Etiquette With The Devil (42 page)

“If you excel at finding people, then find my husband, or I will. Something is not right,” she said as the dance ended. The metallic taste in the back of her mouth was sign enough.

Barnes bowed and bent his lips to her outstretched hand. When he stood up, Clara saw mirrored panic in his eyes. He moved through the crush of the ballroom gracefully.

Clara turned, a feather once more on the wind, unsure of where to go. A hand landed on her arm, spinning her around.

“The one who tamed the wild man.” Mr. Graham extended his other hand as though he wished to dance, a churlish grin plastered on his now pudgy face. Since she had last set eyes upon the man, the years had worn away the hard edge. “Mrs. Ravensdale now, I believe?”

She stepped back, glancing around the ballroom.

“No, no.” His hand squeezed her arm, pulling her close as the next song began. “Let’s not make a scene, shall we?”

Her stomach churned, the heat of the room whirling around her. She hated the faint touch of his hands on her body. “You were not on the guest list,” she said finally as he guided her around to a gentle spin.

“No. But if we are going to discuss etiquette, you made a social faux pas, yourself. I believe I had warned you to stay away from Ravensdale or there would be consequences. So imagine my surprise when I received a note from him while we were in India that he returned to Burton Hall.”

“He returned because his niece contracted scarlet fever.” She gripped his hand tightly, drawing his eyes to her. “What have you done with my husband?”

The orchestra was out of tune, or so it seemed, as he bent his mouth by her ear. “Look toward the doorway, Miss Emsworth, I brought company. The constable, in fact.”

A roar shook the room as light flooded through the windows. Clara pulled free from Mr. Graham, taking advantage of the man’s surprise at the commotion. A great ball of flame shot through the air in the distance, followed closely after by a bright burst of green lights showering across the night sky.

Fireworks.

Laughter filled the air, not panic, as Clara pushed through the crowd awed by the spectacle outside. Molly and the children sat in chairs by the corner of the room, far enough away that Mr. Graham could not see her.

“Run up and be sure Rhys is safe,” she whispered into Molly’s ear. “Go,” Clara mouthed. She reached out her hands. “Come along, children.”

“Molly said we could stay later,” Minnie whined. “I want to stay at the party.”

Another rocketing sound shook the ballroom, followed by a brilliant burst of red, just beyond the crumbling tower garden.

“The party is over. Grace, wrap your arms around my neck. Grab my hands, Minnie and James. Hurry now. Hurry.” Clara pulled on their hands and looked behind her. “We are going to play a game now.”

She guided them with her through a door hidden in the panels. “Don’t worry.” Her words were false niceties. She would guard the children with her life, but it was hard to ignore that she was running for her life now as well. And Bly…

“Where are we going?” James whispered.

“Your grandmother’s room,” Clara answered, pulling them down the familiar hallway that had seen many hours of her learning to walk again, of her slowly falling in love with her husband once more.

The room was empty as she pushed through the door and led the children to the hidden hallway that lead to the small washroom. With a hard pull, she opened the swollen door of the linen cupboard and rushed the children inside.

Fear. That was all she saw when Clara peered at the children. “Listen, I want you to stay here and do not move. Do you understand?”

“Stay, Mama,” Grace said, tears streaming down her face.

She cupped the girl’s face and planted a rushed kiss on her forehead. Then did the same for Minnie and James.

“It’s dark here. Please stay,” Minnie begged.

Clara gathered the children into a tight hug, her heart hammering as she said, “Your uncle and I won’t let anything bad happen to you.” She wished it were true. She prayed for it as she forced her reassurances. “I promise. Don’t move from here, do you understand? Be quiet, and I will be back soon.” They reached for her in the dark but Clara had already pulled away. “Quiet, my loves. I will be back soon.” She shut the cupboard door behind her, and crept out into the hallway.

Fireworks continued to go off outside and the music had resumed below in the ballroom. Through the opened windows, Clara heard the awed reactions of their guests at the bright lights piecing the sky.

She approached the nursery, holding her breath when she spotted the door swaying. She stepped inside, her hand snapping up to cover the scream clawing up her throat.

She was too late.

M
olly lay unconscious on the floor besides Rhys’s empty crib.

Clara ran to Molly, shaking the woman awake and wiping the blood from her brow. “Where did they take him Molly? Where is he?”

Molly’s dull brown eyes fluttered open, wincing as she moved her mouth to say, “He’s safe.”

Clara fell to her knees. “What happened?”

“I hid him before they came and…they struck me and I blacked out. He’s in the closet in the schoolroom. The one with the sticky door.”

“Thank you,” Clara said, squeezing the woman tighter. “I will be right back. Can you sit up?” Molly wavered slightly, but leaned forward and nodded.

Rhys was asleep soundly on the floor of the closet, just as Molly had claimed, oblivious to the danger around him. She wrapped him tightly in her arms and collected Molly, bringing to the two to stay with the others.

“Remember our story, James?” Clara asked, giving Rhys another kiss over his forehead.

“Yes,” the boy whispered.

“I want you to whisper it to the others like a good boy.”

Molly’s hand squeezed hers as she closed the cupboard door again and crept down the main foyer, then quickly secured a pistol Bly kept stored away in his desk drawer.

She slipped out the French doors of the music room, out into the shadows of the garden and hedges as lights continued to flash in the night sky above. She whistled, running through the maze of gardens in hopes of hearing an answering beacon.

In the dark, everything seemed urgent. She stumbled and tripped as she ran, her lungs full of pins, her throat burning as she approached the tower in the garden. A harsh string of words filled the air, something foreign-sounding. Clara slowed her pace as she approached. A bonfire burned where once her favorite roses grew, and just beyond, a slumped figured was tied up by the tower.

Bly.

