Etiquette With The Devil (34 page)

“That’s only one item. I believe I can manage.” Barnes tapped at his head, suggesting he would commit it to memory, but if Bly’s rage grew any stronger, Barnes would not have a head to think with.

“Bly. Stop.”

“You don’t see the problem.”

“Enlighten me,” Barnes retorted, still annoyingly calm.

“I’m a dead man. You’ve said as much yourself after meeting with Graham. Someone is hunting me down. It’s not rumor. It started then and has followed me from Cairo, to Shanghai, to Bombay. They’re looking to end it now.”

“Then we’ll discover what they want and talk.”

“They don’t talk, Barnes.” He bent forward, brushing away the hair at the back of his head to reveal the long, twisted scar from the brick that had brought him down in Cairo.

Barnes let out a long, high whistle as Bly stood up and walked back to the middle of the room. “Who are they then?”

“That’s the damnedest thing. I don’t know. What the hell am I going to do?”

In the streets of India, passersby crowd around street performers and throw rupees in busted baskets, worn from traveling over the years. They stop their life, awestruck at the magic of a snake charmer.

The man is brave, they say, his folded legs within striking distance of the deadly cobra. They man is mystical, they think, as if his powers elevate him beyond the confines of the mortal body.

And while they’re captivated, embalmed in the dusty street’s grand illusion, they miss that the cobra has had its fangs removed. They never even think that the cobra is merely reacting to the threat of attack, its sight pinned to the flute’s tip. The snake charmer is no more than a fraud, playing notes and swaying, pretending that he does have power, that when faced with death, he has the upper hand.

And that was the grand illusion. Even Bly knew that given enough chances, death always came to collect its debts.

He eyed the brandy at the sideboard, then hurled the bottle into the fireplace, watching as the flame burst into a blinding light. What was a hunted man meant to do when he no longer wished to die?

C
lara expected to say goodnight to her son without finding him missing. She had a feeling she knew who she would find Rhys with, but it was not the matter of who, but where that troubled her. She searched Bly’s office and the library; most of the rooms on the first floor, in fact. When her search turned up no toddler, she returned upstairs, but his crib was still empty.

She walked to the nursery’s windows and searched the horizon of the park. The sun was low in the sky, but it was late June now. The days were longer. Rhys should be asleep, not off on adventures with his father.

She decided to search the conservatory and paused at the room’s doorway as she heard Bly’s voice.

“Orange.”

Clara peered around the doorway, watching as Bly held Rhys and plucked an orange from a tree.

“Fruit,” he continued. Bly looked down to Rhys and waited. Her son did not respond. He never did whenever she tried the same.

Rhys reached for the fruit greedily, but Bly pulled it out of reach, his face the picture of saintly patience. “Say please.”

The ground must have moved, because Clara swayed at the mention of that word. To hear please from the lips of the devil—well, it seemed years of etiquette lessons were finally starting to take effect. She took another quiet step, waiting for their lesson to continue.

“Let’s have a bite.”

Bly set the boy down and folded onto the flagstone floor, pulling a knife from his boot. “Sharp,” he said as Rhys looked at the gleaming blade.

He sliced the thick skin of the orange and peeled away the pith with the back of his blade, handing a slice to Rhys, waiting. “Taste it,” he insisted. “Go on, put it in your mouth.”

Rhys held it in his hand, unsure. Bly smiled and popped a slice into his mouth. Rhys mimicked him, albeit not as neatly as juice ran down his mouth and shirt.

“Do you like it?”

Rhys did not answer, but Bly did not sigh or grumble. He surprised her by cutting free another wedge, holding it out to Rhys.

“Say orange, Rhys.” The boy’s smile widened and he stuffed the fruit into his mouth without a word.

“One day, I know you’ll find a word that you’ll like so much you’ll say it. We only need to figure out which word.” Bly scratched his head. Rhys did the same and Clara laughed, forcing herself out of hiding.

