Page 27 of A Deal with the Burdened Viscount (Marriage Deals #3)

“Only a few more miles to go,” Clara murmured as she gazed out of the coach. Her plan had worked. She had done it. They had escaped.

The darkness pressed close as the sun set redly. The landscape had been one of open fields, but, as the journey progressed towards Wiltshire, it had given way to dense trees, the coach rattling along a narrow road. Clara shivered. It looked so forbidding outside.

Hannah, her maid and companion, slumbered on the other seat of the coach, apparently unbothered. Clara allowed herself to relax, her hands unfurling against the unaccustomed roughness of her worsted gown. At least they were the only remaining passengers in the stagecoach.

Clara’s mind drifted back to that morning in London. She and Hannah had fled from the London townhouse long before daybreak. Their footsteps were loud as they ran through the darkened, dangerous streets to the Swan Inn to catch the stagecoach. They were far from the only people heading out of London. They found themselves waiting in the street with a half-dozen other passengers, all of them jostling and annoyed about having to be awake so early. The first few hours had been horrible, packed tight in the crowded interior of the coach, her hands sweating with the heart-stopping fear that they would be discovered.

Clara’s brown eyes widened as she stared out, and she tucked a strand of blonde hair back behind one ear. The coach was travelling by the light of lamps that swung from hooks up at the front. They were travelling down a narrow lane through the forest, the trees dark shadows against the ink-coloured sky. Hannah had said that they would reach a coaching inn soon, from which they could walk the short distance to Rosebrook Manor, in the Wiltshire countryside. That was Clara’s aunt’s home. Clara shut her eyes and prayed that Hannah was right and that they would be safe.

The coach slowed.

“Rowantree Inn!” the driver yelled. Clara jumped at the sudden noise, then let out a breath as Hannah blinked and woke.

“Come, Miss Clara,” Hannah said gently as the driver opened the door. She was blinking sleepily in the lamplight even as she turned to jump down. “We’d best get out.”

“Thank you, Hannah,” Clara murmured, taking the driver’s gloved hand and jumping down. Her ankles jarred on the road surface, her heavy outdoor boots feeling strange on her feet. She had dressed in Hannah’s clothing, being safer if they travelled as sisters claiming to be returning home from work at a London townhouse. She smoothed her hands over the rough black skirt she wore.

“Easy, now, girls,” the stagecoach driver said as they collected their bags—two light valises, containing nothing but two changes of clothing each. “These parts around here are not safe. Word tells of a dangerous fellow living in yonder house.” He tilted his head sideways towards Rosebrook Manor. Clara tensed.

“But my aunt...” she began and then caught herself. “My aunt works there. At Rosebrook Manor,” she corrected herself. Her heart thudded. Had something terrible happened? Her aunt had written to her just over a week ago, saying that she was welcome to visit.

“Not Rosebrook,” the driver said soothingly. “The other manor. There across the lake. Folks say there’s a man there that changes shape in the night to the form of a monstrous bear. Can’t quite believe it, myself. But folks swear to it.” He shuddered, pulling his thick cloak tighter around him. “Be careful, now,” he said gently, evidently seeing their worried faces.

Clara shivered and drew her shawl tight around her shoulders. It was almost May, and springtime, but a wintry chill still lingered in the air, even this far southwest of London, and her fingers tingled without gloves.

“Let’s go,” Hannah said quickly. Her own dark eyes were wide with fear and urgency, a curl of her black hair peeking out from under her cloth bonnet.

“Yes. Thank you!” Clara added to the driver as she paid him their fare. He inclined his head politely and wandered off towards the inn.

Clara’s stomach tied itself in knots. The forest stretched out, silent and gloomy, around them. It was entirely dark under the trees. The prospect of walking through it—even for the hundred yards that Hannah assured her separated the inn from Rosebrook Manor—was terrifying. The thought of a man who might turn himself into a bear and lurk in the woods to devour travellers was too frightening to contemplate. She swallowed hard and turned to Hannah.

“My aunt will be waiting,” Clara said with more confidence than she felt. She stepped into the woods, her travelling bag clutched in one hand, her violin case in the other. Her steps on the fallen leaves echoed in the quiet of the forest, the sound strangely loud in the heavy silence that surrounded her.

Hannah followed her and they trudged down the path. The only sound was their footsteps, loud on the small stones. A breeze rustled the leaves. Clara caught her breath, heart pounding in terror.

It’s only a breeze, she reminded herself. Just a small shiver of the leaves in the wind. Even a monstrous bear-man might be less frightening than what she would have faced at home.

