Etiquette With The Devil (3 page)

“I am Miss Clara Dawson and—”

“You must be cold!” Minnie yelled, grabbing Clara’s chilled hands. “Come warm up with me by the fire.”

“Yes. In a moment.” Clara freed her hands and faced the man to properly introduce herself. Cold or not, she hadn’t forgotten her manners entirely.

“As you were saying,” Mr. Ravensdale insisted. He scratched the back of his head, a toothy grin stretched wide across his face.

Well, he didn’t have to act so smug. “Yes, well I am here—”

A series of bangs echoed down the hallway. Clara sucked in a deep breath, pressing her palm against her forehead. She wanted nothing more than a warm bath and a change of clothes. She was not asking for a royal parade, simply a chance to speak and the opportunity to warm up after spending the past several hours wet and half-frozen.

“Don’t move,” the footman cautioned from the sofa. The boy took advantage of the distraction and stabbed his uncle once more as Minnie shepherded Clara closer to the fire. A howl erupted from the hallway as the parrot flew out of the room. Burton Hall seemed more like a strange circus than a residence. What else could possibly be housed here?

Her answer stumbled through the doorway wearing a knight’s helmet and a man’s shirt tied up with ribbons and a worn leather belt.

“And you thought the tiger was bad,” the footman said with a throaty laugh. “Watch out for
that
heathen.”

The small figure bumbled forward, blind to the chair that blocked its path. Clara rushed to the rescue, only a moment too late. The toddler stumbled into the side of a chair and released another earsplitting cry.

Clara tugged the helmet off, revealing a fussing child. She dropped a kiss on the spreading mark on the girl’s forehead, but to no avail; her crying would not cease. She lifted the tot into her arms, brushing back the child’s crimson curls, and hummed until the room fell quiet.

“Mr. Ravensdale, I am Clara Dawson and I am here for the—”

“—governess position,” he finished. “Yes, I know.”

She drew back. “How are you certain?”

He rocked back onto his heels, clasping his hands behind him after snatching the stick away from his nephew. “No one else has dared answer the post.”

That strange flutter returned, the one that braced her stomach earlier before she marched toward this very room.

He pointed a wooden sword at her, lifting it in the air as if to command her like a marionette. “Welcome to the wilds of Burton Hall, Dawson.”

Dawson?
Did no one in this house possess manners?

T
he parrot swooped back into the room, cutting the tension with a flutter of its large wings. Everyone fell silent, but only for a brief, blissful moment. “That is kind, sir,” Clara said, “but you must have questions. I have several.”

Mr. Ravensdale nodded, then shooed the children out. “I would discuss this in my office, but seeing as we’re living in only two rooms at the moment, this will have to do. Have a seat, Dawson.”

Clara would have preferred to remain by the fire, but she made her way to the empty wing-back chair beside the sofa where the supposed footman was still lounging.

“I must apologize for being late.” Rearranging her skirts was difficult with the mud beginning to dry heavy at the hem. It would take a small miracle to save the dress now. Shame. “In doing so, I must add that it was through no fault of my own. It was agreed upon that I would be picked up at the station and conveyed to Burton Hall by carriage. It seems the promise was forgotten. I could find no one willing to assist in bringing me here.”

Mr. Ravensdale threw back his head and barked out a laugh. Odd, she found nothing funny about her day.

“We only just arrived,” he said, brushing his hand over his mouth as if he could erase the misplaced mirth there. “Don’t hold me accountable for the conduct of others.”

“I understand.” Although that was a lie. She hadn’t understood anything since setting foot inside Burton Hall. Her cheeks warmed as she surveyed the man, his tall silhouette framed by the filtered light from the dirty windows behind him. She met his eyes, her breath catching at the base of her throat.

She had never seen skin so tanned and leather-like before. His brown hair was cut nothing like what was in fashion—messed instead into wild peaks, and unkempt. He had an aquiline nose, and ears that stuck out a bit much from his long, lean face. His eyes sparked with an appetite for life that made Clara rather uncomfortable. Unforgiving, was a better way to describe the look possessing his hazel eyes. Rough stubble shadowed his cheeks and it appeared that he was tired, but he would never confess it—especially to someone he just met, she concluded. He held himself proudly and spoke with a careful nonchalance that made guessing the remaining details difficult.

“Barnes,” he said, pulling his gaze from her, “see that Grace doesn’t impale herself on a pointy object. I want to speak with Dawson alone.”

Clara had never been looked at the way Mr. Ravensdale was looking at her now, truly, as though she was more than flesh and bone. As though by some small chance, she mattered in this world.

“I am sure you do,” the man drawled rakishly. He stood and poured an amber-colored liquid—brandy—she assumed, into his glass, two fingers too high.

“Dawson,” Mr. Ravensdale said with annoyed air, “allow me to introduce my friend and travel companion, Mr. Isaac Barnes. I can safely say that he did not do so himself when you arrived.”

“Or open the door.” Clara clamped a hand over her mouth. She darted a wide-eyed glance between the two men, waiting to be dismissed. Instead they both remained quiet. “You said you were the footman, Mr. Barnes.”

He chuckled at her attempt to rectify her rudeness. “You will discover, Miss Dawson, that with
this
family, you will be a great many things. Opportunity abounds.” Mr. Barnes waggled his eyebrows.

“See that you don’t kill the earl,” Mr. Ravensdale called out as Mr. Barnes sashayed out of the room with a drunken tilt.

“See that
you
do not scare off Miss Dawson. I am prepared to feed the children to Lucy for dinner if you do,” Mr. Barnes retorted from the hall. “They’re becoming tiresome.”

Clara sank back into the chair, relieved that she was no longer in the middle of the chaotic whirlwind of personalities and strange beasts, but only in one individual’s company. Well, she was only somewhat relieved. He was still studying her, and she couldn’t keep from watching him, either.

