Etiquette With The Devil Page 9

  “Don’t be foolish. I’m here for the excellent company.” The bastard wiggled his eyebrows at Bly with the same rakish grin that won over the fashionable set in London. “Rough evening?”

  Bly clamped his mouth shut and stiffly spun around. A boxing match would be fruitless in the middle of the estate. There were still more repairs to oversee on the tenant farms, and those would be taxing, as most of the tenants wanted little to do with Bly. That was the truth as to why Barnes was still around. Without his assistance, Bly couldn’t accomplish a quarter of what needed to be done. The village and the tenants had written the Ravensdales off. The whole family was rotten and deserters. Hell, Mrs. Holliford actually threw last year’s rotten apples at Bly when he rode out to her cottage alone to take stock of her collapsing roof.

  “Are you unwell, Uncle?”

  “No,” Bly said, his tone softening. He did not want the children fearing another death so soon after the loss of their parents. It was hard enough listening to them weep when Molly or Clara put them to bed every evening. To them, the world was an uncertain place right now and he wished to shelter them as long as he could before leaving.

  “Oh, don’t worry yourself, James. Your uncle is suffering from a common enough infliction. I deal with it almost monthly,” Barnes announced behind him.

  Bly shot an annoyed look at Barnes. “Only because you are over-eager to share your heart. Women aren’t meant to be doted upon as if they’re God’s gift to earth. They crave security and nothing more. Forget that and you’ll always be on the end of a broken heart.”

  “It’s worse than being ill?” James asked. “I don’t think I’d like that. I had a fever in India once that made me sick and I hated it. Ayha made me stay in bed for days.”

  Bly sank down onto his haunches, catching sight of a flash of silver in the grass. The only things he suffered from were wanderlust, a biting head from drowning himself in whiskey, and that uncomfortable clawing from within that demanded more opium. All three would be denied for a while longer.

  He narrowed his eyes at the silver object, a flask by the looks, but it wasn’t his. He knew of no one else who would have such an elaborately decorated case who would be permitted to walk the woods. It wasn’t rusted from the weather, either.

  Bly picked up the flask and flipped it over, revealing an elaborate engraving of a coiled cobra. It showed no signs of wear. It looked like something that had been well cared for, in fact.

  He was too paranoid to think nothing of happening upon such a prized object. He pulled out a cigar and struck a match against the sole of his boot, lighting the cigar’s end until smoke clouded his eyes. He peered at the edge of the woods, certain he had just seen something move just behind the foliage. They were in the middle of the estate, far away from the village. It made no sense for someone to be lurking in the woods. Unless—

  “Come back over here, James,” he yelled, rising to his feet.

  “What is it?” Barnes asked, walking up beside Bly. He peered down at the flask in Bly’s outstretched hand and reached for it as the sound of wings beat overhead.

  Bly’s fingers instinctively curled around the object. “James.” His nephew wandered farther away, ignoring his summons.

  A large snap sounded from the woods, and a figure in a black cloak, a well-dressed gentleman, stepped out from behind a tree and pointed a pistol.

  “James!” Bly rushed forward, Barnes’ racing footsteps close on his heels. He jumped, throwing his body over that of his nephew as the boom of a firing shot echoed in his ears.

  *

  “Do you faint at the sight of blood, Miss Dawson?”

  Clara glanced up from her seat beside Minnie in the school room, puzzled by the strange question. Mr. Barnes and James stood in the doorway, each struggling to regain their breath, smeared in blood and dirt.

  “What happened?” She raced over to the small boy, grabbing his face in her hands before patting his body over for bloody wounds. “James, are you hurt?”

  “We were out in the woods and this man and there was a gun—” he started, excitedly.

  “Miss Dawson?” Still bent down, determined to find the source of James’s injury, she looked up at a paling Mr. Barnes. “Fetch your sewing kit.”

  “I don’t…which one of you have been hurt?”

  “Uncle’s been shot!” James exclaimed.

  Clara bolted up to her feet, her mouth agape. It took a moment to gather her wits. “James, get Nurse and stay with the girls.” Clara placed her hands on his shoulders and steered him inside. “Everything will be fine,” she called out behind her as Mr. Barnes dragged her down the hallway.

