Lord Monroe's Dark Tower: The Albright Sisters: Book 2 (19 page)

A wave of trepidation fluttered in her stomach and grew to near panic in an instant. Claire shut her eyes and fought to stay calm. “She’s dangerous.”

“I’ll hire someone to watch her day and night.”

Though she hadn’t seen the bodies, Claire imagined the drowning deaths of the women who’d come to watch Abella in the past. She swallowed and her body shook. “How can I live under the same roof as a woman who left me to die in a bog, who fouled my bed, who tried to break my legs with a wine barrel, who … who … destroys anyone who stands in her way?” Claire’s voice had risen to a scream.

Flavian crouched beside her, holding her hand. “She’ll have no freedom to come near you.”

Claire jerked her hand away and flapped the blanket in her lap in frustration. “That’s not true. You haven’t the heart. Inch by inch, she’ll press you, and you’ll come to me in despair. I’ll give in because I haven’t the heart, either. I tell you, I cannot live in the same house with her.”

“But what choice do I have?”

“Send her back to her mother!”

As if she’d landed a blow to his solar plexus, he sat heavily on the floor. “Abella’s mother hanged herself following a masked ball.”

Claire gasped. “What are you saying?”

“She’d disguised herself as the Black Death, but magnificently, in embroidered silk with a
mantilla
of the finest Spanish lace.”

Flavian rose slowly from the floor and sat at the end of the chaise. “She killed herself. Not an easy choice for a devout Catholic to make. She’d been distraught, but that night — the night of the ball — she shone like something divine, even in her black costume. At midnight, everyone removed their masks, and the men were at her feet. It was as if she absorbed all the light from the chandeliers and spewed it back on us, her enthralled admirers. You can’t know how elated I was to see her happy because I knew she suffered … . And then she disappeared from the ball.”

He’d gone still, as if frozen in that moment when he realized Abella’s mother no longer danced with her admirers.

“Did you find out the next morning?” she asked.

“I cut her down.”

Claire hid her face in her hands. “Oh, no.”

“She’d tied a knot to the wrought iron railing outside her window, put the rope around her neck, and jumped. Her feet almost touched the courtyard.” He stood and immediately sat back down as if his memories paralyzed him. “I begged her to breathe. I swore to God that I would do anything, anything if He would just let her live. I walked with her in my arms, around and around the courtyard, weeping until my legs gave out.”

Claire burst into tears.

“Valencia. She had skin the color of cinnamon.”

“Is her death what haunts you?”

He paused and seemed confused. “What do you mean?”

“Sometimes, there’s a look in your eyes — a sad look, and when you said you couldn’t marry … Did you think I might die like your first love?”

With his thumbs, he brushed her wetted cheeks. “She was my first infatuation. You are my first and only love.”

She kissed him, but his lips were cold. Withdrawing, she said, “Then it must be Abella. She disturbs you.”

He sat back and looked at her askance. “Not really.”

“Yes. You’ve told no one about our engagement — not even your mother. Why, if not for Abella?”

Blinking, he shook his head. “My ward offers no hindrance to our future.”

But he was lying, and she knew it. The frustration and fear she’d dealt with all these weeks ground like a lead ball in her stomach. “Then I don’t know what to do. I only know I can’t live afraid of Abella all the time.”

“You will be safe with me,” he said, his back straight, command in his gaze. “I understand my ward now. We’ll have qualified people to care for her.”

His confidence struck like a blow to the face. She hurled the blanket to the floor and beat the chaise with her fist. “What kind of hold does this girl have over you? Hernando saved your life, but he couldn’t expect you to care for a murdering madwoman the rest of your days!”

His face went hard, eyes as icy as agates. He left the chaise and stalked behind his desk where he flipped over papers as if he meant to read them. One tore from the agitation of his movement, and he glared at her as if it had been her fault. She’d always felt that Flavian was on the far side of a stream that she couldn’t cross. Now the stream was a river.

“You talk to me,” she said, “Tell me what’s happened to you, or I leave for London on the next coach!” but he refused to answer. She grabbed the crutches cut from branch elbows, and limped to the far side of the desk where she stared him straight in the eye.

Flavian looked back at his papers. “It’s not a simple debt.”

