document, and she knew when he stiffened that he’d read, ‘Arabella Carmencita Vargas-Duarte,’ and the date that followed her name; November 28, 1800.
He snatched the document and reread it with feverish intensity. Flipping the page, he studied the back as if the blank space held a coded answer. “But the Battle of Algeciras wasn’t until July 1801.”
Claire nodded, and turning the page back, ran a finger under Caballero Vargas Duarte’s name, then across to the word, Madre: Maria Abrantes Loya Vargas Duarte.
“No.” Flavian shoved the record of baptism back into her hand. “That’s the name of Valencia’s mother, and she most definitely was too old to give birth to Arabella.”
Biting her lip, Claire wished she had no voice at all so she wouldn’t have to speak the next words
. She pointed to the caballero then whispered, “Valencia gave birth to her father’s child.”
Horrified, Flavian stepped back, his jaw dropping in shock. But whether he believed the caballero impregnated his own daughter, Claire was sure it was true. Why else would the father come upon them in the middle of the night? And it would be so easy to dupe a lad of fourteen to hide the caballero’s sin. When Arabella matured, she must have posed enough of a temptation that Senora Vargas-Duarte begged Flavian to take her.
Far across the library, Flavian half paced, half wandered, clearly at war with the information. He halted, pointing an accusing finger. “Where did you get that document?”
Since even whispering caused pain, Claire found a scrap of stationery and a quill. Then she scratched out her answer. I suspected you thought Arabella your daughter. Had Poutney Bigalow sail to Spain and find record. He read it over her shoulder. Coming to the end of the missive, he placed his hands on the table, and she couldn’t tell if he were enraged or relieved, or perhaps just confused. He took a long breath then abruptly straightened.
Dipping the quill again, she wrote, Are you upset with me?
With one swift gesture, he grabbed the paper and crumpled it into a ball. “For God’s sake, Claire, I have to think.” He whirled on his heel and stormed across the library. On the verge of slamming through the door, he collapsed into a chair instead.
Now would be the time the bunny would find a nice dark hole and hide, but she reminded herself that she was no longer that terrified little creature. The baptismal record lay on the table. She left it there, and she left Flavian to his thoughts as she made her way back to the sofa and Mansfield Park.
* * *
By God, what a piece of news, Flavian thought, as images of Algeciras flitted like sinister spirits: the wailing of an infant somewhere in the house; Valencia playing with a baby girl she claimed belonged to one of the servants; and the slight bulge at her waist that could have been a folded piece of fabric as easily as a sign of new life.
Her Perfect Gentleman: A Regency Romance Anthology Page 92
