Etiquette With The Devil (40 page)

“Don’t stop for us,” Clara said sweetly. “Keep going.” She waved her hand to usher them on, but a thunder of feet sounded and soon they both were overcome with hands, arms, and messy kisses.

Bly swung Rhys high above his head, smiling up at the boy who looked back at him as if he were king. None of this made sense. Bly did not deserve the love of these people, yet here they were, welcoming him home.

He sat Rhys on his shoulders and grabbed Grace next and Minnie and kissed both on the cheek, and asked what he had missed as Rhys reached for Clara. It was a human octopus of children. Words were quick and hurried, and there were happy shrieks and excited stories.

“I think we were missed,” Clara said, leaning in close to issue him a coy wink.

“You’ll squeeze all the air out of them, chickens,” Barnes said, walking forward through the crowd of children. “I hope you had a nice time in London.” He reached for Clara’s hand and gave her a courtly kiss. If Bly had not just had the pleasure of thoroughly kissing her in the morning room, he might have been a jealous man.

“It was pleasant,” Clara said. “Thank you.”

“Come along, children,” Molly called out. “Let’s ready for dinner. You can share your stories then.”

A chorus of whined protests followed, and it took all of Molly’s strength to pull Rhys off his mother, but soon there were just three standing in the quiet room.

“I did not know you would be here, Barnes,” Clara said. She sat at the piano and traced the lightest of touches over the keys as if she stood on the edge of a looming decision.

“Yes, well—”

“I can guess the reason for your visit after noticing that you also have a pistol under your vest. I feel left out, Bly.” She looked up at him across the piano and fluttered her eyelashes, but her glare was deadly. This—the woman daring him on now—was the woman he had long since forgotten existed within Clara. That would be his downfall.

Barnes laughed nervously and walked over to the windows, keeping his back to them both. “I don’t wish to intrude on a lover’s spat,” he said, parting the gold curtains, “but you both have a visitor waiting upstairs.”

Bly’s hand moved to his pistol instinctively and he turned to storm out of the room, but Clara’s hand crashed onto the low notes of the piano, halting his exit.

“Details would be nice, Isaac. It seems someone is trigger happy and I would prefer the shooting stay outside.”

Bly smiled, admiring the revived pluck of his wife as she began to play softly.

“The dreaded aunt is back from Italy,” Barnes said, spinning around. He swatted at the oversized tassel and leaned his arms against the piano.

“Well in that case,” Clara said, stopping her hands and turning to Bly, “go on, dear.”

Barnes barked out a laugh.

“I’m sure she can wait until dinner,” Bly said, forcing as smile as he holstered his pistol.

“Very well,” Clara said, standing in a rush. “I have a social call to make. Excuse me.” She walked out, leaving Bly and Barnes staring at one another.

“I see London went well,” Barnes said with a smirk.

“On most accounts.”

“You should,” he said, wildly pointing his arm toward the door, “go.”

“I’m learning that,” Bly grumbled. He turned and chased after his wife. Again.

She was halfway up the stairs when the sound of a door crashing open rang upstairs and stopped them from their pursuit.

“Blythe Everett Ravensdale!”

His fists clenched at the sound of the woman’s grating voice. It was his own fault for relying on another to care for his family. He was disappointed enough in himself on that count. It was only how she behaved while he was gone that angered him. Anger was too light of a word. It was more like bloody furious.

Small and petite, his aunt shot to the balustrade, wearing another absurd hat of feathers and ribbons. “How dare you!?”

Clara moved to take another step but Bly’s hand pulled her back. “I want you gone,” was all he said, addressing his aunt. That was all he could say that was decent. His fingers itched to pull out the pistol and fire a warning shot. But he was a better man now. There were rules, he was sure, on ridding one’s house of someone unwanted. That was, at least according to his wife and her precious etiquette manuals.

Clara pulled forward, straining, as he pulled her backward.

“Lady Margaret,” she bit out, her tone like that of a snarling dog. “I can guess you had a lovely time in Italy. Your niece is well now, in case you came back out of concern. She has been for some time.”

“Don’t start with me, Miss Dawson.”

“Mrs. Ravensdale,” Bly and Clara said in unison. They looked to each, both grinning.

“She’s a Baroness now as well. Mind your tongue, Aunt.”

“I have never,” his aunt exclaimed, snapping a fan from her waist and spreading in a great exclamation of disgust. “To be treated as such…”

Bly pulled Clara close and whispered, “Ready her carriage.” She turned to protest but he narrowed his eyes. She threw her arm to rid herself of his touch but she walked down the stairs, her head high, even as his aunt carried on with her tirade.

None of his aunt’s words mattered. She was a foolish and cruel woman who would finally answer for what she had done. He would see to that. He owed that to Clara and the children, and he supposed in a sense, himself.

He did not remember taking the rest of the stairs; he only remembered being pelted with a fan as he dragged his aunt into her parlor.

“Unhand me, you wicked man!” she shrilled. Again, she whacked him on the head with the fan until he snapped it off the chain attached to her dress.

“No more,” he warned, taking the fan in hand and snapping it in half. “You are in my house, but not for much longer. I want you gone. You won’t be living off my money any longer.”

“After the kindness I did for you…” She drew back, her hand clutched tightly at her throat.

“By kindness I assume you mean my generous spirit in handing over my pocketbook to you.”

“I gave up my life to look after those children.”

“Those children are family, yet you’ve treated them no better than a factory overseer. As for looking after them, that would require to be living in the house, which you did not.”

“They are only children. The remaining staff saw that they were fed and clothed.”

“That is where you are wrong, and no wonder. You thought you deserved everything instead. I’m far from hurting for cash, even after your wasteful expenses. My wife cared for those children with next to no money.”

