Etiquette With The Devil (35 page)

“If you can wait a few moments, I can come with you,” he shouted after her.

Clara quickened her pace. “That will not be necessary,” she yelled over her shoulder. “Please be watchful of our son, and see that he is not crushed under that statue.”

The men were unloading the statue of Brahma, something he had not taken quite legally from an ancient temple deep in the jungles of North Borneo. It would fetch a nice price for the right buyer, which is the only reason he went through the trouble of hauling it back across the world with him. That was, until one of the men slipped and kicked open another crate, nearly dropping Brahma.

“Bloody hell,” Bly yelled. “How hard is it to unload a crate of fragile items with some care?”

The severed head of a bronzed Roman man rolled out of the crate onto the pebbled drive, its missing eye fixed squarely on Bly. He frowned at the statue, before bending down and tucking it under his arm.

“At least bring someone with you,” he shouted to Clara, rushing to aid the men who would ruin his chances of making any money on his antiquities haul. “Clara, bring Molly, at least.”

Clara waved him off again. Another crash caught his attention, pulling him away from his wife and sending him after his curious son. He would not allow her to escape so easily.

*

This was precisely why she did not wish to marry the frustrating man.

Clara had her own motives, despite her husband’s lack of understanding. Going into town to visit the Thorntons was as honorable as it was important. Without her aid, they would have fallen to the poorhouse. With another child on the way, that fate was still to be avoided, and she was finally in the position to see that threat ended.

But no, Bly had to intercede and act like a deranged caveman, barging in on her having tea with Mrs. Thornton as the children played in the yard, claiming her as if she was a runaway. He had treated her as such as he escorted her home in the carriage, carrying on and on about how she was not to travel alone again. Now he paced the library as another minute ticked by on their longest argument yet. She wanted to scream and stomp about and possibly slam a door or two. Instead, she sat in the chair with her hands folded, as Bly practically wore a hole in the carpet as he paced back and forth.

“I would have gone with you into town if you had just waited.”

“To pay a visit to the family you changed forever when you pummeled the man near to death at the Bee and Thistle?”

“I did not know of his condition.”

“No, that would have been difficult to learn when you ran the next day.” Clara should have minded her tongue after that, as a muscle on his jaw ticked. His hands curled into fists, but she was not in a placating mood. “I, however, did. And I have been caring for them best I could in your absence.”

“It’s not your burden. Now that I know, I’ll make it right.”

Clara scoffed. Of course: another mistake, another hasty solution. He acted as if he could perform miracles and make a man walk again. “They need more than money. I doubt you have the compassion.”

Bly stopped in front of the sideboard, staring down at the whiskey bottle. He turned it in increments, until he finally asked, “Was Mr. Thornton the only one?”

“His injuries should never have happened. Mr. Thornton is lame because you couldn’t hold your temper…or your drink.”

Clara’s eyes fell to the bottle of whiskey, waiting for the decision playing out on his face to come to fruition.

“Well,” he said, his voice dying off. His hand traced the neck of the bottle.

She refused to sit by and watch him take that dangerous tumble once more. Clara jumped to her feet and started for the door.

“I know how much you love to count my apologies, so let me count my mistakes for you.”

She paused, closing the door and spinning around, folding her arms as she leaned back. This was something she would not miss hearing.

“One, I was an ass for leaving. There are reasons, though I won’t waste my breath, as you clearly don’t want to hear them. I can’t take my leaving back, though, and I wish I could. Two, when I did leave, I realized it was a mis—”

“That changes nothing.” Hearing a list of meaningless words would not fix his wrongs. There was little which would erase those now.

“Three,” he spoke over her, “I was coming back—”

“I don’t wish to hear any more. There is nothing you could tell me that could change my opinion of you.”

“I haven’t finished.” Still, he kept his back to her, even as she took an angry step forward.

“I
have
,” her voice edging toward an unladylike yell. Her temper was shattered. “You caused a scene today and hauled me back here as if I were one of your damn antiques. I will not be controlled by you and I will not hear any more of your ill-timed confessions. I do not care to hear lies, Bly. You left and you cannot take that back. Life happened and you cannot fix everything you have broken.”

“Three, I was coming back but—”

“Enough!” she yelled, rushing forward and striking a fist into his shoulder. She jumped as soon as she hit him, her face growing red with shame. “Enough,” she repeated in a low whisper.

He swiped the whiskey bottle and smashed it over the edge of the sideboard. “I was a bloody drunk and an opium eater, Clara,” he roared. He took a staggering step backward, staring down at the floor, until in one painful swoop, his eyes met hers, and the floor fell from beneath her feet. “I had no right to be near you even when I was free to do so.”

She thought of the laudanum he had given her when she was in pain. Of how if what he claimed were true, the fight he must have struggled with not to consume it for himself. “But when I was ill…”

“And you took a bloody knife to my heart, what’s the difference?” He reached for the brandy bottle next and hurled it at the bookcase. “I wanted to see you well and not in pain. I could do that for you, so I did.”

The smell of alcohol filled the room, rolling toward her in in relentless waves as she watched, nauseated, blood dripping from his hand onto the carpet. He did not bend to help her stand or look at her overmuch.

“You can keep thinking me a monster if that’s easier. Just know I wished to come back. I knew my mistake and I have to live with that every damn minute in this house.” He bent for some of the large pieces of glass, hesitating with them in his hand. “You deserve better,” he whispered to the floor. Bly shot up and threw them into the fireplace as Clara scrambled to her unsteady feet. “You and the children deserve someone infinitely better than me.”

