Lord Monroe's Dark Tower: The Albright Sisters: Book 2 (22 page)

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 his horse as close as he dared beside the mare and her churning hooves.

Beyond all reason, Abella clung to her quarry, stretching dangerously far in the saddle to keep a vice grip on the pink noose. Flavian reached past her and with an upward slash, sliced the ribbon free.

The tension on the bonnet had been all that held Abella in the sidesaddle. “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 Abella disappeared beneath Killen’s heaving sides. The fabric held. Flavian yanked her into the saddle.

Riderless, the mare 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, Abella 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,” Abella said, turning 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 said.

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 breathe.”

He laid 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 her corn silk hair from her brow. “Breathe, my love,” he said, 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 her 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 wept then, unable to control the flood of grief.

“Come give her to us now, my lord,” another woman crooned. “It’s best not to dwell too long. You want to remember her how she was.”

But he could not give her up, not while her body lay 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 said, kissing her hand and then slamming his fist into the dirt. “My dearest love, you’re alive.”

Tucked warm into her bed, Claire had finally drifted off sleep. Until her lids closed in peaceful rest, Flavian remained by her side, murmuring softly and holding a cup of willow bark tea to her lips — anything to help deaden her pain. The sight of her bruised throat hurt him like a thousand dagger points. However, what was almost worse was recognizing his part in Claire’s injuries. He had done this. Whether the household failed to tell him or not, he knew something was wrong, yet he’d closed his eyes to the evidence of Abella’s behavior, ignored the countless warning signs of her violent temper.

And he wasn’t just responsible for Claire’s condition — Abella’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, nor would she have nearly perished under the hooves of a runaway coach. “You’ve been a nincompoop, Monroe, a bloody fool.” Now was the time to own his triumphs and mistakes. He would not waste another minute bemoaning his past, but he would secure his future. He would make things right in his home. Gently, so he wouldn’t wake her, he kissed Claire’s brow and then left the room.

Minutes later, he opened the heavily padlocked door to the tower, and followed by a cadre of household staff, he called up the stairs, “Abella, it’s time to clean.”

• • •

Bingham Hall seemed strangely quiet. The usual creaks and bumps, whispers and footsteps were absent, Claire realized as she awoke from a deep sleep. By the light in the window, she judged the time to be late afternoon. A timid scratch sounded on the other side of the door. “Are you awake, Lady Claire?” said a soft voice.

“I’m here,” Claire said, barely able to speak above a whisper.

The scratch resumed. Unable to speak louder, Claire resorted to tapping a glass on the bedside table. The lady’s maid who assisted Viscountess Monroe, peered around the door, in that peculiar, secretive way of hers. “Are you well enough for a visit with her ladyship?”

Claire nodded.

The maid disappeared, and to Claire’s surprise, a strapping footman pushed into the room. “I’m here to carry you, my lady.”

“Yes, the dowager doesn’t go beyond her apartments,” the maid explained.

Slightly alarmed, Claire clutched her throat. “Not dressed. Not well.”

The maid hurried across the bedroom and produced Claire’s dressing gown from the back of a chair. The gown was new. Flavian replaced the old one that was destroyed by the vinegar and holly with a lovely negligee of ivory cambric in a raised check pattern.

Once the privacy screen was in place, Claire slipped her arms into the sleeves, and when the gown was fastened in front, the footman hoisted her into his arms and took her from the bedroom.

At the formidable door to Lady Monroe’s rooms, the maid turned a key in the lock and, angling sideways, the footman brought Claire through the entrance. A gasp escaped her lips. The sizeable room was packed with magnificent furniture and hundreds of decorative pieces — vases, clocks, china figurines, trays, bowls, wood carvings, urns, and glassware — all displayed neatly in floor-to-ceiling shelves — the treasures that must have once adorned the barren rooms of Bingham Hall.

“Are you surprised?” said a voice behind them.

The footman pivoted, and in the confusion of furniture, Claire located Lady Monroe propped on a chaise and dressed in an elegant vermillion morning gown.

“Yes,” Claire whispered, nodding.

With a wave of her hand, the dowager directed the footman to unload his burden on a nearby sofa.

“We’ll have chocolate,” she told the maid. The servants left the room, quietly closing the door behind them. Claire heard the key turn in the lock.

“In the interests of your damaged throat, I won’t ask for anything but your ear and your understanding, Lady Claire,” the dowager began. “There are many things about this house and my son that are probably a mystery to you.”

Claire pulled her dressing gown closer and offered her hand, palm up, as a signal to her hostess to continue.

“The rightful heir to this estate, my oldest son Lancelot, lacked character. I adored him. He was entertaining and dashing and a social success — everything a mother would want. But the moment the power of the viscountancy became his, he changed. A disgusting avalanche of greed, ill will, and poor decision making followed.” The dowager let out a long, slow breath. “And then that beautiful boy challenged the best shot in London to a dual.” She reached for Claire’s hand. “I believe he did it to save his family — as a final, noble act.” The woman squeezed Claire’s fingers and then let go.

