Etiquette With The Devil (7 page)

All was not well. Certainly not as Mr. Barnes shoved her into a rickety chair by the kitchen stove. Candles were scattered around the kitchen, most stuck into empty bottles, with sides covered in thick layers of melted tallow. The flames threw strange shadows across the walls, and once again, Clara felt as though she were being spied upon from the darkness that clung to the deep corners of the kitchen.

“Remove your hands from me,” she said, wrenching away and moving her weight to the opposite side of the chair. One of the legs wobbled as if it would give, so she fell back, back into Mr. Ravensdale’s touch as he searched for the source of her blood-soaked hair.

“Hold still,” he ordered.

“Holy hell. What happened?” Mr. Barnes barked, peering at her upside down. He poked and prodded her as if she were a science experiment.

“I fell,” Clara answered rather shortly. Mr. Ravensdale tugged once more and another stab of pain rushed over her scalp and shook down her spine. “Please, leave it be.”

“You fell?” Mr. Barnes asked.

She shut her eyes, dragging in a deep inhale to steady her nerves. It was no use. Mr. Shaw stood before her, yelling nasty threats as if she were back in her old employer’s stuffy morning parlor. There seemed to be no escape. He was always there, waiting. “Yes,” she said softly.

“Did you fall off Big Ben?” Mr. Ravensdale spread his fingers over her skull, forcing her head down. Clara knew if she faced him, he would be wearing that jaded smile she had grown to despise during their short acquaintance. “Your head is split open. This needs stitches.”

“No! No stitches.” Just as she moved to jump from the chair, the answering tug of her poorly healed stitches ripped at her side. She did not wish to be trussed up like a Christmas goose once more, by the hand of another unskilled fraud.

“Let me see,” James yelled, jumping up excitedly to see the wound. “Eww,” he and Minnie cried out in unison. They both bumbled backward as Mr. Barnes rushed forward with his arms outstretched, and growled.

Mr. Ravensdale leaned over her. “Who did this?” His hot breath against the nape of her neck sent a rush of warmth through her core. Her answer was lost between her lips, his nearness too distracting. Clara kept her eyes focused forward, as his heat wrapped around her. Her stomach fluttered. “No one.” Her voice was smaller than she wished it to be. “I fell,” she whispered with an edge of determination.

Clara felt the tension ripple from his fingers over her skin as he remained silent. If he did not believe her…if he pressed for the truth about her injuries…

“Stay,” he ordered, walking to the cluttered kitchen shelves.

Mr. Barnes gave her a stern look as he leaned against the table in front of her, arms crossed over his body. He tipped forward slightly, no doubt the direct influence of the whiskey he had been siphoning off Mr. Ravensdale all afternoon. “How did you fall?” He squinted his eyes, bobbing left and right as though to keep her on his horizon. She suspected it was swaying a great deal.

“Leave her,” barked Mr. Ravensdale.

She winced again. His temper was just a thinly veiled threat as the night continued and she was afraid of being on the receiving end when it erupted. With the strike of a match, the air filled with the perfumed aroma of his cigars. He was a human volcano, not a handsome chimney.

“Does it hurt awfully bad, Miss Clara?” Minnie asked.

“It’s ‘does it hurt badly,’ Lady Minnie. And no, it doesn’t hurt. Lady Grace just pulled at the pins in my hair. I will be fine.” Clara spoke as politely as possible, but even her patience was growing dangerously thin.

“Bloody hell! Stop dancing, Minnie,” Mr. Ravensdale growled. The girl startled, and froze by Clara’s side. “The kitchen is no place for flying about. I’ll toss you to Lucy if you don’t stop.”

Clara spun around, grasping the top of the chair, her eyes just above the high back, and sent a look full of daggers toward the frightful man. He returned her glare with equal measure, but Clara held her ground, even as he arched an ominous brow and motioned for her to spin around. She lofted her nose as she turned, crossing her arms in a huff. He did not say anything further, even as he approached from behind and parted her hair. She winced, but did not cry out. She would not allow him the satisfaction.

“There’s no clean way to do this.” Mr. Ravensdale’s words were muddled from the cigar wedged between his lips. She lifted her head to see, only to feel a strong grip on the top of her head, pointing it downward once more.

She cinched the rag tossed around her shoulders just as a trickle of cold liquid splashed her scalp. “What are you doing?” Clara yelped.

