Etiquette With The Devil (13 page)

His eyes narrowed to slits. She waited for another bristled remark, preparing to be equally snappish in return. The stubborn oaf. When he made none, Clara snaked the needle through his flesh. It was awkward to remain standing between his legs and keep balance, so she placed her left hand on his bare shoulder, curling her fingers over his collarbone to keep steady.

Like peonies in a driving rain, he crumbled, and fainted at her touch.

“Mr. Ravensdale?” His breathing was shallow, skipping. “Mr. Ravensdale?” She wondered then what his Christian name was. She had no other names to call him that would be in the realm of politeness. When he was tiresome, she could think of a great many to throw his way. He
was
the devil, of that she was convinced.

Clara cupped his face in her hands, the shadow of stubble grazing against her palms. “Mr. Ravensdale?” She shook his head slightly from side to side. It only lolled around as blood poured from his wound.

Clara rested his head against the high back of the chair, hoping he would come round in a few minutes. She pierced his skin with another crooked stitch. If he knew how badly she embroidered, he would never have allowed her to stitch him up. “Mr. Ravensdale?” Her hand moved to a bit of hair that had fallen over his eyes. She brushed it back without thinking, puzzling over this gentler version of a man determined to set the world on fire. Her fingers traced the lines etched across his forehead, drawing circles over his temples, selfishly taking a few stolen moments to regard his profile. He was handsome—if only he wasn’t so troublesome, so brutish—

“Mr. Ravensdale, I’m finished.” Her voice was soft, reluctant to wake the beast. When he did not come to, she tried again, cradling his face in her hands, rubbing thumbs over his cheekbones. “Mr. Ravensdale?”

His eyes parted, shining, sharp. She smelled the whiskey on his breath, the copper of his blood, the saltiness of his skin. It clouded her head as she gazed into his eyes. They were a beautiful sea of blues and greens set around a deep amber ring of an autumn sunset. Clara could not move if she wished it.

“Bly,” he whispered, looking just as lost in her as she was with him. “Say it.”

There was no cause to say his Christian name. She wished she could unlearn it as soon as he told her. It was improper and ill-bred. She was the governess. He was her employer. She was illegitimate. He was the second son of an earl.

Good heaven, but how she wished to say it, breathe it in, and keep it as her own.

“Bly.” She answered, just as softly, his name sounding more like a breath than a word.

He inhaled as his name passed over her lips, closing his eyes for only a moment before they flared open to her once more. Her ability to think vanished. Her ability to stand crumbled. Her adherence to etiquette burned under the devil’s wicked charms.

“Are you well?” she asked, feeling him a breath away from her lips. If she just dipped a bit lower, if he reached up ever so slightly, they would kiss. That was all her muddled mind could manage to think of in that moment. She wanted his lips against hers. She wanted to run her hands through his hair and feel his warm skin beneath her hands without an ounce of guilt. She wanted to burn in the fires of Hell if it meant she could be close him.
Bly
, she thought as her heart drummed faster. “Bly.”

“If I’m right,” he whispered, his voice still haggard, “I’ll keep you safe.”

His kindness broke her reverie.

Clara stood and stepped back, the coldness of the room stealing away the heat his body had given hers. She was a feather in the wind. With a few words, she was cast drifting again, not certain she would ever get that moment back. Perhaps she would never get the chance to feel his lips upon hers, never learn what it was like to be kissed.

“I’ll fetch Mrs. Gibbs.” She curtsied like a fool and stumbled from the room transfixed at the sight of his blood staining her hands—another man possibly dead at her hands.

B
ly Ravensdale never convalesced in his life. That is, until the females of Burton Hall clucked at him and saw him to bed, practically tucked him in, insisting that he rest. Mrs. Gibbs and Molly, that is. Clara had been absent since she stitched him up.

He peeled back the bandage and examined the wound once more, checking for the angry red flesh of an infection. The row of stitches were uneven, but they did the job. Barnes had cleverly hid his opium, and Mrs. Gibbs would only give him a shot or two of whiskey with his tea.

It was as though everyone in the house wished he would suffer after taking a bullet for his nephew.

He hissed, slipping on a shirt so he could join the others for dinner before they gave him another cup of broth. He needed food and fresh air, and to escape the four walls of his filthy, dusty room before he lost his mind. He’d rather attend dinner as he was, but he bet he would give Clara apoplexy if he appeared without a shirt. The woman barely tolerated the children slurping their soup, never mind nakedness at the dinner table.

He caught himself in the mirror, the faint hint of a grin as he remembered her stroking his face the day before. He had been half out of his mind in pain, but that touch of hers, the gentle way she spoke his name, was balm enough for his wounds.

Barnes was in the middle of sharing another wild story when Bly entered the kitchen. He was sure Clara would have preferred using the formal dining room for meals, but his mother had insisted on dressing formally and doing the same. He would rather skip the reminder of her during her last days, sitting at the head of the table in furs and jewels, acting as hostess to an empty room.

Bly stepped in, well,
staggered
in, more unsteady on his feet than he would like to admit. “I hope you saved a plate for me.”

Clara looked up from feeding Grace on her lap and dropped her spoon. “You should be in bed. Mrs. Gibbs and Molly have left for the evening. They left broth…”

“Then no need to bring it,” he said. Everyone watched him, quiet setting in. If quiet set in with this bunch, then that meant trouble. “Well, carry on. I’m alive.”

They returned to eating, all except James, who poked at the food on his plate. Bly had been over this with him many times since the boy came into his care, but they had made no progress. Bly sank into the chair next to his nephew and slid his plate over, then quickly separated the food so the potatoes did not touch the chicken or carrots.

“Eat up now,” Bly said softly, meeting Clara’s stare from across the table.