  “What happened?” she asked. The normally playful Mr. Barnes remained silent, only heaving a sigh as they raced down the front stairs of the foyer. Mr. Ravensdale’s cursing filled the cavernous halls like the moans of a dying beast.

  “Someone get in here and take the bloody thing out!”

  “I can’t stomach the sight of blood. Not while sober, at any rate,” Mr. Barnes said, turning to her sheepishly as they paused in front of the doorway of the sitting room. “I’ve seen the man die at least five times. He’ll be fine. Go on,” he insisted, pushing her forward.

  Mr. Barnes might have an aversion to blood, but so did Clara. Flashes of that night brought heat to her cheeks, of the dinner she shared with Mr. Shaw, the wine he had poured for her that she did not drink, the way he pressed his lips over her and she struggled to get away. Then the blood. So much blood.

  “Barnes! Tilly! Oh, for Christ’s sake.”

  Clara looked once more to Mr. Barnes, a sour taste filling her mouth. He stormed for the front door and removed a pistol from his waistband. The door slammed behind him, leaving Clara alone at the sitting room’s threshold. She closed her eyes and stepped inside, pushing aside the images of that night, and opening her eyes once more to the man before her. A man who very nearly kissed her last evening, a man whose touch still had her spinning hours later.

  And now, whatever it was that had frayed her emotions, spun curiosity, panic, and fear into the jumbled mess. She no longer knew her heart, not if it was to be torn apart so easily after meeting Mr. Ravensdale.

  He rested over on the arm of the chair, his back hunched and turned to her. His shirt was wet and stained with blood and earth, and there were twigs stuck in that wild mane of his.

  “Are you well?” she asked, her voice breaking.

  “I have a bullet in my shoulder.” His words were nothing short of a thunderous growl. He struggled, his body moving in an awkward tangle of limbs, his back still to her.

  She stepped around the chair, her eyes widening as he dug his finger deep into a wound above his heart. The stupid man was trying to pull the bullet out one-handed. He grimaced and reached for a bottle of whiskey, his hand dripping with blood, and took a long drink.

  “Hold still,” she pleaded, reaching out her hands. He was only making the bleeding worse. “We should call the doctor.”

  “You can’t be serious.” A dangerous sheen filled his eyes, and his hands shook as he took another drink. She guessed he was in pain, even if he would not freely admit so. “The old bastard would love to see me bleed out.”

  “Not everyone hates you.” She set down her sewing kit on the small side table. There was no use arguing. Not everyone hated him, but even she had garnered since her short time at Burton Hall that many certainly did, no matter the reasons.

  Blood flowed down his chest from the bullet wound.

  “I can’t help you,” she whispered, utter panic gripping her. He needed the medical attention of a doctor. Mr. Ravensdale was bleeding out in front of her. “I c-can’t help…”

  Images of a broken bottle in her hand flashed before her. Another shard of glass clutched in Mr. Shaw’s hand before he sliced through her dress and slashed her abdomen.

  “Look at me. Clara.”

  She exhaled before giving in and raising her eyes to his.

  “I’ve had much wors
e happen.” His voice was rough like the shadow on his unshaven jaw.

  He should not be taking the liberty of addressing her by her Christian name without her explicit permission. Then again, she supposed no one ever covered the etiquette of dealing with gunshot wounds before, at least not in any of the etiquette manuals she had read.

  “If you faint, you’ll be no help to me.”

  “I am fine,” she lied.

  He gave her a cursory glance before taking another long drink. Mr. Ravensdale opened his mouth to say something, but paused and poured a trail of whiskey over the wound, hissing as the liquid washed away the blood for a moment. “Tilly brought up tongs to use, and is sterilizing bandages.”

  She reached for them, unsure how they would remove a bullet when they were twice the size as the wound. “Are you sure you are well? The shot just missed your heart.”

  “Are you suggesting I have one?”

  “You interrupted me,” she shot back, flashing a nervous smile, approaching closer. “The devil doesn’t have a heart.”

