in her old employer’s stuffy morning parlor. There seemed to be no escape. He was always there, waiting. “Yes,” she said softly.
“Did you fall off Big Ben?” Mr. Ravensdale spread his fingers over her skull, forcing her head down. Clara knew if she faced him, he would be wearing that jaded smile she had grown to despise during their short acquaintance. “Your head is split open. This needs stitches.”
“No! No stitches.” Just as she moved to jump from the chair, the answering tug of her poorly healed stitches ripped at her side. She did not wish to be trussed up like a Christmas goose once more, by the hand of another unskilled fraud.
“Let me see,” James yelled, jumping up excitedly to see the wound. “Eww,” he and Minnie cried out in unison. They both bumbled backward as Mr. Barnes rushed forward with his arms outstretched, and growled.
Mr. Ravensdale leaned over her. “Who did this?” His hot breath against the nape of her neck sent a rush of warmth through her core. Her answer was lost between her lips, his nearness too distracting. Clara kept her eyes focused forward, as his heat wrapped around her. Her stomach fluttered. “No one.” Her voice was smaller than she wished it to be. “I fell,” she whispered with an edge of determination.
Clara felt the tension ripple from his fingers over her skin as he remained silent. If he did not believe her…if he pressed for the truth about her injuries…
“Stay,” he ordered, walking to the cluttered kitchen shelves.
Mr. Barnes gave her a stern look as he leaned against the table in front of her, arms crossed over his body. He tipped forward slightly, no doubt the direct influence of the whiskey he had been siphoning off Mr. Ravensdale all afternoon. “How did you fall?” He squinted his eyes, bobbing left and right as though to keep her on his horizon. She suspected it was swaying a great deal.
“Leave her,” barked Mr. Ravensdale.
She winced again. His temper was just a thinly veiled threat as the night continued and she was afraid of being on the receiving end when it erupted. With the strike of a match, the air filled with the perfumed aroma of his cigars. He was a human volcano, not a handsome chimney.
“Does it hurt awfully bad, Miss Clara?” Minnie asked.
“It’s ‘does it hurt badly,’ Lady Minnie. And no, it doesn’t hurt. Lady Grace just pulled at the pins in my hair. I will be fine.” Clara spoke as politely as possible, but even her patience was growing dangerously thin.
“Bloody hell! Stop dancing, Minnie,” Mr. Ravensdale growled. The girl startled, and froze by Clara’s side. “The kitchen is no place for flying about. I’ll toss you to Lucy if you don’t stop.”
Clara spun around, grasping the top of the chair, her eyes just above the high back, and sent a look full of daggers toward the frightful man. He returned her glare with equal measure, but Clara held her ground, even as he arched an ominous brow and motioned for her to spin around. She lofted her nose as she turned, crossing her arms in a huff. He did not say anything further, even as he approached from behind and parted her hair. She winced, but did not cry out. She would not allow him the satisfaction.
“There’s no clean way to do this.” Mr. Ravensdale’s words were muddled from the cigar wedged between his lips. She lifted her head to see, only to feel a strong grip on the top of her head, pointing it downward once more.
She cinched the rag tossed around her shoulders just as a trickle of cold liquid splashed her scalp. “What are you doing?” Clara yelped.
“Stay still.”
Icy liquid slid down her back and violent shivers racked her body. She leapt from the chair, knocking the pot from his hand, effectively drenching herself.
“What did you do?” she yelled, facing him as he gave a hearty laugh. Her fists balled at her sides.
He shrugged, turning to deposit the empty pot in the sink. “Go with Miss Dawson, children.”
The
“Did you fall off Big Ben?” Mr. Ravensdale spread his fingers over her skull, forcing her head down. Clara knew if she faced him, he would be wearing that jaded smile she had grown to despise during their short acquaintance. “Your head is split open. This needs stitches.”
“No! No stitches.” Just as she moved to jump from the chair, the answering tug of her poorly healed stitches ripped at her side. She did not wish to be trussed up like a Christmas goose once more, by the hand of another unskilled fraud.
“Let me see,” James yelled, jumping up excitedly to see the wound. “Eww,” he and Minnie cried out in unison. They both bumbled backward as Mr. Barnes rushed forward with his arms outstretched, and growled.
Mr. Ravensdale leaned over her. “Who did this?” His hot breath against the nape of her neck sent a rush of warmth through her core. Her answer was lost between her lips, his nearness too distracting. Clara kept her eyes focused forward, as his heat wrapped around her. Her stomach fluttered. “No one.” Her voice was smaller than she wished it to be. “I fell,” she whispered with an edge of determination.
Clara felt the tension ripple from his fingers over her skin as he remained silent. If he did not believe her…if he pressed for the truth about her injuries…
“Stay,” he ordered, walking to the cluttered kitchen shelves.
Mr. Barnes gave her a stern look as he leaned against the table in front of her, arms crossed over his body. He tipped forward slightly, no doubt the direct influence of the whiskey he had been siphoning off Mr. Ravensdale all afternoon. “How did you fall?” He squinted his eyes, bobbing left and right as though to keep her on his horizon. She suspected it was swaying a great deal.
“Leave her,” barked Mr. Ravensdale.
She winced again. His temper was just a thinly veiled threat as the night continued and she was afraid of being on the receiving end when it erupted. With the strike of a match, the air filled with the perfumed aroma of his cigars. He was a human volcano, not a handsome chimney.
“Does it hurt awfully bad, Miss Clara?” Minnie asked.
“It’s ‘does it hurt badly,’ Lady Minnie. And no, it doesn’t hurt. Lady Grace just pulled at the pins in my hair. I will be fine.” Clara spoke as politely as possible, but even her patience was growing dangerously thin.
“Bloody hell! Stop dancing, Minnie,” Mr. Ravensdale growled. The girl startled, and froze by Clara’s side. “The kitchen is no place for flying about. I’ll toss you to Lucy if you don’t stop.”
Clara spun around, grasping the top of the chair, her eyes just above the high back, and sent a look full of daggers toward the frightful man. He returned her glare with equal measure, but Clara held her ground, even as he arched an ominous brow and motioned for her to spin around. She lofted her nose as she turned, crossing her arms in a huff. He did not say anything further, even as he approached from behind and parted her hair. She winced, but did not cry out. She would not allow him the satisfaction.
“There’s no clean way to do this.” Mr. Ravensdale’s words were muddled from the cigar wedged between his lips. She lifted her head to see, only to feel a strong grip on the top of her head, pointing it downward once more.
She cinched the rag tossed around her shoulders just as a trickle of cold liquid splashed her scalp. “What are you doing?” Clara yelped.
“Stay still.”
Icy liquid slid down her back and violent shivers racked her body. She leapt from the chair, knocking the pot from his hand, effectively drenching herself.
“What did you do?” she yelled, facing him as he gave a hearty laugh. Her fists balled at her sides.
He shrugged, turning to deposit the empty pot in the sink. “Go with Miss Dawson, children.”
The
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