Etiquette With The Devil (21 page)

“Never. Again.” His fingers tightened against her mouth as his eyes widened into a savage stare. Just as suddenly, he let go and strode off into the trees soaking wet, without a word more.

Clara trembled, bracing herself with her arms folded around her middle, trying to keep herself together. It was as if she let go, she would simply crumble, falling into an insane sadness from which she would never recover.

It was no use. She sobbed beside the pond and wished, for a fleeting moment, she would catch a chill that would finally separate her from the loneliness that filled her heart.

*

The cup of tea clutched in Clara’s hands did little to warm her. She sunk lower into the worn velvet seat nestled by the tall windows of the music room. A few hours had passed since Bly had dragged her from the pond, a few hours which felt more like on insufferable decade.

She should have retreated to her attic room, but something within in craved the autumn air. The French doors were thrown open to the outside, pouring in fresh air, washing over her until it filled her lungs. Her damp hair was pinned up, but it was slow to dry. She pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders and swallowed another sip of tea, mindlessly staring outside into the twisted and overgrown gardens waiting for Ned’s attention. They would be waiting for a long time, as Lady Margaret hadn’t seen to hiring a gardener for the estate.

Clara was beginning to understand why Burton Hall had looked as it did when she arrived—everything truly was forgotten. The gardens were too many, the house too large, the halls too empty for a family such as the Ravensdales. They were trying to reclaim something that had already passed. There was nothing romantic about the country, she found, nor about abandoned country houses, nor with the masters of said country houses.

“I’ve heard there was quite a lover’s quarrel this afternoon, Miss Dawson.”

She slipped down the worn, nubby velvet as she attempted to right herself. Her feet hit the cold wooden floors as she met the figure of Mr. Graham in the doorway to the gardens.

“I have no idea what you are speaking of,” she said, brushing away the spilled tea on her lap. “But if you are looking for Mr. Ravensdale, I suggest visiting the house by the front door as we have a butler now.”

Behind Mr. Graham, the afternoon looked rather beautiful in its brilliance of oranges and golds, as though the last of days of autumn would set the countryside of Yorkshire on fire. With the devil on the loose, perhaps everything was burning. He had certainly set off as if there were flames nipping at his boots.

“But I came to see you, Miss Dawson. We couldn’t have gossip spreading that I visited you, now could we? Small villages are notorious for such things.”

The man pulled out a gold case etched with a cobra from his vest pocket, opened it, and removed a slim cigarette. Everything about him was lean and slender. A man of prowess. He struck a match against the door jamb and lit the cigarette, his ankles crossed the whole time.

She felt the warning in it and straightened, setting down her cup of tea on the floor. “I must admit, I don’t know why—”

“No, no,” he said, holding out one hand as he inhaled the cigarette and puffed out perfect circles into the air. What had been pure autumn air suddenly became clouded with the scent of cloves and tobacco. “I will make this easy for the both of us. I came to tell you to stay away from your employer.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t—”

“He’s an important man, you see. I can’t have him getting tangled up with the governess. I don’t want details. I couldn’t care less if you lift your skirts for him or if he plans on making an honest woman out of you…”

Clara stood, her hand fisted at her chest full of her ratty shawl. “I will not be spoken to like that, Mr. Graham. This entire discussion is completely inappropriate.”

He pushed off from the doorway and walked to the piano, his free hand brushing over the yellowed keys. She winced as he struck a menacing low ‘
F
.’ The out-of-tune piano wire reverberated around the nearly empty room, its impact landing at her gut around the same time a chill set in.

“Inappropriate is for well-bred ladies, Miss Dawson. You are hired help. And furthermore, I just witnessed a destructive Mr. Ravensdale, well into his cups at the Bee and Thistle. He always had a fondness for the drink, but to be so completely destructive means one thing—he has come to have feelings for you. That won’t do, not when I need him to return to India with me.”

Anger bubbled and brewed within her. “I have no such connection with Mr. Ravensdale and wish to have no further business with him after today. If you are so concerned, I suggest leaving to fetch him from the Bee and Thistle. As for him leaving with you, feel free to drag him away to a boat departing England today. I assure you Lady Margaret will not mind.”

Mr. Graham spun and sat back against the keys. A thunderous, out-of-tune flurry of notes followed, ominous like the first brewings of a summer storm. “I’ll be frank. Bly has been with many women. You are nothing more than a convenient trollop while he’s been forced to reside in Yorkshire. You hold no special meaning to him, even if he has convinced himself otherwise.”

Clara remained silent, the memory of Bly earlier that afternoon still shaking her up inside. That was a man set on destruction, a man who held her in no real regard. She had simply let his moments of kindness get to her head. She had gotten carried away during their kiss, fantasizing that anything respectable could come of that. She was born a bastard and would remain a bastard her whole life.

“If that is all, Mr. Graham…” Her knees wobbled, the room spinning around her. She let go of the back of the seat and took two steps for the hallway before an arm reached out and grabbed her. “There is no need for this. Please, let go of me.” She attempted to yank her arm out of his grasp.

“You are going to listen to me, Miss
Dawson
.” He reached behind his jacket and moved it aside, removing a folded copy of the newspaper tucked beneath his vest and suspenders. “You will leave Burton Hall because I know who are you are.” He shoved the paper at her and sent her tripping into the middle of the room.