  He chuckled, shifting over the chair arm. “You can’t stitch me up until you get the bullet out.”

  She nodded. “Right.” His breath was suddenly hers as she leaned forward and probed the wound for the bullet. His hand curled and rested lightly upon her waist. “I am sorry.” She winced as the tongs wedged into his flesh. Except his cursing and clipped breathing, she could hardly tell that he suffered. Her left hand hovered over his shoulder, unsure of where to place it as she moved the tongs with her right. Heat radiated off his skin.

  The tongs came upon a hard object, and she glanced up, his stare fixed on her. With a careful tug, she pulled the bullet free.

  “Put it on the table.”

  Again, he did not yell in pain, or cry, or flail about as she expected one might under such circumstances. He remained calm, if a bit annoyed, and acted as if being shot was common enough as being pricked by a splinter. He poured the remainder of the whiskey over the wound, now bleeding in a steady stream.

  His hand clamped down on hers as she pressed the rags onto his wound, her breath catching in her throat. Last evening he had touched her, differently than now, but the effect of his touch on her body hadn’t changed in the hours since. She withdrew her hand, turning to hide her shock as she reached for her sewing kit. She cut a length of thread and ran it through the needle’s eye, all the while feeling his eyes burn into her back.

  “What happened?” she asked, facing him. Clara was growing more confused as silence passed between them. It didn’t help any that his usual bronzed complexion paled, fading to a sickly green.

  “There was a stranger on the property, a well-dressed man who fired at me. I need to know…what are your secrets? Who are you?”

  Fever must have set in. He was talking nonsense.

  “Clara Dawson, sir.” She bit her lip for pausing on Dawson. She wished to tell the truth, including her true name: Clara Dawson Emsworth.

  “Clara Dawson. What else?” he pressed.

  She was a drifter with no family, no connections, no love. She was a woman without hope. “There is nothing else.” Except there was everything else.

  “Stitch the wound,” he snapped.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Goddammit, don’t call me that.”

  Mr. Ravensdale possessed the remarkable ability for turning small intimacies into ruined moments, but she was thankful his inquiry had ended.

  “It’s funny,” he started, as she moved between his legs to get closer. “At first I thought they were after me. That would make sense. But what doesn’t make sense was how the gentleman was dressed. I don’t have a reputation for associate with men of quality.”

  Her heart raced as the veiled accusation hung heavy in the air between them. “Who would be after you?”

  If she had not killed Mr. Shaw as she feared, if he was still alive, then he would likely hunt her down. Why did she think she was safe hidden in the country? If Mr. Ravensdale was correct, then he had just taken a bullet for her.

  “A great many people. Kings. Nations.”

  She blinked back her surprise. Kings and nations? Now she wanted to know who he truly was.

  “And then there is the matter of that cut on your scalp and I’m guessing another injury on your body as you’ve favored your right side since arriving here.”

  “I fell,” she reminded him forcefully. It would almost have been convincing if she could have looked him in the eye, but he had seen too much of her all ready. Another lie from her wasn’t going to fool a man of Mr. Ravensdale’s uncanny abilities of observation.

  “And who would be after you? A woman so stuck to her pretty rules, but dressed in rags.”

  His set down stunned her. She flinched back, only then meeting his studying stare.

  “I’m bleeding,” he reminded her in a rough voice. “Let’s get this torture over with. I have other things to see to.” He lifted away the blood-soaked rags and tossed them onto the side table with a quick flick of his wrist.

  She frowned, annoyed by his lack of care for the clean room and maybe for a great deal more.

  “Think of me like a cushion. Surely, you can embroider being so w-well educated.” His breathing wavered and the glint in his eyes hardened. If he was not so stubborn, she could do something for the pain. If only he allowed her to call a doctor.

  His eyes narrowed to slits. She waited for another bristled remark, preparing to be equally snappish in return. The stubborn oaf. When he made none, Clara snaked the needle through his flesh. It was awkward to remain standing between his legs and keep balance, so she placed her left hand on his bare shoulder, curling her fingers over his collarbone to keep steady.

  Like peonies in a driving rain, he crumbled, and fainted at her touch.