Her mind returned to the townhouse from which she had run just twelve hours before. A scene flashed into her thoughts.

“I will not do it,” Clara said loudly to her father.

He raised a brow. “There is no other option. We have already made arrangements. The baron will be calling on you upon the morrow.”

“Papa. Mama...please...” Clara pleaded. They could not do this to her. She had met Baron Blackwood in the ballroom, and the very thought of him nauseated her. His eyes, dark and glassy, seemed devoid of any warmth, and his lips were thin and tightly pressed, as though holding back some hidden disdain. His complexion, pale and drawn, betrayed a life of unhealthy indulgence. Clara might have overlooked his appearance had it not been for his cold, distant manner. When they danced, he spoke little, his conversation limited to remarks on her fine dowry, and his hand gripped hers too tightly, as though claiming possession. His other hand had drifted inappropriately to her waist, and Clara had been repulsed by the lack of warmth or civility in his touch. She could not bear even one hour in his company, let alone a lifetime.

“Think, Clara!” Her mother said, her blue eyes gleaming. “You will be a baroness!” She paused. “You will have what we never had.”

“You will never have to work for anything,” her father said firmly. “You will be part of the nobility.”

Clara looked away . Her parents cared for little beyond securing a title for her. Her father had amassed great wealth through investments and the purchase of factories to process cotton and linen, yet it was never enough. What mattered to him—and to her mother—was the social standing a title would bring. They were determined Clara would have what they could not, no matter the cost.

Clara wondered how much their ambition was for her own good—as they often claimed—since it seemed to benefit her little. She had never asked them to scheme on her behalf. It appeared that what they truly desired was not her happiness, but to be the parents of a noblewoman, a title they could never claim for themselves.

“I have told the baron that he has my permission,” her father said stiffly. “I cannot take back my word. He will be coming to call on you. I think you would be wise to accept whatever he has to say.”

Clara swallowed hard, her heart thudding. Any words of protest died on her lips. She had protested a year before, when they had tried to wed her to the ageing Earl of Camberwell just after her first Season. He had passed away before the marriage could take place, however—a fact that at first delighted Clara, and then filled her with guilt for how relieved and happy she felt.

She knew that there was no good to be gained from arguing.

Clara blinked, her thoughts interrupted as she realised they had reached a wider part of the path, and that it was not, after all, entirely dark yet. The tall trees around them blocked out most of the light, but when they neared the edge of the woods, a faint glow still remained on the horizon, the sapphire blue of the sky making it just possible to see the outline of a house, set between tall conifers.

“Rosebrook Manor!” Clara said with excitement. “Here we are!”

Hannah coughed. “Let us hurry, miss,” she said softly.

“Yes,” Clara agreed, remembering how unsafe their situation was. She swallowed hard and walked onwards. The wind rustled the leaves again and she shuddered, drawing her shawl close, her hand tightening around her violin case. Was that just the wind? she asked herself. Or was it something moving in the shadows? A huge bear, waiting to devour them?

She quickened her pace and she and Hannah walked as swiftly as they could down the last few tens of yards towards her aunt’s manor.

The gate that led to the estate was open, and they walked up the gravel path. Clara’s heart raced. Each step was a step towards safety. They reached the door and she leaned back for a moment against the railing of the terrace, her strength draining out of her. Relief drained her energy. They were there. They were safe.

Hannah knocked at the door and Clara waited, grateful to have her trustworthy, kind maid with her. She scraped a lock of blonde hair out of her eye and under her dark bonnet as the door opened.

“Clara! Niece! Welcome!” Aunt Harriet’s voice was loud in the silence of the terrace. “We were just beginning to fret about you. Come in! Come in!”

Clara stepped over the threshold. Her legs almost collapsed as she reached the bright-lit, warm entranceway of her aunt’s home. Aunt Harriet, her pretty, oval face wreathed in smiles, stepped forward and wrapped her arms around her.

“Clara! Welcome. It is so wonderful to see you.”

“Aunt. Thank you. It is such a relief to be here,” Clara replied, her voice thick with emotion. She hugged her aunt firmly, drawing the tall, slim woman against her. Her aunt hugged her back. She smelled faintly of a spicy, exotic perfume. Her auburn hair was curly and peeked out from under the dark blue velvet turban that she wore, which matched perfectly with her blue gown.

Clara stepped back, about to introduce Hannah, who was gathering the luggage together at the entrance.