She quickly darted her eyes away, focusing on the babbling Grace with mashed potatoes in her hair.

“Are you well, Uncle?” Minnie asked. “Isaac said you were shot!”

“Minnie, that is not appropriate to talk about at the dinner table,” Clara scolded.

He reached his foot under the table and knocked it against the swinging feet of his niece. “I’m well,” he whispered, making a funny face. She laughed again. What he would give to remember how to laugh as carefree as she did now. He was half-happy he would miss the day she learned the world was not the protective bubble he had tried to shield them under. Soon she would learn about friendships, fights, and heaven help him, love.

“Tell your uncle what you learned to do today,” Clara urged, her voice softening. She stood and set Grace on her hip, wiping the child down before placing her on quilt with a few wooden toys not far from the table.

The kitchen was warm, the fire still burning low, and the night was comfortable. That would be changing soon as well. From what he remembered, summer was a short visitor in Yorkshire this side of September.

He reached for the cut chicken on the platter before him as Clara came up behind him. “I’ll make your plate. Don’t move your arm.”

He wanted to call her something then that wasn’t exactly polite, and at the same time couldn’t help taking in the sight of her bottom in a rare dress of hers that wasn’t a disaster. It was cream-colored, where her others were often gray or brown, or some muckish color in between. Small pink flowers dotted the fabric. But it was the lace that brushed against her neck that he was envious of.

A man envious of fabric touching a woman? That is what he’d been reduced to, because of her lips, her eyes, that soft skin that beckoned to him like a safe haven. But there was also the way she served him before serving herself, how she fed Grace to allow Barnes to eat, how she was terrified to stitch Bly up the day before, but had bravely done so.

He wasn’t convinced she was as innocent as she claimed, but he was convinced of her character. For all the annoying rules and pointed glares, Clara Dawson was a remarkable woman with a strong constitution, one of a survivor.

She sat opposite him at the table while he quizzed Minnie with his pocket watch, happy that she had learned to tell time.

A knock at the door startled everyone. Barnes stood up, glancing to Bly, then setting his hand on a gun hidden at the waistband of his pants. “I’ll see who it is, seeing that I’m the footman.”

No one laughed.

Barnes left the room, and when he answered the door, Bly heard him ask, “Christ, how’d you find us?”

The person’s response was quiet, followed by another laugh from Barnes.

“Look who crawled out of Calcutta to join us, Ravensdale.”

Bly’s grip on his fork loosened until it clattered against the plate as he set eyes on Graham. “Holy hell.”

Clara slapped her hands against the table. “Watch your language in front of the children.”

“What a charming, familiar scene. Not at all where I thought I’d find of you, Ravensdale. Didn’t know you were much of a family man.”

Bly didn’t like the appraising look that flickered across Graham’s face at Clara’s set down. “Come sit down, Graham. Have you eaten?” He was trying his best not to lunge at the man and ask him why he never fought back at the palace, but he figured Clara would object to that as well.

Bly quickly made introductions and went back to eating, letting Barnes carry most of the conversation. When plates were cleared, he said goodnight to the children and watched regretfully as Clara ushered them upstairs.

“Why are you here?” he asked as soon as they were gone. “Why the hell did you track me down?”

Barnes snickered. “Miss Dawson wouldn’t approve of how you’re treating our guest.” He rummaged around in the cupboards. “I wish Mrs. Gibbs would stop trying to hide the rum. It’s bad enough she’s given you control over the whiskey.”

“You have to fill me in, Ravensdale. Is your sharp-mouthed maid responsible for the bandages across your chest?”

“Did you come all this way just to test my patience, Graham?” Bly sighed, pushing aside the ribbing for what it was—
ribbing
. “She’s the governess. The nurse and housekeeper live in the gardener’s cottage. I haven’t seen to staffing the house properly. My aunt will see to that. As far as the bandage, I was shot. Much like how I left you actually.”

Graham shrugged his shoulder, then flexed his fingers over the tabletop. “That’s right. We did leave on shaky ground. As I recall I was shot twice and you escaped with Barnes here, and left me to rot at that palace.”

Barnes, in a moment of kindness, slid Bly a glass of rum, then another toward Graham.

“I did what you trained me—”

“Oh no, I’m of no mind for excuses, Ravensdale. Besides, I’m here for a job,” Graham continued.

“Then this will be short,” Bly said. “I’m not interested.”

“You’re saying you’re done?” Barnes asked, kicking his boots up onto the table. “This is a new development.”

“It’s not new at all. You,” he said, shaking his hand at Barnes, “were careless and I was almost killed trying to rescue you.”

“You can’t die—”

“And you,” Bly said, speaking over Barnes to Graham, “came along with me that night on your own accord. So no, right now, I’m not taking up another job. I have to get affairs in order so I can leave this hellhole and return…”

“To where?” Graham asked, drumming his hand over the table. “You can’t stay here. Seems like you have a nasty reputation in the village. I knew of your reputation among our peers, but never in England. The Devil? How provincial.”

Bly wished he had a cigar, wished he was more himself so he could control this conversation. “Ever heard of ink and paper, Graham? You could have written.”

Graham stared back, the glass pitched to his lips. There had been a time when Bly saw a friend when he looked upon him; now he wasn’t quite sure. What was that that hid behind Graham’s deep brown eyes?

“Not for this mission.” He threw back his glass and drained the whole thing, slamming it onto the table. “This could only be achieved in person. I’ll be staying in town until you change your mind. And trust me, Ravensdale, I won’t be leaving without you.”

*

French was not going to be easy to teach to the children.

James’s mind was unique. His attention often focused on the mechanics of things. And Minnie, well—she proved difficult to keep in her seat for most of the time, never mind teaching her conjugations. Clara would try sums after they went for a walk with Molly in the gardens later. Perhaps that would bring greater success.