“But the man who concerns you, my Flavian, has always been a serious boy. He studied his lessons without complaint; went into the navy with scarcely a whimper and took on the responsibility of his brother’s debt and his family’s future without a whisper of complaint. But we were bankrupt — on the verge of losing everything. And in the midst of chaotic legal wranglings, Hernando Vargas Duarte wrote that his sister, Abella, was in a desperate state. I begged my serious son not to take on another responsibility, but I could have tossed a pebble down a hillside for all the impression my pleading made.”

Claire looked down, not wanting Lady Monroe to see the emotions stirred by the mere mention of Abella’s name. The dowager patted her hand. “That girl … ” An edge crept into the woman’s voice, “We took one look at one another, and I knew there would be no peace. The very day she arrived, she broke a sixteenth century nautilus cup set in silver gilt. It was an heirloom passed down through generations of my family. With one careless gesture, that child destroyed it. I watched her do it, too. ‘I so tired,’ she says, stretching her skinny little arms. And when she brought them back, she hit that cup and the nautilus shell shattered on the floor. Oh, the upset, the crying, the ‘I so sorry.’ But I didn’t believe it for a minute.” Lady Monroe stared across the room with black intensity.

“It’s over there,” the viscountess said, her mouth a straight, grim line. Claire craned to see over the mass of furniture, and spied on a bottom shelf, a row of bent and broken objects. Among them was a challis without a cup — its beautifully wrought silver setting, empty and twisted.

“Nothing has ever made me more furious. I told Flavian what I thought of his ward, but he persuaded me it was an accident.

“Months went by, and then a favorite brooch went missing. The evidence pointed to a scullery maid. The poor thing was dismissed without a reference. And on and on, one little transgression after another occurring so subtly, it was impossible to point a finger, but these incidents always hurt me. Somehow, I was always the victim. I knew who did it and I knew why she did it.”

“Why?” Claire croaked.

“She wants him for herself … wants to keep him from everyone, even from his own mother.”

Biting her lip, Claire leaned forward and raised her hands.

“You want to know why I didn’t boot her out the door?”

“Yes.”

“Money. We had none, and that clever Hernando left Abella rich. The entire Vargas Duarte fortune is hers. The chit terrifies me, but I had two other sons to educate, to buy commissions for. And the prospect of life in poverty was beyond contemplation. I ordered the servants to tell Flavian nothing about her bad behavior. Partly because he wouldn’t believe it, and partly because my serious, responsible boy would never take Abella’s money without also being her guardian.

“I made the choice to keep her here for our survival, and I moved everything of value into my apartments, this vault, where I’ve stood guard over the Bourne family assets ever since.” She turned fierce eyes on Claire, as if daring her to question the decision.

Before Claire could respond, they heard a key scrape into its slot. The lady’s maid entered followed by the same burley footman who carried a silver tray. Weaving down a narrow path through the furniture, he rested the tray on a gilt table and pulled two matching chairs out for them to sit. When the cups and saucers had been arranged, he went to pick up Claire. Startled, she held her hand up to halt him. “I’ll walk,” she mouthed.

Gripping backs, arms and tabletops in the sea of furniture, she limped to the nearest place setting. The dowager followed.

When the hostess tried to pour the chocolate, however, her hands shook, so she had to stop. Disgusted, she rested the offending appendages in her lap. “The point of bringing you to my rooms was to say, I’m sorry.”

Unable to speak, Claire was robbed of the ability to hide her feelings. Helplessly, she gazed back into the dowager’s pale eyes and felt tears start to well.

Lady Monroe looked away and made a second attempt at pouring the chocolate. The pot rattled in her hands so violently, she put it down again.

A tear coursed down Claire’s cheek. She wiped it away, but another tracked behind.

Silently, the dowager passed an embroidered napkin to her. “My son pestered me for two years to invite you. Every subject: the weather, politics, the state of the crops, eventually came around to you. He argued you might find a cure for Abella, but I knew it was something more.”

The viscountess straightened a spoon and studied the table. “I should have warned you. I should have told Flavian to put a lock on your door and never leave your side … but if I told him the truth about Abella, then we might lose her money … .”

Nothing moved in the room but the tears that rolled down Claire’s face. Lady Monroe looked at her, and a bright drop of water trickled from the corner of her eye and down a winkled path on her face. “Would you forgive me?”

Swallowing, holding her throat to minimize the pain, Claire whispered, “I’ll marry your son.”

• • •

A few days later, Claire sat on a settee in the library, book in hand, legs tucked under a light blanket. The rich scent of summer 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. Abella had started another tune. The lyrics were mournful — about lost love and soldiers lying unfound in fields of wildflowers — so sad. Abella’s voice still captured Claire with its crystalline beauty, yet simultaneously filled her with dread. The dulcet melody traveled from the tower where Flavian had confined the girl. As the song continued, Claire pulled the blanket up to her chin, and cold seeped into her bones.