“Aunt, this is my companion...” she began, but she did not manage to get any further in the introduction as a high-pitched yell interrupted her words.

“Cousin! Cousin Clara!”

A tall, slim body launched itself at Clara from the stairs. Clara gasped in surprise, then grinned in delight as she wrapped her arms around her cousin, Genevive, in a strong embrace. Her cousin stepped back and smiled down at her.

Long brown hair that was coming loose from a bun framed her slim face, which was very similar in shape to Aunt Harriet’s. The similarity stopped there, however. Where Aunt Harriet had stronger, exotic features and hazel eyes, Genevive had pale green eyes and slim, slight features. Her pale pink lips lifted at the corners when she contemplated Clara, and she wrapped her in a heartfelt hug.

“Genevive,” Clara greeted her, hugging her tightly and breathing in a fleeting trace of rosewater perfume. “I am so happy to see you.”

“You have no idea how happy I am that you are here,” Genevive gushed. “It is so grand to see you. It will be grand to have you here for the house party that Mama has planned. I cannot wait.” She twirled around to face her mother. Clara frowned.

“House party?” she asked her aunt in confusion. Hannah followed them as they walked to the stairs. The butler followed, carrying the two suitcases and Clara’s violin case with practised strength.

“I did not have the opportunity to tell you,” Aunt Harriet explained swiftly. “In honour of Genevive’s come-out last year, I decided to have a house party here at the manor. It is far more pleasant than a Season in London. Here, we may do as we please, and the air is so much fresher and cooler than in London, even at this time of year.” She smiled; her brownish-hazel eyes framed by fine wrinkles in the corners.

Clara swallowed hard. “Yes. London is most unpleasant at this time of year.” That was not really true: springtime in London was rather beautiful, especially in the profusion of parks that it offered, and the weather was not unpleasant. But she hated the Season. This would, like Genevive, be her second Season and she did not want ever to have to face another one.

“Quite so. I am glad you are of the same mind. Now, I have put you in the pink room. It isn’t really pink, you know, it’s lilac. But my late husband was known for his curious ideas about colour names," she said with a smile, shaking her head in fond remembrance.

Clara smiled. Her aunt had been wed to an eccentric baron, who had adored both her and Genevive but had sadly passed away when Genevive—and Clara herself, who was almost a year younger—was not quite four. He and Aunt Harriet had both believed in the revolutionary spirit of Liberty and Equality that had drifted across from France. While most of London society did not look with fondness on the French ideals, Aunt Harriet was a firm believer in personal freedom, and she scorned the foolish, petty beliefs of society. Clara had always admired her, while Papa—whose sister she was—had all but banned Clara from communicating with her.

“Thank you, aunt,” Clara said fondly.

“Now, then,” Aunt Harriet said warmly. “I will go to the drawing room and call for some tea. Your things will be brought up in a moment. I have organised a room for your companion as well.”

“Thank you, aunt,” Clara said again, her heart twisting with gratitude. “I am so grateful to you... I do not know how to tell you how much I appreciate it.” She drew a breath, emotion and exhaustion threatening to overwhelm her.

Aunt Harriet beamed at her and opened the door to a room on her right, then hurried off down the hallway. Clara looked at Genevive. Genevive grinned at her.

“My bedchamber is just up the hallway. We’ll be able to dress for balls together!” Genevive said excitedly. “Mama has a ball planned for tomorrow when the guests arrive.”

Clara frowned, her stomach twisting in knots. Her aunt must have forgotten that nobody in London was meant to know where she was. Having the house flooded with guests from the ton —though Aunt believed in liberty and equality, her guest list would no doubt be brimming with those of high society—was hardly a good idea. Word would soon spread through London of Clara’s whereabouts, and before long, her parents would be certain to learn of it.

“Do you know if...” Clara began, but Genevive interrupted as Hannah came in briefly with Clara’s suitcase and violin case in her hand.

“Clara! You must borrow my things. There’s barely enough in that suitcase to keep you dressed for a day.”

“I have two dresses,” Clara admitted, her spirits lifting. She had not thought any further than escaping the house, and two dresses had seemed more than enough. Knowing that her aunt had planned a house party that would include balls and other such events, she was grateful for Genevive’s offer.

“Well, then. You must borrow whatever you wish,” Genevive said firmly. She frowned as Hannah went to draw the curtains. “Let them stay back for a moment, please” she instructed Hannah. “I want to be able to see the lake with the storm-clouds.”