“Stay still.”

Icy liquid slid down her back and violent shivers racked her body. She leapt from the chair, knocking the pot from his hand, effectively drenching herself.

“What did you do?” she yelled, facing him as he gave a hearty laugh. Her fists balled at her sides.

He shrugged, turning to deposit the empty pot in the sink. “Go with Miss Dawson, children.”

The cold was fast to set in.
Blast!
Would she ever be warm in this house? “What did you do?” she repeated, her voice low and as threatening as she could manage between chattering teeth.

Mr. Ravensdale removed the cigar from his lips and choked back another laugh at the sight of her. “It’s sugar water, not poison. It’ll help heal the gash on your head from your…
fall
. Since you won’t let me stitch—”

“Mr. Ravensdale, I believe you can understand my apprehension, as you are no doctor.” The line of his jaw tightened. “
Sir.
”

She held his stare, even as she wanted to melt into the floor and leave the day behind her. He raised a brow finally, coming out of his trance. There was the slightest hint of a smile on his lips. It was neither jaded nor earnest; it was entirely of its own kind. Clara could not look away.

“Why, this one time when we were in Persia, Ravensdale—” Mr. Barnes began.

“Let her think what she wishes.”

Clara swallowed, growing weary under his calculating glare. If he knew her to be lying, there was no knowing what would happen. Would he press her for the truth? Would she have to run again if he interfered?

“It’s her head.” He shoved open the kitchen doors with both arms and stalked away into the night.

Clara’s chest tightened in response to Mr. Ravensdale’s hasty exit, giving her the urge to follow. Why she would ever want to follow that man, she’d never know, but she did just then.

“Would you like a drink?” Mr. Barnes asked when she turned from the opened doors. The night air felt especially brisk as she stood in the middle of the kitchen, wet and shaking.

He studied the empty glass in his hand, his brows drawn in concentration as he tried to fill it with brandy in a shaky dance. When it seemed like an impossible pairing, Mr. Barnes took a swig from the bottle itself and, wearing a satisfied grin, held it out to Clara.

Forget escape. Clara had landed herself in a madhouse.

I
n the quiet privacy of the park, Clara peeled off the layers of propriety for a few minutes of freedom. Hair down, no bonnet or parasol to protect her skin from being unfashionably sun kissed, no gloves or boots. Only another horrid dress of hers and bare feet, wickedly indecent, certainly improper. It was perfection.

And to add to that glory, she was far from the irritating Mr. Ravensdale, perfection indeed.

The sun above warmed her, casting flicking shadows through her closed eyelids as she laid in the tall golden grass of an abandoned garden in the park. Grace tumbled down beside her, mumbling. The babe was always mumbling.

The pair had been out a while and Clara no longer felt certain the two men could manage the older children. Her concern was not necessarily for James, but she was worried for Minnie, who seemed to need everyone’s attention. For all Clara could guess, Minnie was dancing on the furniture or leaping through the halls. Since she was so poorly coordinated, it was a danger indeed. She saw a lot of turned ankles and bruises in her future where Minnie was concerned.

“I think we should return, Grace. Would you like to see your uncle?”

“No,” the girl answered flatly, plucking another handful of grass.

“I don’t wish to see him either,” Clara said with a laugh. “But I fear we must.” And she meant that sentiment, truly. Clara’s employer unsettled her. They got on quite poorly, in fact, even in just three days’ time. It was always a battle: he, charming yet chiding; she, haughty and distant.

Clara righted herself, the picture of the gloomy governess once more. “Let’s gather some flowers for your sister.”

Grace looked up with a hearty grin, ambled to Clara’s side and latched onto her hand. Little by little, they walked toward the house, plucking flowers as Clara helped Grace recite her letters. She lifted the toddler to her hip and brushed the tangle of crimson curls away from Grace’s face as they reached the drive.

“Minnie is going to be very happy to see the flowers you picked for her.”

Grace nodded, trying to pull the head of a daisy into her mouth as if she were a grazing goat. “Pretty.”

“Yes,” Clara agreed, pulling the flowers out of reach with a laugh. “Let’s save them for looking. We can find something else to eat once—”

“It’s Miss Dawson, isn’t it?”

