Etiquette With The Devil (20 page)

Clara knocked on the door of Lady Margaret’s parlor, and waited. A lady’s maid answered, glaring at Clara as if she were a beggar pleading for scrapes of bread.

“Lady Margaret has asked to see me.”

“I have been waiting all morning,” spoke a voice from within. “Such terrible manners.”

Clara flashed a nervous smile to the maid who refused her entry. It had been only twenty minutes since she was brought breakfast. It was not as if she had wasted her morning away obliging her pounding head, although Clara wished she had.

The maid opened the door wider and allowed her inside. Lady Margaret was lounging on a velvet chaise by a large window, a black and white cat purring heavily on her lap.

“I expect that when I call on you, you arrive immediately and not waste my time,” Lady Margaret barked as the door as closed behind Clara.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Walk closer. I want a look at you.”

Clara obliged, stepping further into the room, painted the dark color of a peacock’s tail. It was rich and extravagant, even without being fully furnished. Trunks upon trunks were stacked in the corner waiting to be unpacked, but it seemed Lady Margaret was perfectly at home.

She was a thin and fragile woman. Someone lucky to have escaped the passing year, as there were few wrinkles on her face, her skin like glass. Her emerald eyes held not a drop of kindness in them. Her slight lips, a pale berry, were pressed into a hard line. The only true sign that she was in fact older was the silver laced throughout her ebony hair.

“Hmm,” Lady Margaret said. A cruel turn of her lips spread as she glanced away from Clara and ran her hand over the back of the cat. “I find I need to have a discussion with you which is quite inconvenient. There is much to do and managing the governess should not be a task I need to see to.”

There was nothing to say that would be polite, so Clara clasped her hands and met Lady Margaret’s icy glare with a demure nod instead.

“I feel it necessary to remind you, Miss Dawson, the children are your pupils, not your charges. Decisions about their welfare are now my responsibility. It appears that my nephew feels obliged to give in to your fancies and concede to your every wish. No doubt that is because you have found how amiable men can be under your womanly charms.”

Clara stood still, her head held high even as a sour taste swam in her mouth.

“You do however, have a champion in my nephew who has insisted you remain, despite him being unable to supply me with any of your references. So, we are at a standstill. I must find out for myself if you are a naive girl who has fallen for my nephew and his many tricks, or if you are a trollop as I originally determined.”

“I am neither,” Clara said, unable to bear another mark against her person. “And there is no such connection between myself and your nephew. I was hired to teach the children. That is what I have done since my arrival. That is what I shall continue to do.”

“I hope you also endeavor to watch your tone in future conversations and remember your place. You are a governess. In my house.” Lady Margaret took a sip of her tea, her voice chillingly level. “And you’re to be the moral compass for my nieces?” the woman continued, placing down her teacup delicately. “You do not fool me, Miss Dawson, You are nothing more than a conniving money grabber—a husband catcher! But my nephew will not have you. He is a terrible and corrupt man, but even
he
is above wedding the governess.”

Clara fought to conduct herself with the manners of a lady, but after being somewhat liberated from those expectations while at Burton Hall, she spoke up.

“And I, Lady Margaret, will not tolerate being spoken to as if I am no better than a gutter rat. I may be the family’s governess and therefore an employee, but I refuse to be disrespected in such a manner. I am well-educated and see that the children receive a good and proper education.”

“I will not tolerate impropriety,” Lady Margaret said, her face a mask without a flicker of the hate Clara sensed brewing beneath that pristine surface. “You may go.”

The next time Clara saw Bly, she vowed to spit in his face for this. She should never have allowed herself to be tempted by his dangerous kisses. It had been her fault for wavering. He had even warned her those weeks back that he was not be trusted. His promises of protection meant nothing, not if he thought it was safe to leave with Lady Margaret in charge.

*

The clouds hung heavy overhead, swollen with the certainty of rain. The threat of a sprinkle wouldn’t fix the mood clinging to Bly. He felt just as black as the clouds. With another strike of the hammer, the rock in front of him split into two, both halves falling away with a wobble over the long grass of the field in the park.

“You’re better with explosives,” Graham said, walking up behind him.

Bly straightened, wiping his brow. “Unless you want to help, I’m in no mood for company.”

Graham came up next to him, slapping a slender hand against Bly’s back. “You have moods now? England is softening you.”

Bly shrugged off his mentor’s hand, bent, and hefted one half of the large rock, then dropped it onto the wall he had begun rebuilding earlier that morning. There were still repairs to be done to the interior of the house, but he could not suffer through another minute with his aunt.

“England is hell, Graham. Why are you still here?”

Graham nodded, then stepped onto the crumbling stones on the left side of the wall. “It’s a fair question. One I should ask you.”

“Then ask.” Bly repositioned the stone, wedging it between the others he had broken. Blood smeared across the gray surface as he moved the stone side to side before it settled. He straightened, wiping his cracked palm against his pants, then reached for his canteen in the grass.

“You really are in a mood. And so talkative, too.”

Like Barnes, Graham was as tall as he was flippant. The two were close to identical, all except for how Graham preferred to control situations from afar. He never did like getting dirty. So Bly had been used as the muscle on missions and Barnes had been used as an assassin when the occasion called for discretion, and the British crown benefited while Graham controlled them both as if a skilled puppeteer.

“I’m not interested in another mission, Graham. You’ve been here a month now and my answer hasn’t changed. It won’t.”

The gray in his mentor’s temples flashed silver as he quickly turned to Bly. “I do so love my accommodations at the Bee and Thistle, but I was hoping you would have a different answer for me today. I can’t leave until you do, you see.”

