Etiquette With The Devil (28 page)

Water trickled down her flushed face as the snow melted from her hair. He wiped it away and watched as she closed her eyes tight, turning ever so slightly from him.

It was the fever that addled her mind. It must be. But it was hard to ignore the same broken stare she had given him when their eyes met. His mother had looked at him that way all those years ago. It spoke of an unnatural distance within herself that he could not reach. If he could not bring her back, then she would be lost to him forever, even if she did survive.

C
lara battled to reach the surface of some strange barrier in her dreams. When her eyes finally opened, she was breathless from the struggle.

She felt so alone and disconnected from life as she fought to put the white blur at her side into focus. She was burning inside, and in pain. Her heart was a faint tap against her chest and at some point, she had been aware of Bly’s face—the cruel trick of it. She remembered hearing his voice calling to her as she floated in some haze, stuck in a fiery and torturous dream.

She tried to move more than just her lips, but her body was too heavy. Her lips were cracked and aching, too parched as she tried to speak.

Water, she tried to say, but her voice did not come.

A hand pressed behind her head and a small trickle of water entered her mouth. It was blessedly cold as it made its way down her throat, sending a fleeting shiver through her hot body. She kept her mouth open, begging for more, anything to help quell the fire within.

“That’s enough for now,” a voice said. It sounded as though it was from another room, which was odd because she felt the pressure of a hand on her forehead. Then the presence was gone, or she had fallen asleep. Clara fought to open her eyes, but they stung. She winced from trying to see, her body shivering once more from pain.

“Hot,” she breathed out.

“I know,” the voice answered. A weight was lifted off her as a stirring of something fresh, almost sweet, swept across her skin.

“Sleep now,” the voice said. She thought for a moment that Bly had returned to her, but the voice was just an echo of an endless dream. There was something she needed to ask, if only she could remember. She remembered she had been worried and that troubled her, even as she struggled to swallow. Just another drink.

“I’ll be here when you wake,” the voice spoke. “Close your eyes and rest a while longer.”

She was damned. Clara would burn in the fires of hell for all her faults; she had known it. But she never expected it to be so painful or for it to take so long.

*

“Out!”

The roar of Bly’s voice echoed through the cavernous foyer. The servants scattered below like ants at the threat of rain.

“Really, sir,” Wallace bristled. “We are under Lady Margaret’s employ. You cannot give leave to the entire house staff.” The man pulled at the black vest under his jacket in a swift tug to further punctuate his point. The air of authority might have rung true if his powdered wig hadn’t been unseated.

“Lady Margaret was only granted leave of this house because of my absence. And since she apparently hasn’t lived here for two years, you don’t have the right to object to anything I do. Your wage is paid by me, Wallace. So, yes, I can do exactly as I have done. Now, go.”

“Sir.”

A solution would come to Bly, but for now, he was tired of being spied upon in his own house, never mind fleeced through the gills by his aunt’s extraordinary tastes. Tastes that apparently had expanded beyond Yorkshire for the Continent. When she returned from Italy, they would have a proper chat. If he could manage to keep his temper long enough to discover why she spoiled herself at his expense while ignoring the duties of what he had asked of her.

Bly rested his head against the cool marble column. His eyes were heavy and he hadn’t slept for more than a few hours for weeks now. There had to be an end in sight, surely, or he might reconsider his stance against rooting out a whiskey bottle soon from the kitchen.

“Uncle?”

“You shouldn’t be out of bed, pet,” he said, his eyes shut. Maybe he could find a way to sleep standing up.

“You were yelling.”

“I didn’t mean to frighten you.” Bly forced a smile and turned to his niece. Minnie stood wrapped up in a quilt that swallowed her, all except for the two small slippered feet that stuck out beneath. “It’s going to be just us for a while, but we can manage, don’t you think?”

He needed to hear her reassurances, even if she was only eight.

Minnie looked him over, shuffling a little closer. She cupped one hand around her mouth. “I don’t like them much either,” she said in a staged whisper.

He laughed. That would do for now.

“Off to bed with you.” He picked the girl up and stopped as Raja flew up from below and landed on the balustrade. “Bloody hell,” he groaned. He had been at Burton Hall for all but two days, but if the madness continued at this pace, his head would be the one to explode.

“Uncle,” Minnie chided. But she laughed, and he smiled down at her, pinching her nose. The little imp.

“Who let the parrot out of its cage?” he called out. Feet scurried down below in the foyer, along with grumbled protests. He should have handled the firing of the staff with a little more tact, but he did not have the time nor patience to worry about that.

“I refuse to be tossed out like some scandalous chambermaid,” yelled Mrs. Moreley from the hallway below. “Especially by the likes of you,” she said, pointing an accusing finger up at Bly. “I have been in the employ of your aunt for twenty years. And I have never been treated—”

“I don’t have time for a mutiny, Mrs. Moreley. I want you all gone within the hour.”

At the word mutiny, there sounded a great crash, as though someone purposely began breaking china or vases. He should get the house keys soon before they divided the silver and ran off with that, as well.

Bly turned with Minnie in his arms to head back to nursery when the front door pushed open to reveal his reinforcements. He had hoped Tilly would come with Grace, but he was not expecting the others along with her.

Tilly’s daughter, Molly, carried a young boy. Another clutched onto the woman’s hand, hiding behind her skirts as the parrot dove from the balcony to the table in the middle of the foyer. Freddie Nash stood solemn behind Tilly as Grace tried to bury herself in the folds of his old nanny’s coat.