Looking at his features, the color heightened in rage, it was if Claire had been sitting in a darkened theatre and the curtains opened suddenly on a brilliantly lit stage. She pointed. “You love her.”

“Yes.”

“You love her, despite what she’s done to me.”

He closed his eyes. “Yes.”

Cold seeped through her skin. Afraid of his answer, she rubbed her forearms for heat, then, voice husky, she said, “More than you love me?”

“Not in the same way. No, not more.”

Tightness choked her. She tried to swallow, but couldn’t. “But you won’t live without her?”

Though he remained ramrod straight, though his eyes never left his desk, he filled the room with sorrow so thick she could taste its bitterness. He cleared his throat and she prayed he would say, ‘I’ll send her away.’ But instead, his lips parted in an imitation smile while his eyes fixated on the desk. “You seem to be healing nicely. If you’ll excuse me, I have some business to which I must attend.” He lifted a sheaf of documents, bowed, went to the door, and then closed it behind him with a bang.

• • •

Claire couldn’t suppress the sob that wracked her body. Blinded by an agony far greater than the physical pain she’d suffered from Abella, she turned on the crutches and swiftly exited the library. Though she battled to prevent them, tears streamed down her cheeks. A maid sweeping the floor outside the library looked at her sympathetically. Claire didn’t acknowledge her presence. The walls wavered, the maid’s face warped into a grimace. The pressure of grief threatened to topple her, to abandon her in a corridor where the paintings, the furnishings, the wallpaper, had all become hateful, foreign.

At last in her bedroom, her tears overflowed. She dropped to the floor. “Why,” she cried, “Why do you choose her?”

Torment so crushed her she could not draw breath.
A murderer. A murderer!
How could
he love this girl — this girl with the voice of an angel and a mind composed by the devil?

At the time of her rescue, Flavian held her in his arms aboard the chestnut in a mad gallop back to Bingham Hall. “Who did this to you?”

Her throat raw from screaming for help, she’d whispered, “She tried to kill me.”

“I’ll slaughter the man that did this. Tell me his name.”

And when “Abella,” escaped her lips, he’d pushed the horse faster, as if to outrun the truth.

That day she told him everything — croaked the story of what Abella had done. How the girl watched with blatant curiosity as Claire experienced the pull of the mire drawing her body under. Head in his hands Flavian had rubbed his eyes as if to force the truth about Abella into them. “You never had an inkling?” He’d shaken his head,
no
, then held up a hand to quiet her, as if another word would shatter him.

And now this. He chose Abella — who would surely ruin him — over her.

Heart breaking, Claire wept, huddled on the floor, clutching a leg of the bed, burying her face in the white linens.

At length, thought replaced grief. “Dry your eyes, Claire,” she consoled herself. “There’s no point.”

She eyed the wash basin and pitcher placed on the floor under the stand. To avoid having to use the crutches, she slid over to it and washed her face, holding the cool water to her swollen lids. Several times the tears came again, but she grew stronger in battling them back.

Ready at last, she found the crutches and made her way over to the fireplace. What a pretty room he’d provided — white with yellow damask drapes and a coverlet on the bed to match. The seat of the chair at the inlaid writing table sported a needlepoint scene of young lovers in the woods. Young lovers …
Flavian’s body rising, white and dripping from the lake, his kisses in the field of flowers …
A pulse of pain made her close her eyes. Her hand shook, but she wrapped her fingers resolutely around the cord of the bell pull and yanked it down.

• • •

“What’s all this?” Mrs. Gower said, blocking the bedroom door like an indignant badger.

Claire found it easier to direct the flurry of servants packing her trunks from the centrality of the bed. Injured foot back on its mound of pillows, she steeled herself for combat. “It’s time we left for London. I’ve helped Lord Monroe’s ward all I can.” Her throat conspired against her, squeezing the last syllables past a knot of emotion.

Mrs. Gower’s jaw tightened. The fight was on, but then the woman let the air out of her lungs in a long, slow breath. “Perhaps you’re right. Send the servants to me when you’re ready.”

