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

Without a hint of amusement, Flavian turned his somber eyes on the chaperone. “Lady Claire and I will be discussing that privately.”

• • •

Nincompoop
, Flavian muttered to himself as he paced the marble floor of the reception hall. He gave his thigh a sharp slap and started back toward the bottom of the stairs. Why did he invite her here? Did he honestly believe those blue eyes wouldn’t affect him; the tender rose of her cheek wouldn’t stir emotions he’d let settle like sediment after he’d met her two years ago?
Nincompoop.

His agitation was cut short by the vision of Claire floating down the stairs as gracefully as a ballerina. His stomach hopped when she fixed those portals to the sky on him and opened her lips in a smile as bright as stars on a summer night. Though the interior of Bingham Hall had been scrubbed and dusted in anticipation of her visit, no amount of suds and elbow grease could clear the stark gloom of its naked interior. Claire, in her pretty rose-colored linen, was like a Botticelli statue stranded in gray velvet.
Touch her
, his body cried out. Instead, he clasped his hands behind him and shifted weight, rocking a little as she approached.
Fool, fool, fool
, he thought, trying to fight the surge of emotion in his breast. He shifted his gaze to the diamond-shaped stoneware on the floor, but it did no good. Her face seemed etched in every tile. The scent of roses preceded her, but he didn’t look up as the soft sound of her footfalls grew closer.

“My lord,” she said, with music in her voice. For a moment he couldn’t speak; his throat tight as a vise.
I’ll keep her at arm’s length. She won’t be dragged into this den of misfortune.

He moved forward to offer his hand as she stepped near. “May I take you on a tour of the house while your things are unpacked?”

Mrs. Gower heaved out of a wingchair in the parlor just off the reception hall, and put down her teacup with a clatter. “What a marvelous idea.”

He proffered his arm, but the older woman waved it away. “You assist Lady Claire. She’s able-bodied, but delicate.”

Struggling to keep a straight face, he turned to his young guest. “Then, Lady Claire.” She accepted his arm with such a graceful nod of her head he had to avert his eyes.

As they proceeded across the entrance hall, Mrs. Gower waddled behind at a pace that tried his naval discipline, halting at every feature and commenting on the architecture. “Lovely high ceilings,” she said, “and I’m especially in favor of molding like this.”

Claire appeared unfazed. At the fireplace halfway down the hall, she paused before a Sevres clock of biscuit porcelain with two loosely clothed lovers cavorting beneath a standing cupid. He knew she was giving Mrs. Gower time to catch up, but it pained him that the clock was the only decorative piece in the hall, or in fact, almost anywhere in the manor house. “Lovely. Is it French?” she asked.

Her question drew him from his musings. He nodded. “Mother used to adore collecting during her travels.”

“Will she be joining us for dinner?”

Not trusting his features to remain neutral, he moved closer to the clock, so Claire got only a view of his back. “She stays in her apartments mostly. When I asked for her availability, she was taking an afternoon nap.”

Mrs. Gower puffed up beside them. “Then I’m glad I’m here to see that you behave proper around the young lady.”

With a courtly bow, he replied, “You are a welcome addition, Madam.”

The chaperone tipped back her head and brayed. “You’re a devil, you are.”

A flicker of pain crossed Claire’s features, but Flavian was grateful for Mrs. Gower’s antics. She distracted him from the shabby furnishings and the vibrancy of Claire’s slim elbow. “I’d like to take you to the long gallery upstairs,” he said, dropping her arm.

Claire looked at him quizzically. “I should like to meet your ancestors.” Her honest blue eyes sought his, no doubt questioning his distant behavior, and the realization pierced his heart.
You’re a scoundrel, Monroe. She shouldn’t be here at all.
He thrust his hands behind his back. “Then we’re off.”

“My late husband’s family had a long gallery,” Mrs. Gower said, trundling after them. “Floor to ceiling lords and ladies and the like. How they adored me. ‘What happened to that wife of yours?’ her ladyship would ask, and I’d say, ‘Here I am!’”

“Mrs. Gower married my mother’s cousin,” Claire explained.

“Aye and I’ve spent a lifetime in London, so I know a thing or two. Her mother finds me invaluable as a guide to her young brood. Four girls and I’ll see all of them wed and fat with babes.”