Her hands trembled as she opened the London newspaper from a month earlier. Dread welled up inside her as she landed upon his name—Shaw—closely followed by the word
dead
. The ground fell away but somehow she remained standing, an icy chill consuming her body.

Clara was a murderess after all.

“I’m sure this is a shock, so I’ll do you a kindness and tell you that the town’s constable is investigating. There are several suspects, including the lady companion who disappeared early this summer. The constable has a price on your head for more information, and while I’m not hurting for cash, I certainly feel obligated to do my civic duty and tell them of your whereabouts. And if Bly is too lovestruck to know he’s hired a criminal, I know his aunt will surely want you gone.”

The paper and her shawl fell to the ground beside her feet. The words burned her throat as she asked, “What more do you want, Mr. Graham?”

“I want Bly on a boat within a week and I want you to have nothing further with him. Is that understood?”

“So it’s to be blackmail?”

“It could be worse, Miss Emsworth. It could be the noose.”

T
here was a knock on her door that evening just as she had snuffed out the candle and prepared to climb into bed. She hesitated, wondering if Bly had come to issue an apology. But she did not want to hear anything he had to say. There were no excuses for his frightening behavior. He nearly drowned her and she still felt the pressure of his fingertips against her mouth as he stifled her panicked screams. Memories of his hands tenderly cupping her face were merely that—memories. All she had left now was his cruelness and her bruised lips from his fingertips.

She pulled a shawl tighter around her shoulders and cracked the door open, surprised to find Beatrice, one of the maids, holding a folded note.

“There is a matter that has come to our attention downstairs. We thought it best not to disturb Lady Margaret at such a late hour.”

“Lady Margaret has made it clear that I am not to have any say. There must be someone who can handle the situation properly. Mr. Ravensdale, perhaps? Good night,” Clara said, starting to close the door.

Beatrice fidgeted, her big owl eyes blinking rapidly. “No, miss.”

Clara reached for the note, her eyes scanning the missive before she promptly folded it once more. “Is there a carriage ready?”

“Yes, miss.”

“I will be down without delay.”

She closed the door in haste and searched for a dress.

*

Bly landed himself in a cage, and this time, it had tangible bars.

He grunted and dropped his head to his knees as a mouse scurried over his boot. His skin crawled and tightened, the room suddenly feeling much smaller. He had to get out.

A door opened and Bly heard the shuffle of feet stop in front of his cell.

“Someone has seen fit to post your bail,” the constable said. With a click, the metal bars opened and two wiry-looking men rushed in, hauling him to his feet. “The village will not tolerate indecent behavior like yours, even if your family owns most of it, Mr. Ravensdale. Public drunkenness and brawling are not events that happen in this village. Not unless you’re around, it seems. And now there is word that you’ve injured a man today.”

He squinted, finally placing the man. The years had not been kind to the constable since he had last hauled Bly away for poaching on a neighboring estate after he had been kicked out of several boarding schools and forced to live with his mother at Burton Hall.

“It’s a lesser offense than poaching.” The quip fell dead. He could smell the constable’s dinner on his breath. “I’ve heard that my whole life.” He spoke with a sharp cruelness that sliced through the constable’s bristling pride. “I’m unfit for the civilized world,” he continued, but he was a moment too late in issuing that last barb. The men conveyed him outside at a speed faster than his slurred thoughts could keep pace with.

They hefted Bly into the carriage without ceremony, tossing his large body forward. He groaned as his head bashed the opposite wall. “Bloody hell,” he muttered, pulling himself to sit somewhat straighter as the carriage rushed away.

“I assume you’ve had a trying day.”

Rage boiled up inside once more, but he remained silent, unsure of what to say to her. She was the last person he wanted to see. He took out his handkerchief to stem the blood flowing from his nose. “What gives you that impression?”

“I just collected you from the goal.”

“Let me ride back to Burton Hall in peace.”

“Gladly,” Clara replied tartly.

He pulled the flask from his coat pocket and took a long swig. He was drunk already. Even his teeth were numb. More could not hurt. It wouldn’t help either, but he must do something, and flinging himself out of the carriage would require too much effort.

Clara leaned forward, the moonlight striking her face in a way that made it luminescent. Her eyes however, were piercing gray, lit with condemnation and disappointment. The look disarrayed everything beautiful about her face. Her hand wrapped around his and removed the flask, which was far easier than it ought to have been as he froze under her touch. Clara was silent as she threw his flask out the open window of the carriage.

A dry, empty laugh escaped him in place of his complaints. Giving voice to those would only encourage her further. There were not enough curses known to men that would sufficiently quell his anger toward the prim Clara Dawson as she receded back into the shadows, remaining quiet for the rest of the journey.

One of the footmen hauled Bly out of the carriage and saw him to his room. Much to his aunt’s displeasure, he still refused to take on a valet. No doubt, his aunt would know all about the trouble he caused in the village by morning.

The fight he caused in the Bee and Thistle caused some damage to the establishment. Restitution would be demanded. Then there were the men he fought. They all survived the scuffle, but he had been too deep in his cups to remember if he left them within an inch of their lives or just sporting black eyes.