“Yes, miss,” Hannah replied respectfully. She went to the door, leaving it a little open behind her as she withdrew.

“There’s a storm,” Genevive explained, moving to stand by the window. Clara followed, her gaze drawn outside. She tightened her shawl around her shoulders—the scene before her was both chilly and unnerving, and she was all the more grateful that they had arrived at the manor in time. The sky was a deep, impenetrable black, while the surface of the lake gleamed with an eerie light as lightning flashed from cloud to cloud. Clara held her breath, waiting for the inevitable rumble of thunder, which came a moment later, its sound rolling through the air.

“It’s so...um...inspiring,” Clara said carefully. The scene was frightening, but Genevive’s green eyes were sparkling. She clearly loved the beauty of the storm.

“It is!” Genevive agreed. “But we must be cautious. The wind may grow strong,” she added, going to the window on the eastern wall and shutting it firmly.

Clara relaxed, grateful that the chilly blast had abated somewhat. She frowned as something crashed in the hallway.

“It’s the shutters of the windows in the corridor,” Genevive explained. “The staff will shut them so that they do not break in the wind.”

Clara nodded, hearing raised voices in the hallway. She gazed out over the lake as it was lit again. She could hear the staff talking through the open door and she listened idly as she watched, the sound of their voices taking her mind off her own agitated thoughts.

“...and he’ll be out and about again, so they say.” It was a woman’s voice, low and frightened.

“They do say he’s out in every storm. Every storm,” another woman replied. Her voice was louder, more insistent.

“It’s unnatural. That’s what it is,” the first woman replied. “I almost believe the stories.”

“You mean, that he’s half-beast?” the second woman chuckled. “I do not believe that.”

“Mayhap not,” the first woman said in a dark tone. “But his rages are unnatural. And all this wandering around in storms? Perhaps there’s some truth to it.”

The other woman replied something inaudible. Clara’s heart thumped faster. The women walked past the door and spotted her staring. They fell abruptly silent. She blinked in surprise and turned to Genevive. Her cousin frowned.

“What is it, cousin?” Genevive asked carefully. “You look worried.”

“The maids...” Clara began, gesturing vaguely. “The story that they told...” The story sounded eerily similar to the one that the coach-driver had told them. She shuddered. She had to know the truth.

“Those stories?” Genevive shrugged. “You know how people will gossip. They gossip about everyone, for no reason.” She frowned. “But I must say, there is something odd about our neighbour across the lake. I almost believe the stories myself.” She chuckled, but Clara could see that the smile did not reach her eyes, which seemed frightened.

“What is it?” Clara asked, her eyes darting to the window. If she looked, she fancied she could see light across the water, though it might just have been her imagination.

“The man who lives there. He returned from Portugal about a year ago. With the end of the war, and everything,” she added distantly, referring to the Peninsular War, where many of the English troops had fought against Napoleon under the leadership of the Duke of Wellington. “He is rather strange. He never appears, except at night, or during storms. People say he is quite fearsome to look at, and that he rages like a bear. I do not put much stock in such tales,” Genevive said quickly. “I believe he is just some poor damaged soul. Perhaps he was never quite right in his mind. Noble families do tend to hide such things.” She shrugged.

Clara’s frown deepened. “I hope he is not suffering,” she said softly.

“You are a dear, sweet soul, cousin,” Genevive said warmly, taking Clara’s hand and squeezing it. “Oh!” she added as a distant bell chimed the hour. It was eight o’clock. Clara’s stomach growled. She had eaten nothing all day apart from a sandwich at the inn. “I should let you rest and dress for dinner. Sorry, cousin! I am selfish, chattering away like this. I am just so glad to see you.”

“As am I, to see you,” Clara replied warmly.

She embraced her cousin and then went to the dressing table, sinking wearily down onto the padded stool. She gazed at her reflection. She was exhausted, her face pale and her hair falling loose about her face where the bun she had styled it in had become loose during the jolting, gruelling hours on the road. She reached up to adjust it and, as she did so, the door opened and Hannah stepped in, smiling warmly at her. Clara smiled back, relieved to have some company. The eerie rumbling of the storm, and her cousin’s words, had troubled her. She leaned back and tried to relax. Her fears of discovery had abated when she walked into the manor, and she pushed away any thoughts of London and what might be happening there. It was easier than she would have expected. She was tired, though her mind kept travelling to the house across the lake and wondering about the strange occupant who lived there. She was certain that the bear-man stories could not be true, but she was curious and could not help but wonder who he was and what he was really doing there in the storm.