Still, Mrs. Gower lingered in the doorway. She surveyed the activity, scanning the goings on until her eyes rested on Claire. Sadness played across her winkled features. In addition to nearly bringing her back to tears, the look gave Claire the uncomfortable feeling that her chaperone might have made a similar decision once, and regretted it.

Ignoring the elderly woman, Claire said, “Betty, fetch my reticule, would you. It’s in the middle drawer of the writing desk. After fishing around a bit, Betty turned, “Where exactly? I’m having difficulty.”

“Feel way in the back behind the stationery.”

The lady’s maid drew out a white silk bag stitched with a pattern of tiny flowers and leaves. By its weight, Claire knew immediately the bag was empty. She yanked it open anyway, unable to believe the truth. The money meant to finance her come out was missing. She jumped to her feet, forgetting her ankle, nearly falling, when the injury sent a scorching shot of pain up her leg.

“Miss!” Betty rushed to her side as Claire clung to the bed.

“Let me look.” Alarm hammering in her heart, Claire pawed through the drawer. Nothing. She searched the entire desk. Not a farthing.

Mrs. Gower stepped into the room. “Is something amiss?”

“Our funds for London — they’re gone!”

“We’ll have to stay then,” the older woman said, with a hint of relief.

Never in her life had Claire felt more like shouting. She wanted to scream into the chaperone’s wrinkled face that everything was her fault. Flavian was nothing but a viscount, and with half the sense of a goose, the stupid woman should have known he was unsuitable for the daughter of an earl.

Instead, Claire clutched the back of the desk chair and dug her fingers into the needlepoint lovers on its upholstery. The servants gaped at her, awaiting a reaction. “Summon Lord Monroe, would you,” she said, jailing all emotion before it reached her voice as she addressed Betty. The girl, pale and clutching her skirts, dashed out the door. About the room the other servants resumed their tasks, but a hush had fallen. Their eyes avoided Claire, but she knew what they were all thinking …
Abella stole, too.

• • •

The sound of Flavian’s footsteps heavy on the wooden floor of the corridor caused a prickle of perspiration on Claire’s upper lip. She wiped it away and took a deep breath. There had never been the possibility of sneaking out of the house. She had to tell him sometime.

He came through the door swiftly, and when he saw the servants and the opened trunks, he came to a dead halt. “You’re leaving?”

“Could you all excuse us for a moment?” she said.

“Shall I take this trunk down, Miss?” said a footman, “It’s all packed,”

“Yes, thank you.”

Flavian cut the man’s exit. “Leave off.” He surveyed the servants, offering a challenge to anyone who dared disobey. They all scuttled out, including Mrs. Gower. Before shutting the door, he bellowed down the hall, “If I catch anyone eavesdropping, it shall be their last act in this house.”

He slammed the door so hard the walls shuddered and the pictures banged in their frames. “By God, Claire.”

Perched on the edge of the needlepoint chair, she felt vulnerable in the glare of his anger, so she stood fists at her sides. “Are you actually questioning my reason to leave? I asked you what you meant to do with Abella. Your answer was to bring her here, where she will surely make another attempt on my life.”

“I have told you, she shall be watched … ”

She cut him off. “Don’t continue to be a fool, Flavian. Your ward has murdered every poor soul you hired to watch her. She only kept me alive as long as she thought I’d take her to London. The girl belongs in an asylum.”

“I’ve told you what they do there. How they treat patients.”

“Prison is worse.”

The sound of two servants bickering in the hall distracted him. “Quiet out there,” he roared, and landed a punch to the wall that cracked the plaster.

His violence frightened her, but she wasn’t about to crumble and promise to stay. He paced the floor, tearing his hair, shaking his head. Passing a small table by the door, he slammed his fist down on it, splintering it with the blow. “I love you and Abella is jealous. I have to show her she won’t lose me by accepting you … ”

“Accepting me! It’s me who cannot accept her. One hundred pounds are missing from my reticule. All the spending money my parents gave me for the Season. Accept me! Your ward is a thief, a murderer, and violently insane. Smash all the tables you want, but you will not induce me to spend one single night more under the same roof with her.”

Claire turned her back on him and scooped unguents and remedies on the desk into a tight formation, ready for packing.

“And how will you get to London without money?” she heard him say.

Claire whirled around. “How dare you.”

“There is no proof she took anything.”