Flight of the Earls (33 page)

“You traded your own daughter?”

“Such a crass way of thinking about it. It was a good business decision. But, yes, that's how it began. Until I got leverage on him. In fact, over and over again. Turns out he's a poor gambler. And here we are now. Paying his marker.”

“What do you mean?” The words stuck together as she spoke.

He put his hand on her knee. “You are even more beautiful than Margaret.”

“What?” Clare's throat was dry and her body stiffened.

“Those eyes. Such perfect blue.”

“What did you say about Maggie?”

“Before we do this, my dear, I have one more question, and please be careful how you answer this. Your uncle has something I need to get. Do you know where it is?”

“I don't know what you're talking about. What about Maggie?”

“Come now. I shouldn't have upset you. Have a drink.”

She started to get up, but he pulled her down. “It doesn't have to be this way.”

“Let go of me.” She tried to shove him, but he had surprising strength.

“This is no way for my new bride to behave, now is it?”

“What?” Clare felt disgust at being so close to him.

“Oh, my. Didn't your uncle tell you about the arrangements?”

“Unhand me.” So this is where it would end? This was her punishment for seeking the man of her dreams? Oh! What joy to be alone for life rather than spend one day betrothed to this vile creature.

His hand reached for her neck, and he leaned in close and stroked her cheek with the back of his hand. “So soft, so precious.”

Clare reached out for the glass on the table between them and in one motion, with all of her force, she struck him on the side of his temple and he stumbled backward.

Without pause she leapt to her feet and turned for the door. He reached for her, catching her hair, and as he pulled the wig, it flew off her head.

In an instant she was at the door, fumbling with the latch, and just when it loosened and she pulled the door open, he was upon her again and slammed it shut. With one fluid motion, Clare spun and kicked him in his lame leg and he crumpled to the floor.

In the full speed of panic, she went out the door and hurtled herself through the hallway, running past a startled woman who had just turned the corner. She pressed to the doorway, fumbled with the handle, and flung it open to the outside world and into the coolness of the night.

The flickering faces of the women holding candles turned to gasps and shrieks as Clare ran into the mass, flailing her arms and crying. The lights were spinning around her and she felt her legs beginning to sink.

As if time were frozen, she saw arms reaching up to her, cradling her fall, and bringing her close to his body. She fought back, but he held onto her tightly.

“You're fine now. Shhh. You're fine.”

Confused and losing her balance, she melted her resistance. “He's coming.”

“No,” said the voice, warm and gentle. “You're safe now.”

She looked up and saw the round spectacles of the tall figure who had lived in her imagination. Andrew.

Several kindly old faces leaned around him and peered down with compassion. The chatter of concerned, whispered voices grew as someone put a coat over her, another wrapped a scarf and she heard things like “Poor dear,” and “What could have happened?”

But in the chilling darkness, as the world faded around her, she felt him lifting her, and sinking into his strength, Clare could only see one face.

And she surrendered.

Into his arms.

Chapter 32

The Dawn

The light came through the window and crowned around the shape of a woman with a black, full-cheeked face brimming with joy. Clare sat up abruptly and tried to get her bearings in her strange surroundings.

“Are you waking, miss? Well fine day 'tis. Thought you was to sleep all's the day. But here you is now, looking at Cassie. Oh, happy day. We've been on our knees for you, girl.”

“Where am I?” Clare looked around the inside of what was the most beautiful room she had ever seen.

“Oh, sweet sunshine. Wait till the master hears this.” With her arms waving in the air, the curvy woman scampered from Clare's sight, although her words echoed all the way down the hall.

Clare shivered with the delight of comfort. Her body was literally sunk into a feather bed with silk sheets and quilted comforters. She had never experienced such pampering, although her back did ache with the pain of oversleeping.

The room abounded with wealth—mahogany cabinetry, cherry furniture, richly patterned papered walls, and gold trimming and garnishes throughout. A brass mantelpiece framed a large wood-burning fireplace, which snapped with vibrancy. A fire in a bedroom! What extravagance.

But most glorious of all was a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf that spanned an entire wall, with more leather-bound tomes than she had ever seen in one place.

She heard conversation approaching and Clare panicked, not knowing if she should get out of bed or crawl deep under the covers. Making up her mind, she rounded her feet only to find how far it was to the carpeted floor. She was dressed in a silk sleeping gown and reached for a robe hanging from a brass rack standing beside the bed.

“Oooh. I afraid she's making to run. Lordy, Lordy, child. What are you doing up from bed?”

Clare panicked and jumped back in the bed and tucked herself under the covers.

“That's better, little one. All right, Mr. Royce. You can come in now as she's proper and not being all foolish as she was.”

Clare's eyes shifted to the doorway, where her blond man knocked on the door frame and took his felt cap off in respect.

“Mr. Andrew has been worrying like a cat to kittens, he has. Asking me every other minute. ‘Is she up?' Praise Lord Almighty. He's done me mad with questioning. Ain't that right, Mr. Andrew?”

“May I?” he asked. When Clare nodded, he grabbed a chair and dragged it to the side of the bed where he sat down and smiling, looked at her through his glasses with tender, green eyes. His blond hair was well groomed, parted from the side, and carefully combed.