  “Mr. Ravensdale?” His breathing was shallow, skipping. “Mr. Ravensdale?” She wondered then what his Christian name was. She had no other names to call him that would be in the realm of politeness. When he was tiresome, she could think of a great many to throw his way. He was the devil, of that she was convinced.

  Clara cupped his face in her hands, the shadow of stubble grazing against her palms. “Mr. Ravensdale?” She shook his head slightly from side to side. It only lolled around as blood poured from his wound.

  Clara rested his head against the high back of the chair, hoping he would come round in a few minutes. She pierced his skin with another crooked stitch. If he knew how badly she embroidered, he would never have allowed her to stitch him up. “Mr. Ravensdale?” Her hand moved to a bit of hair that had fallen over his eyes. She brushed it back without thinking, puzzling over this gentler version of a man determined to set the world on fire. Her fingers traced the lines etched across his forehead, drawing circles over his temples, selfishly taking a few stolen moments to regard his profile. He was handsome—if only he wasn’t so troublesome, so brutish—

  “Mr. Ravensdale, I’m finished.” Her voice was soft, reluctant to wake the beast. When he did not come to, she tried again, cradling his face in her hands, rubbing thumbs over his cheekbones. “Mr. Ravensdale?”

  His eyes parted, shining, sharp. She smelled the whiskey on his breath, the copper of his blood, the saltiness of his skin. It clouded her head as she gazed into his eyes. They were a beautiful sea of blues and greens set around a deep amber ring of an autumn sunset. Clara could not move if she wished it.

  “Bly,” he whispered, looking just as lost in her as she was with him. “Say it.”

  There was no cause to say his Christian name. She wished she could unlearn it as soon as he told her. It was improper and ill-bred. She was the governess. He was her employer. She was illegitimate. He was the second son of an earl.

  Good heaven, but how she wished to say it, breathe it in, and keep it as her own.

  “Bly.” She answered, just as softly, his name sounding more like a breath than a word.

  He inhaled as his name passed over her lips, closing his eyes for only a moment before
they flared open to her once more. Her ability to think vanished. Her ability to stand crumbled. Her adherence to etiquette burned under the devil’s wicked charms.

  “Are you well?” she asked, feeling him a breath away from her lips. If she just dipped a bit lower, if he reached up ever so slightly, they would kiss. That was all her muddled mind could manage to think of in that moment. She wanted his lips against hers. She wanted to run her hands through his hair and feel his warm skin beneath her hands without an ounce of guilt. She wanted to burn in the fires of Hell if it meant she could be close him. Bly, she thought as her heart drummed faster. “Bly.”

  “If I’m right,” he whispered, his voice still haggard, “I’ll keep you safe.”

  His kindness broke her reverie.

  Clara stood and stepped back, the coldness of the room stealing away the heat his body had given hers. She was a feather in the wind. With a few words, she was cast drifting again, not certain she would ever get that moment back. Perhaps she would never get the chance to feel his lips upon hers, never learn what it was like to be kissed.

  “I’ll fetch Mrs. Gibbs.” She curtsied like a fool and stumbled from the room transfixed at the sight of his blood staining her hands—another man possibly dead at her hands.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Bly Ravensdale never convalesced in his life. That is, until the females of Burton Hall clucked at him and saw him to bed, practically tucked him in, insisting that he rest. Mrs. Gibbs and Molly, that is. Clara had been absent since she stitched him up.

  He peeled back the bandage and examined the wound once more, checking for the angry red flesh of an infection. The row of stitches were uneven, but they did the job. Barnes had cleverly hid his opium, and Mrs. Gibbs would only give him a shot or two of whiskey with his tea.

  It was as though everyone in the house wished he would suffer after taking a bullet for his nephew.

  He hissed, slipping on a shirt so he could join the others for dinner before they gave him another cup of broth. He needed food and fresh air, and to escape the four walls of his filthy, dusty room before he lost his mind. He’d rather attend dinner as he was, but he bet he would give Clara apoplexy if he appeared without a shirt. The woman barely tolerated the children slurping their soup, never mind nakedness at the dinner table.