Lord Monroe's Dark Tower: The Albright Sisters: Book 2 (10 page)

Mrs. Gower pushed at a coil of gray hair matted on her damp forehead. “Don’t mind me, I’m just the chaperone instructed by your mother to protect your interests. Didn’t I say in the plainest English I know, not to brew your witchery?”

Trying to keep her hands from shaking, Claire held a spoonful of soup up to Mrs. Gower’s lips. “You drink wine, do you not?”

The elderly woman took the liquid into her mouth and scrunched her face as if it were sour. “Wine is made of good and proper grapes, it … ”

“And my remedy was made of good and proper valerian, Saint John’s wort and … ”

Mrs. Gower turned her face from another spoonful and slapped her hand on the coverlet. “I’m much too weak to argue. The fact is, you’re tainted now. You may lose your chance with Lord Monroe and all because you refused my humble advice.”

The arrow hit its mark. “Oh, but I followed your advice, and it did no good.”

“And exactly what do you mean by that?”

“I kissed him, and when we returned to the house, he was more distant than ever.”

The elderly woman tisked in disgust. “As if that were my fault. I didn’t instruct you to hurl yourself at him in a field, for goodness sake.”

Claire clunked the spoon back in the bowl and turned her back on Mrs. Gower. Fighting the urge to throw something, Claire wrung her hands with such force a knuckle cracked.

“Don’t make that unsightly noise,” snapped Mrs. Gower.

Whirling on her, Claire exploded, “How can a sound be unsightly? You make no sense. You say silly, ridiculous things, and not a moment’s thought goes into them!”

The chaperone pulled the covers to her chin. “This treatment to a poor, sick woman who’s done nothing but try and help? Who’s dispensed her every word for your good?”

Nothing showed above the coverlet but Mrs. Gower’s pouting lips and resentful stare. Claire shut her eyes. The woman could try the patience of a saint, but Claire needed to consult someone and who else was there? A letter to her mother or sisters would take too long. Gathering her emotions, she straightened the linens on the bed. “I apologize for losing my temper.”

Mrs. Gower huffed.

“The fact is, I need your advice,” Claire continued.

“What was that, dear?”

Claire sat on the satin quilt and took both liver-spotted hands into her own. “I said I need your advice. I don’t know what to do. Lord Monroe just told me he’ll never marry.”

“Nonsense,” barked Mrs. Gower, pulling herself upright in bed.

“He turns away from me; he battles demons I cannot comprehend. What if it’s true?”

A worried look passed over the chaperone’s face. “Have you noticed any
physical
problems?”

So far, what Claire had witnessed was Flavian’s excitement at being near her. “No, not in that respect.”

Mrs. Gower sucked in her breath. “I’m going to write your father’s solicitor. Let’s find out if there are any legal impediments to his heirs.”

Trying to disguise her despair by keeping her voice steady, Claire said, “Should we really stay if he doesn’t want me?”

“Who doesn’t want you?” said Mrs. Gower, impatiently. “The man is as deep in love as I’ve ever seen.”

“But I think Abella might resent my presence here.”

Mrs. Gower jerked her hands away. “What in heaven’s name are you saying child?”

“I think she tried to discredit me by accusing me of making poison.”

“At dinner last night Abella laughed and chatted with you.”

“She may not want Lord Monroe to know her true feelings. I told him perhaps I should leave, but he … ”

Mrs. Gower sat suddenly forward and took Claire by the arms digging sharp nails into her flesh. “Leave! Your mother did not entrust you to my care only to let you destroy your best opportunity for a good match. I’ve seen the way Lord Monroe looks at you. He could be yours, unless you lose your wits and run like a goose.”

A knot formed in Claire’s stomach. “But he doesn’t want me. He’s only concerned about Abella.”

“Nonsense! The man worships you. He needs time to realize it.”

Claire plucked at her skirt. She had seen a look in Flavian’s eye, and it was more than mere lust. “If it’s possible — I wouldn’t want to lose him.”

“Then you pull yourself together this instant. No more talk of leaving.” She shook Claire hard. “Swear to me!”

“I swear.”

Mrs. Gower let go and fanned her face weakly, transforming from a frightening presence to a simpering child. “You’ve upset me.” She lay back and nestled her head in the pillows.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to … ”

“Feed me my soup.”

Claire lifted the spoon, but her hand shook so violently the liquid plopped back in the bowl.