All of the sudden, Clare remembered she was without her wig, and feeling exposed, her hand went to her hair.

“Cassie,” Andrew said in a rich, gentle voice, that of an Englishman. “Would you mind seeing if Miss Holmes would prepare our guest something to eat? I'm sure she's quite famished.”

“Who else gonna get it? If it was up to you, she'd just perish before our eyes. What would you like, sweet child? Miss Holmes can cook up anything.”

“Why don't you start with some biscuits, eggs, and some hot tea, Cassie?” Andrew turned to Clare. “Of course, if that suits our guest?”

Clare tried to hold back a nervous smile. She sat up against the headboard, keeping the blankets pulled up to her neck. “That suits her fine.”

“Excellent.” He nodded to Cassie, who lifted her chin and scuttled out of the room, talking to herself. “I think you'll feel rejuvenated with some warm food in your stomach. You've been sleeping for a long time.”

“I hope I haven't been an inconvenience,” Clare said. “I should probably get going.”

“Oh.” He frowned. “And where would that be?”

Clare tried to think of an answer and shrugged her shoulders.

“We're hoping you would stay here with us,” Andrew said. “Just until you find a place to go.”

“And where am I?”

“You are in the home of Mr. Charles Royce.” He paused for a moment expectant of a response. He chuckled. “You do not know who Charles is, do you?”

“No sir.”

His face dimpled as he smiled. “Charles is my father. My father is the publisher of the
New York Daily
. Many would say he's a very powerful man in this city.”

“What's the
New York Daily
?” she said sheepishly.

Andrew laughed. “I wouldn't suggest asking that question in front of my father. He's a bit proud of his accomplishments.”

“A newspaper. Ah yes. I remember now.”

“Have you read it?”

“I do like to write. Does that count for something?”

“A writer? And by what name does this distinguished author pen her works?”

“I said I like to write. Not that I am an author. And it's Clare. Clare Hanley.”

Cassie burst into the room with a tray in her hand and with words spilling out of her mouth. “Now if I'm gettin' in the way of your conversing, Cassie will just be as quiet as can be. Nothin' from these lips. Just ears. Sometimes Cassie uses just those. No ma'am. No sir. Maybe my shoes will squeak or these bones will creak, I won't say a thing.”

“Where's the eggs?” Andrew asked. “Just tea and biscuits here.”

“You can ask that question to your own mother, Mrs. Royce herself. She's telling Miss Holmes, ‘Don't be filling the girl up when we'll be supping soon enough.'” Cassie raised a plate of biscuits to Clare. “Mrs. Royce is wanting to meet you, miss.”

“Yes. I'm quite sure she does,” Andrew said with more than a hint of cynicism. “It will be a great pleasure for Clare to meet my parents, wouldn't you say, Cassie?”

“Now there you go, Mr. Andrew. Talking 'bout your mammy and pappy, forgettin' they fed you and give you trousers and this house. Shame, shame, boy. Cassie ain't raise you well.”

“Well if Clare is to meet my mother and father, she'll need her strength. I'll leave you ladies to the subject of pampering. Cassie, would you assist Miss Hanley with the preparation of a warm bath and in finding some fresh clothes?”

Overwhelmed with gratitude, Clare could find nothing to say. She watched him leave before turning to see Cassie with her hands on her hips, looking at her with consternation.

“He dotes on you finely, and you shouldn't be encouraging it none. The missus will have none of it and you'll be back on the street. Aww. She's a good enough woman, been kind to me, but serious in wanting an upright Christian woman for her son. Nobody could be blaming the woman for that. Now could they?”

“Not at all.” Clare held back the joy she felt inside. There was something so authentic about Cassie she wanted to give her a hug. But she feared raising the woman's temper.

Cassie dangled a finger in Clare's direction. “Now, you drink up all that hot tea to warm yourself good and eat those biscuits. Cassie's gonna water the tub and we'll get you prettied up for your dinner with the master and missus. Oooh. I got sup to make and just about all my chores. No rest for Miss Cassie.”

The chatter faded as the housemaid left the room, leaving Clare behind at last to enjoy the quiet and peacefulness of her room. She bounced playfully in the feather bed and wrapped the white laced blankets tightly around her and giggled. Clare sat up and sipped on her tea and devoured her biscuits.

And then, those books! She pulled down dozens and ran her fingers over the covers, each smelling of fresh bonded leather. Oh, if she had days to spend in this room alone.

But a stray remembrance of the previous evening interrupted her revelry. The image of Mr. O'Riley's face made her queasy. And what of John Barden? She had lost any romantic notions for the man, but she didn't want him to die.

Then there was her brother Seamus. Poor Seamus.

Of course, she wasn't entirely sure of this Andrew. What type of motives would he have for bringing her to his home? Was this all about Patrick Feagles?

All of the sudden, Clare felt the urge to flee. Yet there was something powerful, something deeply rooted in her conscience that was encouraging her to stay.

Chapter 33

The Dinner

The echoes of brightly polished silverware clattering on imported French china was all that could be heard in the absence of conversation. Clare's finely upholstered chair tucked into a mahogany table bearing a mirrored sheen, covered with intricately hand-sewn runners and place mats, illuminated by candles lifted by golden holders. In well-crafted silver bowls and platters was the most spectacular spread of food she had ever seen.