His aunt blew out a noisy breath and stared back, blinking rapidly. “Your mother would be ashamed to see the man you’ve become.”

“My mother has nothing to do with this. You can’t hide behind her forever. It was you who convinced me long ago that I killed her. And I believed you,” he roared, throwing the fan pieces against the wall.

His aunt flinched back.

“I believed you,” he continued, “but it was you that played a role in her death. You knew of her condition. You always knew, yet you did nothing, then played victim when the truth ruined your chances at securing that duke. No one wants a wife who has madness in her family, do they, Aunt?”

“No,” she said bitterly. “And I was tired of being in her shadows. She ruined my life. I did not care when she finally lost hers.”

“Nor did you care for the fate of your nephew, who no one wanted to claim.”

“I believe no one still does, Blythe. You are a terrible man. Cruel and unfeeling. Do you mean to toss me out?”

“Yes, I mean to toss you and that would be doing you a kindness.”

“Am I to be…am I to be cut off?”

“Most definitely.”

“I do not deserve this!”

“No? My son spent the first two years of his life in a drafty attic because his mother was shunned and ridiculed by the rest of the staff. My wife was left for dead by your servants when I arrived.”

“She is a fallen woman.”

Bly brought his hand to his forehead, taking in a deep, steadying breath. If he had not arrived when he did, Clara would be dead and his son—well he did not want to think of what could have happened to Rhys. “Clara is no such thing,” he said in a low rumble. “And my son deserved better treatment from his family.”

“His father saw fit to run off. Why should I assume responsibility for another mouth you were responsible for?”

Bly picked up the trunk on the floor and tossed it into the hall. “Shall I help with the others? We’re through here.”

“Your son was born a bastard and he will have the same wicked spirit as you. He will bring shame to this family—”

“There’s no need to continue. I’ve heard that speech my entire life and for the longest time, I believed it. I’ve been given a chance to change, and I have and will continue to do so. Rhys won’t know any of what I suffered and he’ll be a better man because of it.” Bly reached into his pocket and threw a wad of bills at his aunt. “That’s for your travel.” He paused with his back to her in the door. “I don’t want to hear from you again.”

*

This was not the welcoming Clara thought awaited her when she returned from London with Bly. There was not much time to think, really. They had spent most of the journey kissing and doing all manner of things that were better left to the bedroom behind closed doors, not a train and a carriage. The memory of their afternoon brought a crimson flush to her face.

“Unless you plan on throwing that pot in her face, you’re not obliged to do her a kindness,” Bly warned as she approached him on the stairs.

“A cup of tea won’t do any harm. You are tossing her from the house. I expect that is a difficult thing to hear when one considers herself indestructible.” Clara looked at the trunk that had been tossed against the balustrade, upended and partially opened.

“She deserved every word.”

“Undoubtedly. Excuse me,” she said, purposely pushing forward.

“You are the most st—”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Clara warned. She leaned forward and kissed his cheek before spinning around him. “The carriage is waiting, but I would like a word first,” she whispered harshly. “I deserve that. I’m not asking permission.”

“Did I—”

“A few minutes,” she insisted. He bit at his lip, observing her. She thought he was fighting back a smile. “I’ll see you at dinner,” she said with a saucy wink, pushing the door open to the last woman she ever wished to see. Clara had not received many opportunities to have a say in her life, but she would have her say with Lady Margaret. That, she was certain.

Clara was surprised to find the dragon on bended knee, gathering up a fist full of bills from the floor.

“I don’t wish to speak to you,” Lady Margaret said in her cold voice.

“Seeing that I am the lady of the house now, I think I shall ignore your wishes because I wish to speak with you.”

The woman looked up, all sharp angles, her eyes still filled with that unfounded hatred that had always unnerved Clara.

“I brought you some tea before you go.”

Lady Margaret stood and opened her purse, stuffing bills in unceremoniously while avoiding Clara’s watchful gaze. When she was finished, Lady Margaret pushed by Clara and bent to gather the fan that was snapped in two on the floor. “I have never been treated so poorly,” she hissed, gazing down at the broken pieces. “After all I have done…”

There was no point in wasting breath to set all those wrongs right. There would be no right, not where Lady Margaret was concerned.

“I knew you would catch him. I knew from when I first saw you.”

“Some tea before you leave?” Clara asked again.

“I don’t want your damn tea!” Lady Margaret’s meticulous up-do loosened. Silver and black tresses spilled over her dress. “You will die at his hand,” Lady Margaret continued. “Ravensdale men excel at only that. They drag their women down until the despair is too much. He will kill you. At least you’ll be spared of seeing your son continue on the family tradition.”

“You can leave my son out of it, Lady Margaret.” Kindness fell out of Clara’s voice.

The woman looked away, refusing to say what any other decent person would, like an apology, for starters.

“Blythe is a horrible man. His behavior is reprehensible. He was tossed out of India. His own father didn’t wish for him any longer. No proper English gentleman wanted the likes of him to plague the halls of their fine schools when he arrived in England. He killed his mother—”

“You are wrong on all counts, Lady Margaret. Bly is a good man—a great man, actually. I love your nephew,” she said with renewed determination. “It hurts to know you will never do the same. You will grow old and alone because you have an ugly soul. I will always regard you as the woman who tried to steal away my—Bly’s greatest gift to me—our son, because you are a jealous and cruel woman.” Clara held up a hand to quiet Lady Margaret’s protest. “You had the chance to have a family and I am sorry you saw fit to treat us as you did. We will not miss you. I can promise Bly will not spare a thought on you ever again. I do know that you will come to miss us. And that will be your loss.”

“You are just as foul as my ne—”

“Your carriage is waiting, Lady Margaret. Follow me. Dinner is ready, and I do like to be punctual. Good manners and all.”