“Your sister is home,” he said, making his way down the stair’s landing. Minnie grasped his neck tighter, not saying a word. “Let’s say hello.”

The group watched, their faces not hiding their shock. He did not understand why he elicited such a strange reaction. They weren’t strangers. Maybe it was only Raja dancing about the tabletop as the sounds of the servants packing up echoed through the halls. They had walked in on a madhouse.

“Hello,” Bly said. The deep auburn curls of Grace’s head leaned forward until her gray eyes peered around Tilly’s coat. “Hello, Grace.”

She promptly hid again.

Bly glanced to Tilly for an explanation. He was not expecting that sort of reaction from Grace. In fact, he had anticipated a much warmer welcome from the young girl. She had cooed over him enough as a babe.

“You do look a bit frightening, dear,” Tilly said.

His pride had just been wounded by a five-year-old.

“We heard in the village that you had returned.” Grace pulled at his old nurse’s hand, but remained hidden.

“We’d like to work for you again, Mr. Ravensdale,” Molly added.

Be cordial, Bly reminded himself. He could not go about chasing this lot off too. “The others are just leaving.” He noticed Freddie smile at that. Freddie was never one for words.

“We should have a chat in the other room, perhaps,” Tilly hedged.

He was done with being told what to do today. He needed to return to Clara after he saw Minnie to bed. Then he could deal with the other hundred tiny fires spiraling his day out of control.

“I’ll take the girl up to bed,” Molly said. She held out her hands, but he gripped Minnie tighter. He hadn’t asked for help. This was his doing, this entire mess with the house and apparent neglect of his family, and he would make it right.

“Do you remember me, Minnie?” Molly asked.

“Of course.” Minnie wiggled about, frowning up at him. “You’re crushing me, Uncle. Let me down.”

“We’re here to help, Mr. Ravensdale,” Molly said.

His entire life had been of his own hand—his mistakes and failures, even the few successes—were his own. Help was for the weak, yet help he gathered as he looked over the group, was the one thing he needed most if he was to right his wrongs. He handed Minnie off without another thought and turned on his heel to rid the house of the rest of the vermin breaking the family heirlooms.

“Bly, dear?” Tilly called out behind him.

He continued walking even as he heard a whimpered protest and the sound of Tilly’s shuffling feet behind him.

“Blythe Everett Ravensdale,” she yelled. He smiled at that, remembering how she used that tone when he was a small boy. He still enjoyed vexing her.

“Mrs. Moreley,” he shouted, storming through the hallway. “Mrs. Moreley!”

Tilly still huffed behind him, scurrying to keep pace.

“Will you stop?” Tilly yelled. It was loud enough to halt Bly in the hallway. The small boy in her arms fussed louder.

Bly turned, his face impassive. He only wished to return to Clara, since the others would not care for her. She was alone in that room and it would not do, especially in her condition. “What is it, Tilly?”

“You need to know. That is, is Miss Dawson really as ill as word in the village?”

He could elaborate but a simple answer sufficed. “Yes.”

“Oh, heavens. Well…”

Bly studied the boy who wiggled around in her arms. He was small, his cheeks were plump and red, his ears a bit large for his head. His hair was an unruly chestnut gold. But his eyes, they were the eyes of the boy’s mother.

That knot, the one that twisted in Bly’s gut, gave a painful wrench again. This time his breath crushed from his lungs and out his parted lips. He saw it now, even as Tilly rushed to speak and cut off his thoughts. He
knew
. A sudden coldness hit at his core.

“If anything were to happen,” Tilly said in a whisper. Tears welled in her eyes.

He couldn’t feel the ground beneath his feet any longer.

“If anything were to happen to Miss Dawson, you should know that this is her son.”

Her son
.

Tilly was wrong though. The boy wasn’t solely Clara’s son. He was also Bly’s son.

His son.

Their son.

The ache to gather the boy into his arms was unbearable. A worse ache still than the hell that awaited Bly upstairs in Clara’s sickroom.

“I know it is not my place, but there were no arrangements made.”

“Enough.” His words were edged with steel. “Mrs. Moreley,” he yelled. He kept his eyes averted from Tilly and the small boy. “Moreley, I will march into your office and find you,” he threatened, “and then I will rip those bloody keys from your hands.”

“Bly, dear,” Tilly pleaded, crying now as he left her behind.

Mrs. Moreley marched from the kitchen. “You are a just as appalling as your aunt warned us. You are a horrid man. I hope you burn in hell!” She threw the ring of keys at Bly, hitting him squarely in the chest.

It would have hurt if he weren’t still reeling and numb from Tilly’s announcement. They landed at his feet, but he did not stoop to pick them up. “The keys to the house are yours, Tilly. See that everyone leaves. I have to—”

Bly did not finish. He could not. He did not know what was next.

*

The fire within eventually burned to embers, and Clara found peace.

The fog, however, was unrelenting. She was aware of her mind and body, but there was still a large disconnect. She struggled, but after a time, she managed to open her eyes. They did not feel as heavy as before. She could move her fingers now as well, if ever so slightly.

Clara was resting in a room she had never been in before, in a large bed stacked high with blankets that kept her pressed into the feather mattress, motionless. She heard the crackling of a fire and watched as the light from the flames danced upon the walls, giving off a beautiful glow against the gilded millwork and mural of flowers on the wall.