“May I have an orange slice?” she asked, standing before the pair with an outstretched hand.

Bly’s eyes widened before he looked down at the stilled blade in his hand. “We’ve been discovered, Rhys.” His voice was nothing but a rumbled whisper. It startled her. “The fun is over.”

Her smile fell under his indignant glare. Clara edged back a bit, grabbing a fist full of her dress as she forced herself to breathe.

“It’s late,” she whispered, trying to fill the uncomfortable moment. She cleared her throat and looked down to Rhys who stood between them, bridging the impossible distance between his parents with a sticky sweet smile and hair that stood up on end. “It’s late,” she repeated, this time a bit more firmly. “And now you need a bath before bed, you rascal.”

“No,” Bly grumbled. He jumped to his feet, wiping the juice clean from knife with the edge of his shirt, before sticking it back into his boot. That reminded her more of the man who had once owned her heart. He made a swipe for Rhys before she could protest, and tossed the squirming boy over his shoulder, as Rhys broke into a fit of laughter.

Clara’s hand moved to her mouth, her hand shaking as fresh tears pricked her eyes. This was not how she wanted Bly to see her. She labored to remain cold and aloof, but seeing him with Rhys broke her heart, and not entirely in a bad way.

She tagged behind, trying to keep up with his stride through the conservatory. Once it had been full of sickly plants and a tiger. Now it was home to Raja the parrot and looked like she imagined a jungle to be. In the fading summer light, Bly looked like a natural part of the tropical scenery. She had always imagined him roaming the jungle; she just never imagined him doing so again at Burton Hall.

“Do you want a bath, Rhys?” he asked, flipping the boy so that he hung over the bubbling water of the large fountain. Rhys twisted and giggled as Bly dropped him closer to the water. The boy shrieked as his hair brushed the surface of the water. The noise echoed, awakening Raja.

“We discovered another word you don’t like.” Bly laughed and set Rhys on the ledge of the fountain. Clara reached forward to hold Rhys in case he lost his balance, but Bly already had a hand on the boy’s waistband. “It’s been a long day, Clara,” Bly said, turning to dip a handkerchief into the water. He wiped Rhys’s face clean, then his tiny hands, even as their son fussed. “I only wished to spend time with him.”

Her face flushed as her hands played nervously in front of her. “Of course,” Clara answered, her voice weak. “I wasn’t—”

“Behave,” Bly warned Rhys.

Clara felt her color deepen as her son obeyed and stopped his tantrum.

“I’m sorry,” Clara said, wishing for retreat.

He nipped the boy’s nose between his fingers and handed Rhys off to Clara without looking her in the eye. Her heart broke a little more, this time in the bad way.

“We could stay a bit longer,” she said, calling out after Bly’s retreating form.

He paused, his body just a shadow among the towering palm leaves. One long beat passed before he nodded and continued out into the summer night.

Clara looked down to Rhys and smiled. “I think we are meant to follow your father.”

Rhys turned swiftly in her arms, stretching out his hand as Bly disappeared beyond the door outside.

“Yes,” she whispered, dropping a kiss into his still sticky hair. “Papa.”

The sun had set and the sky was a soft violet as she dropped Rhys to his feet. He ran toward Bly without looking back, as if he had no doubt where he belonged. She supposed that was what she wanted for Rhys, but what would be her end?

She watched as they tumbled about in the grass, tackling and growling, even laughing until both were grass-stained. The violet faded, and there was one last burst of orange, before the night grew darker and the firebugs darted across the lawn.

The summer breeze was sweet and hot, lulling her. She pulled the pins from her hair, letting it tumble down her back and sweep against her waist. Even with that small freedom, it was not enough, so she worked on the buttons at her wrist and neck until she could breathe and move freely.

It was not the soft breeze that sent a shiver down her spine, but her husband. When he paused and studied her, she feared he would bundle her up and order her to bed, but he only flashed a knowing smile and continued tossing Rhys about.