“Did you bring any bread?”

“Perhaps I should get some.” Claire stood to escape.

“Never mind then.” Mrs. Gower patted the coverlet and kept patting until Claire sat back down.

“You asked my advice, and I suggest you follow it. If you’re having difficulties with Abella, the two of you must resolve them without involving Lord Monroe. Under no circumstances are you to let him know your concerns about his ward. He’s very attached to her, and given a choice between the two of you, he’ll take the
gel
for whom he’s already pledged responsibility. Besides, I’m sure you’ll find your worries are completely unfounded.”

• • •

At dinner that night, Flavian’s mood seemed to reflect Claire’s — a thick, viscous unhappiness that made the simple act of lifting a fork difficult. As she pierced a single pea, she noticed him doing the same thing. The pea took forever to break down and she swallowed the tasteless pulp, relieved to have it gone. The only person at the table in good spirits was Abella, who chattered like a blue jay. She’d found a new piece of music, was all Claire gathered. The memory of Flavian by the fireplace saying he could not marry drowned out Abella’s noise.

A plate clattered in front of Claire, its abrupt appearance making her jump. “Pardon, my lady,” said the footman serving the meat course, “my lazy thumbs.” He had a look of contempt in his eyes that made her stomach roll.

“That’s quite all right,” she said, taking in the slab of gristle and fat the man carved from the roast beef. Next to the meat sat a dried corner of Yorkshire pudding, and by that, a piece of fish still decorated with scales. She looked up and caught Abella grinning. Flavian, brooding and inattentive, was too busy with his own thoughts to notice, and Mrs. Gower, as was her preference, chose to eat in her room. If Lady Monroe attended dinner, the household staff wouldn’t dare put a plate like this before a guest. Clenching her teeth, Claire decided not to draw attention to the slight. She had no appetite, anyway.

“Please tell Apple Bess this excellent,” Abella said, her grin widening as she addressed the footman.

The girl’s smug look stirred Claire’s ire. It was one thing to lose Flavian, another to let Abella get the better of her. Claire picked up her fork, flicked aside the scales and bit into the fish as if it were a slice of gourmet cake. A thin bone nearly pierced her palate. She closed her eyes and removed the object.

“Is everything to you liking?” Abella asked.

Claire spit the bone into a napkin and mustered a laugh. “Yes, Apple Bess has outdone herself tonight.”

For a sweet moment, a scowl marred Abella’s flawless skin, brightening Claire’s mood.

Flavian gazed at them as if he’d just awakened. “The paper said today that Beau Brummell was spotted in Calais. I hope he’s got some income now.”

Relieved he was making an effort at conversation, Claire said, “It must torture him being so far from London.”

Abella clunked her fork on the table, eyes shining with excitement. “Vav, you meet Mr. Brummell?”

“I did, though briefly. Trousers are a blessing, but I find all that business with tying the cravat a nuisance.” He gave Claire a playful side-long glance that tapered off with a guilty dip of his head. “Actually, I was at the ball the night the Prince gave Brummell the cut direct. The room held its breath, and Brummell, nose at the proper angle, looked to Lord Alvanley who escorted the Prince and said, ‘Who’s your fat friend?’”

Abella screeched in delight. “Oh, I want to hear funny men like that. What the Prince say?”

“Our monarch was speechless, but if the guillotine were imported to England, Brummell’s well-knotted neck would have been severed that night.”

“What fun London must be,” said Abella, a faraway look in her eyes. “How I dream to go.”

“If someone should give me the ‘cut direct,’ I would crumble,” Claire said. “I could never think as quickly as Mr. Brummell.”

Flavian’s chin lifted. “No one would ever snub you. They’d do so at their peril.”

The vehement look on his face surprised her. “You would come to my rescue?”

“Like a knight to a damsel.”

What a strange reaction from someone so determined never to marry her. She studied his face for clues on how to react — as a lover or as a healer?

“Oops,” said Abella, sending peas skittering across the white tablecloth.

“You must eat with more care, Bella,” Flavian told her.

The girl’s eyes flashed. “I sixteen. Lots of girls come out at my age. Where my come out? Why we don’t speak of my London parties?”

Flavian put down his wine and his brow furrowed. “Calm yourself, Abella. You’ll be in London when the time is right.”