He laughed and Claire’s cheek went rosy — a most attractive hue. He tried to catch her eye, but she was lifting her skirt to ascend the stairs.

He led them through the arched entry to the long gallery. Sunlight poured through mullioned windows. Each rectangular beam stretched across the wooden floor and up the far wall, illuminating six massive tapestries. The hangings depicted religious scenes of varying horror and beauty. In one, Mary cradled her innocent babe; a few panels down, John the Baptist’s vacant eyes looked heavenward as his severed head rested on a silver platter. Tacked over the tapestries were portraits of Flavian’s ancestors: bloody tyrants, uniformed adventurers, gentle masters, fiery maidens, plain women, and pretty children. They were his history, and he was their future.

“Who is this intimidating gentleman?” Claire asked, stopping before a gilt sideboard above which hung a portrait of an officer in full dress. Behind him crashed a raging sea, the Union Jack whipping on the mast of the
HMS Indomitable
. Though canyons of flesh lined the man’s face, beneath tufted white brows shone a pair of eyes as fierce as a badger’s.

“That, Lady Claire, is my father, Admiral Gareth Geraint Monroe, Viscount of Bourne, God rest his soul.” Flavian executed a sharp salute.

Claire’s flute-like chuckle made him smile. “You salute as if you’d served.”

“Starting at thirteen.”

“My legs don’t like the sea,” Mrs. Gower interrupted, plunking into a heavily carved chair. “Myself, I find water bracing, but my legs won’t go near it.”

With a note of hurt, Claire said, “But you never mentioned you were in the Royal Navy.”

Certain items of his past needed to be revealed; he’d known that before he invited her. It was only fair she knew something of his life. Shrugging, he replied, “The subject never arose.”

“But we spent weeks together at Lord Hugh Davenport’s house party, and through all our conversations — ”

“My late husband never spoke of his time in the service,” Mrs. Gower said. “He got a mighty wound in the buttocks — kept him mum.”

“Then were you shot, my lord?”

“Not in the classic sense of the word.” Unwilling to say more, he pointed at the next portrait. Before continuing his lecture, a small thud followed by a ping caught his attention. At the far end of the hall, a button rolled across the floor. Claire caught the movement and started down the gallery to investigate. “What was that?”

Flavian swept past her, picked up the button, and jammed it in his pocket. Louder and with more menace than he intended, he said, “It must have fallen off the tapestry.”

Puzzled, Claire’s brows lifted, and she gazed at him with questioning eyes. He took her arm and led her to a painting of a man with an arrogantly lifted chin. Restless eyes gazed beyond the canvas and a feathering of sandy hair curled back from a high, lined, forehead. “The rightful heir, my brother, Lancelot; may he also rest in peace.”

“The artist brought such life to his face,” Claire said.

“Yes.” In fact, the only details the artist left out, Flavian thought sardonically, were the losing cards, which his brother should have clutched in his left hand while the wife of another man should occupy his right.

Claire touched Flavian’s elbow. “How did he die?”

“Stupidly.”

“Is that the Monroe got a hole put in him in a duel some years back?” Mrs. Gower chimed in. “Now, that was a scandal the gossip mongers … ”

“It was he, a wound from which he failed … ” Another light thud from the end of the gallery distracted him.

Claire walked quickly down the corridor. “Something hit that painting again.” She peeked into the hall, and he heard running footsteps pounding down the staircase. “Is there a reason a servant would want me to see this portrait?”

Drawing breath, Flavian carefully regulated his expression. “That’s Hernando de Vargas Duarte. He was a dear friend of mine who once saved my life. He’s gone now.”

“Oh dear, so many deaths,” said Claire.

“He was drafted into Napoleon’s Grand Army and died in Russia.” Flavian studied Hernando’s bearded face and thick eyebrows, marveling that the gentleness of his friend’s almond-shaped eyes were so perfectly portrayed in paint. In those eyes, he still saw the command he’d obeyed seven years ago, and how bitterly he’d fought with his mother the night before his departure for Spain. “Look at the news—” she’d said, beating the paper against her skirt. “Napoleon is everywhere in Spain. You cannot help
her
. But that very night, he’d swung a cloak over his shoulders, and shouted, “I can’t leave her in that misery. I owe Hernando that much and I owe her much more.” Then he’d slammed the door deadening the sound of his mother’s weeping.