Mr. Ravensdale cleared his throat. “I apologize for his behavior.”

“Oh?” She found it odd that he would apologize for the wrongs of another, but not for his own.

“The children’s nurse,” he continued, “didn’t return the same easy affection that Mr. Barnes felt for her, it seems.”

“The children have no nurse?”

“Not presently. The Ahya was left in London after our arrival and the woman who was hired fled this morning. The children don’t have proper rooms or beds. We don’t have a working kitchen. I cook by campfire and we eat by candlelight. And as you know, there are no horses or carriages. The Ravensdales are living as paupers at present. Before leaving India, the idea seemed sound enough. Now we’re just two bachelors saddled with a bunch of rowdy children and no means to care for them.”

If it were not for the threat of Mr. Shaw, she would not hesitate to make her apologies and decline the position. However, Mr. Shaw was the reason she no longer had hopes of ever having a happy end in life. Clara needed to stay and strive under the circumstances, no matter how grim. Surely, it would prove better than what awaited if she returned to London without money or reference. She was not prepared to have to lie on her back for a living, and she would make a terrible seamstress.

“Well, Dawson.” Mr. Ravensdale struck a match and lit the cigar hanging from his lips. His brows furrowed as he inhaled and exhaled in staccato beats, and a strand of his unkempt hair fell across his forehead. “Let’s talk business. I’m here to see that the children have a governess and that family affairs are quickly put into order. I’m to return to India directly.”

“You will be leaving so soon?” She shut her eyes, silently scolding herself for being so rude. Again. His affairs were not her concern. She was hired to tutor the children, not to oversee the comings and goings of house’s master. She was certainly not there to question why he would abandon his family in such haste.

“Yes.” Those eyes of his followed her again, following the rise of her shoulders as she took in a sharp breath, studied her cheeks, watched her rub her hands together for warmth. “The burden fell to me, but I’m a bachelor, and a wandering one at that. I’m not going to supervise their upbringing. My aunt will see to that. She’ll act as mistress when I leave.”

“You hired me without asking anything of my qualifications or references.”

“I trust you.” He flashed a brilliant smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes.

A seed of dislike toward the man rooted itself in her stomach. She was to be alone with an ill-mannered, brokenhearted rake and three children in a house that was not fit for occupancy. Clara doubted she merited God’s mercy as she was already damned, but she prayed for it nonetheless.

“Are you an honest criminal?” he teased before she could reply. “Is there something you must confess to?”

Well, yes, everything.

“No, sir.” He was mocking her, the devil. “I attended Marmont School for Girls in London for a number of years. I speak three languages, am skilled in comportment, play the piano—”

“Yes, yes.” There was a gleam in his eye—whether from jest or interest—she could not discern. “You’re accomplished enough.”

Enough?
You have some nerve to pass judgment so easily, you conceited, impertinent—
“The condition of this house is not fit for children,” she bristled. It wasn’t her best put down, but she rarely ever needed those. Clara was more skilled in keeping quiet and making excuses for the poor behavior of others. Her life had been best spent in shadows, tucked away in the corners of rooms. Another poor, sad wallflower of England.

He cocked an eyebrow at her remark, another grin playing at his lips in between brutal drags at his cigar. The man looked like a handsome chimney. Mr. Ravensdale nodded, before jumping to his feet and moving to the fireplace. He paced back and forth, slowly at first, then quickly, and close to her chair. She wished the man knew how to remain still.

“Take off your gloves, Dawson.”

“Hmm?” He had caught her again, watching him stride around the room, restless.

“Your hands must be freezing.”

They were, absolutely. She carefully peeled off her left with her right hand, avoiding his eyes. She felt them on her nonetheless, picking her apart. It was almost as if he could see the blood on her palms, the fallen body of Mr. Shaw at her feet before she fled. Her heartbeat picked up and she tried to push aside the panic, trembling as she tore off her right glove, her fingertips numb and red.

“My brother was a childish man,” Mr. Ravensdale said, continuing on as she counted the ways this could all be a grave mistake. “He avoided his responsibilities, just like my father. When Walter passed, the will requested I convey his children back to England and see them brought up at Burton Hall. The entire mess is nothing I need, trust me.” He ruffled his hair, giving her another appraising look.

She straightened in her chair, her chest suddenly feeling full as if she had swallowed too much air.

“I don’t intend to leave the new earl with a crumbling legacy. The estate will be repaired and I’ll hire a competent steward to oversee its success. So yes, the house is not presently an ideal situation, but there are hardly ever ideal situations in life, I find.”

Clara tipped her chin upward and peered up at him, even as she trembled from cold.

“An earl?”

“My nephew is newly the Earl of Stamford.”

That was a fact left out of the advertisement she had replied to. Curious.

Clara sighed and knotted her hands together in her lap. If she could only change and get warm, she might have a fighting chance of making a logical decision. Was this truly all she had left?

“Have you decided against the position?” He came to a stop in front of her and stared down at her with jaded eyes, daring her to run. Little did he know, Clara was a woman disinclined to fainting spells.

“Mr. Ravensdale, you have a toddler dressed in a man’s shirt, no proper staff, and an exotic menagerie in tow. Excuse my practicality, but I cannot in good conscience leave knowing the urgency of the circumstances.” Clara attempted to straighten her skirts again, anything to give her the appearance of being in control of her circumstances. “So to answer your question, I will take the position.”

*

“Don’t scare her off, Barnes,” Bly warned. He kicked his dirty boots onto the mahogany desk with no regard to the old papers and abandoned ledgers scattered on top. He reached for the stack of worn playing cards and shuffled them, trying to make order out of something. Nothing else made much sense.

“What makes you think I will, Ravensdale?”