Clara fought back against rushing forward as three strangers walked into view, dressed in black. One pulled forward, kicking a groan out of Bly.

Her hand tightened its grip around the pistol.

Whatever language they spoke, she had never heard anything like it before. They barked at Bly, grabbing his hair to lift his head. A rag was stuffed into his mouth and his hands and feet were bound.

She flattened against the grass and looked at the pistol in her shaking hand. Wielding a pistol was never covered in her etiquette books.

One of the men ripped the rag out of Bly’s mouth. He spoke back in the same language, spitting out blood between labored breaths. Whatever he said was not appreciated, because a knife was held to his throat next. A large knife.

“Kill me then,” he said in English. Bly groaned as they kicked him again. He muttered something once again in their native tongue, edged with steel.

On one long inhale, she raised the pistol, squeezing one eye shut.

“Wait,” Isaac urged in a whisper behind her. “Put the gun—”

Clara pulled the trigger.

*

He had failed.

No matter the precautions, the bouts of paranoia—the rumors had been true. He was a hunted man, or had been. They had found him now, trussing him up like a freshly killed stag. They would gut him next with the dagger at his throat and feast on what Bly left behind.

Clara and the children, his guests, they relied on him to keep them safe and he had failed every last one of them.

“Then kill me,” he replied in Farsi. He would have laughed at their threats a few years ago, daring them to make the worst true. Now, he only thought of keeping the others safe.

The sound of a pistol rang in his ears as the pebbled path bit into the bloody gash across his face.

The first whistling explosion shot across the garden in bright white light. Then another, this time red, blossomed into a violent sparking shower, the smell of gunpowder filling the air.

Clara’s sweet voice caressed his ear in the darkness. “Stay still and I will cut you free.” She reached into his boot and pulled his knife free, making quick work of cutting away the knotted rope as fireworks whizzed by and exploded overhead in deafening bursts.

He flipped onto his back, watching as colored lights shook the darkness and washed over Clara as if she were an avenging angel. In the middle of bedlam, everything became clearer. Why he never told her before now, he never knew, but he had wasted too much time because he was a coward.

Everything ached, his vision still blurry from the beatings, and he was sure he looked a poor sight, but none of that stopped him from pulling her close and kissing her as if he were about to draw his last breath.

“Why are you here, Clara? Why are you here? It’s too dangerous,” he yelled into her ear. She shook her head as another explosion shot past. “Why?” he yelled, pulling her tighter. He had to protect her. “Why would you do that?” he said between another hurried kiss.

“I won’t let them hurt you,” she answered, her eyes filled with worry. “And I won’t let Graham tear our family apart. Not any longer.”

Bly tried to sit up even as his ribs ached so badly that his breath rushed out of him in a painful blow. Still, he pulled her tighter, too afraid to let go as gunfire broke out. “I love you so much,” he said, showering her face in kisses. “Why?” He ran his thumbs over the plane of her cheekbones, taking in the sight of her washed in rainbow light. “I can’t keep you safe here.”

Her face was smeared with dirt and blood, and the tears fell down her cheeks, but he was afraid that if he looked away, she would only be a dream.

She tried to help him stand. “Come on, we have to leave.” Clara helped him to his feet. Unsteady as he was, he would find a way to run miles if it meant her safety. “Leave it to us to have the house ransacked during our first proper ball.”

He gripped her hand tighter, taking the pistol and checking the trigger guard. So, she had fired the first shot. He smiled as her face went slack and drained of color.

“Behind—”

Thick smoke clouded the ground and the fighting phantoms beyond, but his instinct trumped the poor conditions. He whirled around, landing a pointed elbow into the masked man’s throat, stunning him as Bly connected a fist with the face behind the mask. The man staggered backward. A quick kick to the stomach and a blow with the butt of the pistol brought their assailant to the ground.

Graham stepped out from behind the tower, his pistol pointed at Clara. “I warned you, Ravensdale. I told you to stay away and yet you came back to her. You’ve returned and now a few of your enemies have hunted you down. There are many more, I assure you, that are willing to pay me a big price to know your whereabouts.”

Bly stepped in front of Clara, the pistol clasped in his hand.

“Ah, don’t move.” Graham pulled back the hammer. “Be a good boy, and do as I say now. Step away from that murdering wife of yours. Come on,” he urged.

Her life rested upon the pull of his mentor’s finger. His, too. He moved aside, giving Graham a clear shot. Clara shook, her eyes wide with fear.

“Good, now drop your gun.”

“What do you want, Graham? Why is it that you can never be satisfied? Why are you such a selfish cad?” Bly held onto the gun, baiting Graham.

Graham rushed forward, pointing the barrel at Clara’s forehead. “I said put the gun down.”

Bly did, his hands too shaky to hold onto it anyway. “You’re never going to be happy until you ruin me, are you?” He spotted a few sticks of dynamite stuck into Graham’s waistband. Bly wouldn’t put it past Graham to use it to drive home his greedy madness.

Clara shivered beside him. He wished nothing more than to see her safe. His thoughts raced ahead, searching for some way to see her out to safety, some way to finally end this madness with Graham.

“I trained you, I taught you what you know. And yet everyone forgot that. Everyone wanted you to do the dirty work and I was taken out of the field. I was pushed aside because you had a death wish. And now you returned to England a bloody hero, and what do I have?”

“Nothing, Mr. Graham. You have nothing besides money,” replied Clara. “And apparently hypocrisy as well, if you shoot me. Although I acted in self-defense.”

Graham lifted the gun into the air and fired a warning shot. Clara jumped back, but Bly steadied himself, his muscles tense.

“Does she know what you’ve done?” Graham stepped closer to them both. Another firework ruptured into the sky, lighting up the sweat that soaked his loosened dress shirt. “The men you’ve killed? What you’ve stolen? How corrupted you are?”