“When? When is that?” She threw her folk at the plate, grazing its gilded edge.

He folded his hands on the table, his face tight with suppressed emotion. “When you learn to be a lady.”

A dark flush rose in Abella’s cheeks. She stared at her food, lower lip jutting with anger.

In the uncomfortable silence, Claire poked her fork into a crusted morsel of pudding. “I understand your frustration, but London doesn’t guarantee an exciting life. You could marry a man who wants your beauty and your voice only for himself. It’s possible to pass from one type of isolation into another.”

Abella sat forward. “I don’t need husband to be trapped. I want to be singer, but my guardian, he don’t let me,” her voice grew shrill and taunting. “He afraid I shame him in front of all the useless, husband-hunting ladies.”

With an impatient flick, Flavian set his napkin by his plate. “Don’t over excite yourself, or … ”

“No, she’s got a point,” Claire said, turning to Abella. “Though I believe Lord Monroe does not begrudge your talent, your singing would be suspect to the
ton
. Well-bred ladies do not have occupations, and they certainly don’t go on the stage. They don’t make medicine either. So what do we do, you and me?”

The girl’s agitation drained. Moisture gathered in the corners of her lids and she shook her head slowly. “What can we do,
senorita
?”

Flavian looked pained, trapped in a role not of his choosing.

“We can pretend to be perfect ladies,” Claire said with a laugh, “and then, when everyone is politely puffing their pipes or playing whist, we hold our arms out and sing!
Laaaaaa
.”

Abella threw her napkin in the air and raced to Claire’s side, “
La, la, la
!” she trilled, pulling Claire from her seat and twirling her in a wild circle. The girls dissolved in laughter while Flavian patted his heart, a look of utter gratitude on his face.

Out of breath, Claire flung herself back in her chair. It felt good to laugh. Today’s tension had been unbearable.

“You hardly eat a stitches,” cried Abella. “Ugh, your plate full of terrible things.” Taking the plate, she skipped to the sideboard. “I serve you myself — this way I know you get very best,
si
?”

The moment Abella turned her back, Flavian slipped his hand over Claire’s. He smiled and soundlessly mouthed, “Thank you.”

Even the eyes of the footmen sparkled. She wanted to hug herself. At last, things were going well.

A warm breeze blew in from the south, fluttering the curtains like dancers’ arms. Claire turned sideways on her pillow to watch. Nothing in her body wanted sleep — the night was too fine, and her elation at winning Abella to her side at dinner grew with each recollection of Flavian’s wonderful smile.

She flipped on her back.
Does he understand the power of those lips tilted just that way?
Every ounce of her longed to hold him and feel that smile against her cheek. With her index finger, she traced the line of his mouth in the air, imagining rough stubble, smooth lips, and the damp rim of …

She giggled in a silly, girlish way that startled her. “Claire Albright, what has gotten into you?” she asked the night. “He doesn’t even want you.” To discipline herself, she shut her eyes tight. But restlessness gobbled her resolve. “This is ridiculous.” With a few swift kicks, she bunched the covers to the end of the bed and stood on the cool floorboards. How lovely the wood felt coupled with the delicate tickle of her nightgown against her ankles. Her skin hummed with sensation.

Donning a thin dressing gown, she went barefoot down the marble stairs and out onto the dew
-
covered grass. The moon pierced the leaves of the copper beech near the garden like a pearl through black lace. In the distance, she spied the stone bridge, a smudge of gray against a dark skyline of trees.

The lawn sloped and she raced down it, leaping into the air, pretending to be a moth, and the dressing gown, her gossamer wings.

Her imaginary flight took her over the bridge where she ducked into the tree grove. When the light from the house disappeared from view, elation sent her knees high stepping in a dance to a silent hornpipe. Holding the sides of the gown out to billow in the air, she kicked toward the clouds.

“Does the goddess have an incantation as well?” a masculine voice said.

“Oh my word,” Claire stopped, embarrassed as Flavian emerged from the darkness of the trees. “You frightened the life out of me.”

“What brings a sprite to the glen this night?”

“I’m happy, that’s all.”

Flavian’s silhouette blotted out the moon as he came close. “I never thought to see anyone happy in this house.”

Her heart beat hard in her chest … harder, as he came near. The warmth of him made her shiver. “No one was supposed to see.” She took a step back. “Imagine the uproar if a servant caught me dancing ’neath the moon.”