Clara strengthened her hold around Grace as she turned to see Mrs. Gibbs, flanked by a young woman and man. “Yes…”

“We’ve come to lend a hand,” Mrs. Gibbs said, picking up a heavy leather duffle. “I won’t be having anyone slander the likes of a respectable woman placed in an unusual position. Living alone with two bachelors without another woman present. Hogwash.”

“Thank you for the thought.” Clara dropped a kiss on Grace’s head, unsure of what to say or do next. Three pairs of eyes looked at her for direction.

“I was the boy’s nanny for a time,” Mrs. Gibbs finished. “And housekeeper when his father abandoned his mother.”

The
boy
. Mr. Ravensdale certainly had the tendencies of such. Perhaps those rumors about India were true then. But why did Bly leave his mother alone to be with his father in India?

“I’ve brought my daughter, Molly, to help with the children. And her husband, Freddie Nash, has agreed to help with the house repairs and gardens. He’s a miracle worker with flowerbeds.”

Clara looked to the two newcomers and nodded her hello.

“And this is their son, Theodore. I’ll be watching him myself, so as Molly can look after the children proper,” Mrs. Gibbs said. A little boy with black curly hair, stuck his head out from behind the woman’s apron.

Molly appeared younger than Clara, a tall and skinny girl with a rash of freckles across her face and the same dull, beady eyes of her mother. Mr. Nash looked a few years older and was rather tall as well, with black hair and the oddest eyes—so blue they bordered on violet. It appeared as if Theodore inherited the same coloring.

“Follow me, please. I’m sure Mr. Ravensdale will want to give his opinion before you start.” He always has one, she thought. She shouldered the heavy front door open, Grace still on her hip, then paused in the foyer. Mr. Ravensdale and Mr. Barnes dangled before her, fencing from sheets tied to the second story balustrade. Minnie and James cheered the dueling pair on, jumping up and down like heathens charging a battlefield.

“Come. Here,” yelled Mr. Ravensdale in short, staccato exasperations. He attempted to swing toward Mr. Barnes, but Mr. Barnes merely laughed and swung the fencing sword again at his opponent.

Mr. Ravensdale ascended higher and swooped toward Mr. Barnes, but Mr. Barnes had the advantage of his lanky length and, without mercy, stabbed Mr. Ravensdale at the base of his back until the sword bowed.

“Another point for me,” Mr. Barnes declared.

“You bloody bastard!” Mr. Ravensdale swung back with renewed vigor. The children giggled and whooped with glee to see their uncle under attack.

Clara set down Grace. “Mr. Ravensdale!”

He slipped and crashed to the floor at the sound of Clara’s voice, landing on his back before tossing his hands up in defeat, muttering curse after curse. Mrs. Gibbs came to stand next to Clara, hefting her hands to rest onto her wide hips, a vexed look furrowed at her thick brows.

“Why, Miss Dawson,” Mr. Barnes exclaimed. He smiled as he shimmied down the length of the sheet. “I hope you had a pleasant stroll.”

She chose to ignore the ever-charming Mr. Barnes and marched over to her employer, clearly winded from his fall. “I would like to know how this began,” she ordered from above him.

“They started up here, Miss Clara,” Minnie tattled.

“They tied the sheets into ropes and fenced with each other,” continued James. He grabbed his own makeshift sword and charged after Minnie through the upstairs hallway, banging into the abandoned furniture stacked this way and that.

Lovely.

This was as good a time as any to scold the children, but she held her tongue and waited for the biggest child of all to confess to his crimes.

Mr. Barnes advanced toward her, swinging the sword, before stopping a few inches short of her face. “We felt we needed a challenge, Miss Dawson. Do you not agree that hanging off a two-story balcony with a deadly weapon is an excellent start?” He smiled at her again when she did not back away, then pivoted quickly and stabbed Mr. Ravensdale in the stomach with another chuckle. Mr. Barnes bowed and exited, escaping Clara’s deepening scowl.

“Your language is too crude, Mr. Ravensdale,” she said.

“Oh, we’ve heard him say much worse,” piped in James from over the railing.

She held no doubt on that fact. Clara glared up at the two children, who quickly receded back into the hallway’s shadows.

“I do not want to hear that language from anyone, especially when around the children.” She rested her hands on her hips and glared down with an arctic stare at Mr. Ravensdale. He opened his eyes, glazed over from his fall, and flashed a mischievous grin.

“Yes, Dawson,” he answered like an apologizing schoolchild. “I will mind myself from now on,
ma’am
.”