A crash from somewhere downstairs broke the memory. Flavian raced toward the source two steps at a time, but when he reached the reception hall, it was empty. On the floor before the fireplace lay the shattered remains of the Sevres clock.

• • •

Curious to see what had fallen, Claire scurried after Flavian down the stairs. At the same time she arrived in the reception area, an elderly woman stepped through the door of an adjoining room. Thin and statuesque, the dowager held herself beautifully erect as she crossed the floor with small, pain-filled strides. Her eyes pierced Flavian with a look of extreme displeasure. “It’s getting worse,” she hissed before she saw Claire. Her son, squatting to pick up the ruined bits of porcelain, kept his head down in shame.

“Ah, my Lady Claire,” the woman said, screwing her expression into a welcoming smile.

Flavian stood. “Allow me to introduce my mother, Lady Monroe.”

Claire dropped into a curtsey, and then took Lady Monroe’s outstretched hand. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“And I yours, my dear. Was your journey uncomfortable?”

“Not at all.”

“I’m so grateful to hear that. The roads can be so difficult these days; one has to be quite athletic to survive them.”

“Your son told me you also traveled.”

The woman shot a guarded glance at Flavian. “She did, but mother has been unable to get about as well as she used to.”

Lady Monroe nodded her head in approval. “My health prevents me,” she replied, laying particular emphasis on
health
.

“I’m so sorry about your Sevres clock. Lord Monroe said it was part of a collection you acquired during your trips abroad.”

The elderly woman lowered her lids and the line of her mouth went taut. “It’s a terrible pity,” she said, almost in a whisper.

Just then, loud footsteps resounded from a hallway leading to the east wing of the house. A look of near panic lit Lady Monroe’s pale eyes. “Take me to my rooms,” she said, gripping Flavian’s arm.

The footsteps grew closer.

Before Flavian could excuse himself, his mother was shuffling from the reception hall. “If you’ll excuse us,” he said, offering a quick nod before catching up to her. He turned back an instant later. “Would you meet me in the garden in about ten minutes? I’d like to talk to you.”

Now it sounded as if someone was intentionally stomping his feet as he approached, making as much noise as humanly possible. Confused, Claire felt like a lost soul standing in the vast reception room. “Of course, but where am I to go?”

“God, this is inexcusable. Mother stop.”

Instead, the elderly woman increased her laborious gait.

Marlow!” Flavian bellowed. “Marlow!” The pounding footfalls ceased immediately with only their echo reverberating through the marble interior. The noise was replaced by the distant vibration of doors opening and closing, and of someone approaching swiftly from the area of the kitchen. The butler burst into the reception hall, slightly out of breath. “My lord?”

Without turning, Lady Monroe waved an imperious hand in the air. “Take Lady Claire to the garden and be sure she’s settled and comfortable.” As she was about to disappear into the east wing, she hesitated long enough to look back at Claire. “If you ever need anything, you may come to me, but I’m afraid my health will prevent me from being present often during your visit.”

Claire returned her best smile. “Perhaps I can give you something to make you feel better?”

She pressed her frail body against her son with the possessiveness of a child to its nanny. “Flavian mentioned your interest in healing. How wonderful that would be, my dear. How wonderful … ” Lady Monroe’s eyes reddened, and as she turned away, Claire noticed the woman was trembling.

• • •

As Marlow swung the door open, the view of the garden made Claire pause. Though Bingham Hall held an impressive array of valuable furniture, its barren interior didn’t seem to get any brighter even in the most persistent sunlight. But the garden eclipsed the grip of melancholy with flowers of every hue and color. Patches of blossom invited the eye to travel over the estate’s impressive lawn. A massive copper beech grew near the house, and beneath its impossibly long limbs, were wooden benches for intimate conversation in the deep shade. In the distance, framed by the white trunks of sycamore, stood an antique stone bridge that crossed a canal on the left side of the lawn. Beyond it, a thick wood fringed the grass. In the center of the yard, the view ended as much as a quarter of a mile away, where a low hill supported a miniature Greek temple. Tucked beside the house to the right, a flower-festooned path ran into a formal garden.

Flavian stepped between two statues of women holding urns bursting with spring pansies and vine. “You look radiant,” he said, beckoning her to join him.