“Your hand,” she protested. Her own, outstretched, trembled.

“I have to leave.” He rubbed the back of his hand over his eyes and she noticed the soft glistening there, which matched her own. “I have business in London.”

“You can’t leave.” Clara choked back the lump in her throat.

“I must. I’m expected.” His foot shuffled the other broken pieces. “Four, I’m sorry for this mess.”

“Don’t concern yourself with the glass,” she said, feeling her temper flare again. “I’m quite competent at picking up after your messes.”

His words meant nothing, and he was leaving anyway.

“I
will be up shortly, darling,” Clara said, landing a kiss onto Rhys’s warm forehead.

She untied the ribbon beneath her chin and pulled off her hat, watching the children run after Molly. They had a lovely afternoon in the sun during lessons. She felt like spoiling them with a story before dinner.

Her slippers clicked against the gleaming floor as she proceeded to the library. She closed her eyes and remembered when she had washed the hallways clean years ago. Clara had done so to spite Bly. She had woken the next morning in her bed with one less reason to hate the man.

She stopped in front of his office door without a thought of doing so. Her feet simply stopped, just as her heart managed an uncomfortable tug, her body winning that incessant battle she fought against her mind. Her hand became the next traitor as she reached for the doorknob. The door swung open and the air crushed out of her lungs as she noticed the empty chair behind his desk.

Bly still had not returned from London.

She should be angry. She had every right to be, but in light of the news clipping she had tucked safely between the pages of her newest novel, she was only full of a muddled feeling between pride and longing. She could be mad at him another day. Clara only wished her husband, the new Baron of Westchester, was seated behind his desk just now. It seems the business he had to see to in London involved him receiving recognition for his bravery while in Afghanistan, as well as an honorary title.

Perhaps he would not be back. It would be understandable. She had said terrible things before he left. They both had not been nice and he had sent no word of his return.

The discomforting thing was she actually missed the blasted man.

Clara pulled his coat from atop the chair and circled it tightly in her arms, dipping her head to inhale the lingering scent of sandalwood and earth. The cloth was absent of his warmth, and she stumbled across the carpet, wondering if she would ever feel his arms wrapped around her again.

Dust motes floated in the beams of sun that cut through the bank of windows behind the desk. She bit her lip as she stepped closer, noticing the tall stack of opened crates on the far side of the room. Straw scattered around their bases as a strange wooden figure jetted from the opened container. The figure’s eyes were as large as her hand, leering back at her as if it would betray the secret of her trespassing. Clara pushed the figure down and pulled the cover closed. She refused to be chased out of the room because of an odd relic, although it did capture her interest. Everything in the room did, in fact, as she took in the odd bits of the world collected along the cluttered surfaces.

It was unlike Bly to have things scattered about in such disarray, but as she lifted the page of a journal, she remembered he likely left in a state.

The leather of his desk chair was worn and soft as she sat on the edge of the seat. Papers were haphazardly stacked and journals were open and piled around the stained blotter. She traced her fingers over the hurried script, not solely reading, but rather soaking in the image of how his hand moved over the page with each upstroke and dash.

Hotter than hell. Bezmen’s taken ill. Malaria, we think. We’re still too far to get him the help he needs. I hope I’m wrong.

We’re still in search of the source of—. Yesterday we dodged fire from angry locals along the river. Lithurst took an arrow to the shoulder and is fighting a fever today. Still days away, lost in the bloody jungle.

She thumbed through pages of his adventures as it struck her then that she cared for a man she did not know. Clara knew of how he staved off his temper with angry fists, or how he never slowed his pace for anyone, and even how his eyes softened just before he smiled earnestly. Those bits of Bly meant nothing significant. They were parts of a whole.

The man bound to those weathered pages, who held those esoteric interests, was why she continued to push him away from her heart. Those words were of a man who set in like the fog over the moors, all-enveloping. As often as she tried, he shifted and surrounded her again, only to vanish.

It was hopeless.

Clara unwrapped the coat from her arms and draped it over the back of his chair, slowly trying to pull herself away from his memory. A flash of gold caught her attention as she turned to stand—an elaborate gilded book. The writing was the strangest she had ever seen. At least, she guessed the lines were some sort of script. The paper was thick and stiff, as if it had been over-starched, and smelled heavy of oil.

She leaned forward, drawn in, and turned the page. Color flooded her cheeks as she stared at the painting of two people tangled together. Tangled in that intimate way. Clara craned her neck, trying to make sense of the indecent act. Surely, that sort of joining was from someone’s imagination. She wished she knew what the strange writing said as she flipped the page and a found a similar painting, the vivid colors drawing her eyes to the most indecent place on the page. Clara laughed and turned the page again.

“I’ve been offered a fair price for that book so—”

Clara jerked and slipped off the chair, falling squarely on her back, hidden from view.

“—don’t rip it.”

Blast.

Her hand clasped tight over her mouth in horror. This was just her luck. Then the book fell from the desk and landed soundly on her chest with a punctuated thud. No, that was just her luck.

The deep rumble of Bly’s laugh filled the room. She was tempted to crawl under his desk and hide until he left. Footfalls shook the floor and she knew that hiding was no longer possible. She removed the book off her chest and opened her eyes to the man who loomed overhead. It felt as if the book landed on her chest all over again.

The man who stood above Clara was a gentleman through and through. Bly was in full morning dress—a beautifully tailored gray suit. He tipped his top hat in her direction and her heart sputtered again, helpless as a smile spread to her lips.