She brushed her hands over the blades of grass, the smell of earth rising up to meet her. She drew up her knees and rested her head there for a time until the longing to feel the ground beneath her feet grew urgent. Tearing off her slippers, she scrunched her toes until the grass tickled the bottoms of her feet and she smiled, tossing her head back to look up at the emerging stars.

It felt as if she were floating as a light-hearted feeling swept over her. The breeze licked the silhouette of her bare feet and caressed the skin left exposed by her opened dress. She drank in the summer night as if she hadn’t had a drink in years—and perhaps she hadn’t, not truly, not since he left. She drank and drank until she felt full and sated, drunk on the simple pleasure of a beautiful summer evening.

She pressed her face against the lawn, watching as Bly lay on his back with Rhys resting on his chest, pointing the boy’s small hand up toward the sky. She fell in love with the low cadence of his voice again, like the steady drum of rain upon the window sash. His voice was an impalpable resonance that rushed around her body and opened her soul.

“On the equator,” Bly told Rhys, “there are more stars than in the night sky in England. You can lose yourself in the sky there, so cluttered with light it looks like a spilled purse of diamonds.” The calloused tips of Bly’s fingers whispered over the skin of her hand, causing her to draw in a breath. “The sky there is the blackest black you’ll ever see, but you don’t notice when you look up at the sky.”

Clara reached for his hand across the grass, feeling his warmth before she touched his flesh. She:only the lightning, the flash that warns of something to come; he:the thunder, the roar of what was.

No one is leaving, Clara. Not even me. Not even if you wish for it.

Bly squeezed her hand. “It’s the light that holds you captive. The dark no longer matters, Rhys.”

*

If it was valuable, Bly could count on the damn nitwits to break it.

“Careful,” he yelled, raking his hands through his hair. “That table is older than bloody England.” Bly shoved his hands into his pockets and kicked up the pebbles on the drive in a great spray.

A soft laugh erupted from behind, pulling him away from the unpacking nightmare. His brow relaxed and his smile grew as he turned, spotting Clara tying the ribbon of her hat tightly under her chin.

Her smile fell as soon as their eyes locked, but he refused to let her slip away so easily.

“I believe I told you I was here to stay,” Bly said, sweeping his arm out to the carts. “Here’s the first of my things.”

Clara clasped her hands in front of her and nodded like the perfect lady she was, which was damn frustrating. He rocked back on his heels, imagining a much happier reaction that ended with her arms around his neck and her lips on his. When Bly looked back at Clara, she stood rigid and apart, not at all the woman he watched come alive last evening under the stars.

He strode to the cart and tore back the canvas, waving at a large statue of Vishnu. “If this is broken, I will break
you,
” Bly growled at the man who stood ready to unload the cart. The man’s eyes bulged in understanding and he clambered up onto the bed of the cart.

A scratchy roar sounded from behind the cart, and Rhys stumbled around, a gold-plated helmet on his head blocking the boy’s view.

“Oh, dear,” Clara said, rushing forward and sinking to her knees. “I am not sure you are meant to be playing with these things, love.”

“He growls now,” Bly said with a proud grin. It had taken time, but Rhys was anything but dim. He caught on quickly and it made Bly proud to hear something other than the frustrated howl Rhys had perfected.

“He’s not a dog, Bly,” Clara said disapprovingly. She tried to pull the helmet off, some relic Bly had been given by a Tibetan monk, but Rhys broke out into that not so lovely howl.

“For God’s sake, leave the boy alone.” Bly regretted his words as soon as he spoke. That imagined kiss was months away now, judging by Clara’s glare.

“If you decide to tell me what to do with my son again—”

“Our son,” Bly corrected.

“I have to go to town. Excuse me.” Clara hugged the boy, even as he squirmed in protest, and stormed off to the carriage house, but Bly hadn’t finished. And she certainly was not going to town alone, given the danger.