“You’re a cheeky bastard,” Bly said with a heartless laugh. Soft voices of the children floated over the hill and Bly turned, squinting his eyes to focus on the figures running out of the house. Especially on the woman in the gray dress.

“I’m impatient, Ravensdale. You said yourself you’re leaving. Your aunt has arrived. Your responsibility is over. Now stop being a goddamn saint and leave. You don’t owe Walter any of this.”

“I owe them,” he said, nodding to the children racing around the garden. And Clara. She was bent over James, a kite clutched in her hands. Hands that Bly hadn’t been able to forget since they kissed in the library three nights ago. He had drowned in her that evening, in the power that rested upon those pale lips of hers. And because he was a coward, or perhaps because he knew he had to leave, he had made an extra effort to avoid her.

“I know you’ve been away from England for some time, but men don’t marry the family’s governess.”

Bly snapped his head back to Graham.

“That is why you’re staying, isn’t it? You’ve fallen for that prudish Miss Dawson.”

“Graham, is there a reason you decided to track me down this afternoon? I have a wall to build.”

“You have passage to secure. Bags to pack. We’re heading to Cairo before you return to India.”

It was as though Bly were talking to the stone wall itself. “You know my answer. Now help me out or leave.”

Graham stretched his legs, admiring his polished shoes for a moment. He liked to preen like a peacock when he wasn’t drinking. It was remarkable the man was a successful spy at all. “Do you know anything about the woman you’re throwing your future away for? I’m surprised you hired her at all.” He stood and stretched, then spun back around to face Bly, pointing his hand toward the house. “There’s a reason she’s here in Yorkshire, and she’s not to be trusted. Do yourself a favor and pack your bags now before you make a mistake.”

“I’ve had enough of your riddles, Graham. Go track down Barnes if you want to play intellectual.”

“She arrived injured, did she not? Maybe even desperate for the position? Well, I can answer that last one. She certainly was to have taken on you lot.”

“Leave Clara alone,” Bly blurted out. As soon as her name escaped him, Graham smiled and nodded.

“So you are attached? Well, I never thought I’d see the day when the devil fell in love.”

Bly stepped forward, his fists bunching at his sides.

“All right, I’m leaving. But think about what I said, Ravensdale. Think about who you’re trusting, because that woman—” Graham pointed at Clara as she hoisted the kite up in the air with James at her side—“is not who she says is. And I’m disappointed you haven’t figured it out yet.” Graham walked away, lifting his arms in the air. “Too lovestruck. She’ll see you dead. Mark my words.”

T
wo weeks passed and Clara saw nothing more than a few glimpses of Bly as he walked the grounds with tradesman or rode off on his fine horse.

Her days were routine now. She taught the children during the day and spent the remainder of her time alone in her attic room studying her precious etiquette manuals, determined to make a positive impression on Lady Margaret, however impossible that seemed.

Mrs. Gibbs and the Nash family had been let go, and since Bly had made himself scarce, she held little hope they would ever return to their positions. That was too bad since she had grown to appreciate their help, but above all, she had grown to expect the feeling of comfort that slowly seeped into the sad house with the presence of that happy family.

There were new nurses to contend with in the nursery now, all of whom lectured the children to the point of tears. Some days, it was not just the children.

It was no secret to Lady Margaret’s staff that Clara had received special treatment before their arrival, and that was simply something that was not allowed below stairs. They called her abhorrent names and shunned her like a leper. Except for the children, Clara now lived a solitary life, fading into the background as she had always done. She was just the governess, after all. It was as it should be.

This was proper order.

So Clara was grateful for her afternoon off that day, pressing deeper into the vast park of Burton Hall. The afternoon was the last glimmer of sun and warmth before autumn crumbled into the darkness of winter. In a place such as Burton Hall, she imagined winter would be desolate and barren, and soon she would find herself in a very dark place. Not a dark place solely in the physical sense, but of a far more dangerous sort—a dark place in one’s mind and soul. A sad blackness.

The glistening of a pond through the trees was a welcomed sight. Clara tested the water with her hand, then stripped to her chemise and floated out into the depths. She stroked around in wide lazy circles, watching the birds fly across the sky. It was a long while since she enjoyed the pleasure of a swim. She smelled the decay of the changing season in the air, starkly contrasted against the radiant warmth of the water. Clara closed her eyes and breathed deeply, thankful for the quiet around her.

She heard something as her head lolled back in the water, certain it was the birds overhead. With another deep breath, she remembered the warmth of Bly’s body pressed to hers, the way his hand curved to her body, when all at once, a hard grasp on her ankle forced her under with a violent pull.

She gasped for air as she struggled to keep her head above water, screaming during the few moments she was above the water line as her body catapulted back to shore. Clara was deposited with enough force onto the grassy shore that air rushed out of her lungs upon impact. She looked up with stinging eyes, gasping for breath and shivering from cold, at a menacing shadow that towered over her.

It growled.

She screamed as the shadow leaned closer and clamped a large hand over her mouth. The light struck just so to reveal the hazel of Bly’s eyes glowering down at her.

“Quiet,” he barked. She felt the power of his hands as his fingertips pressed upon the flesh around her mouth. The gentleness of his touch had vanished. Clara was frightened by the man that confronted her now. This man, the one who appeared as if he was about to murder her, was the one who made no apologies as he conquered the world. This man was the devil the others whispered about in the village.

“I don’t ever want to see you in this pond again.” His hand still held her mouth quiet, his voice low and menacing. She coughed and sputtered water against his palm until she choked, struggling to be free of his hold, her throat burning.