Chapter 11
When the train steamed into the station and their small group departed, Lady Langley didn’t just send a carriage for them; she met them at the station in all her glory.
Her hair was piled in an extravagant arrangement, highlighting the pure white strands she was famous for popularising among her set.
She wore dark shades of mourning, but it was impossible to miss the crimson underskirt peeking from layers of ebony silk and lace.
The colour matched the rubies dripping from her wrists and ears.
While the duchess was entering into her fifth decade, she still had a youthful figure with a waist cinched so tight, Grey cringed as Lady Langley swept across the platform towards them.
She pulled Cynthia into a tight hug, hardly decorous, but when one was as wealthy and well-titled as Lady Langley, one did as they wished. Her loud exclamations drew the eye of every traveller exiting the steaming train.
‘Oh, my dearest Cynthia! Thank goodness you have finally arrived! You have no idea how trying this time has been for me!’ Every word from her mouth was an exclamation, and Thomas noticed his shoulders tighten as she became more shrill.
‘Arthur getting himself murdered with no consideration at all for my nerves. And poor Anna. The lost little lamb. She spends all day in the nursery in tears. The sound of crying is so distressing. I haven’t been past the third floor since we arrived. ’
Before Cynthia could offer any words of condolence, the duchess turned to Grey.
Her voice lowered into a throaty purr as the tears retreated and something far more predatory emerged.
‘You grow more handsome by the day, Lieutenant General Grey. You’ll have an old lady like me swooning before we even exit the station.
’ She tilted her head so the waning sunlight caught her in a yellow beam as she batted her charcoal-stained lashes coquettishly.
Alarm winged through him, and he took a half-step back. He had never considered himself prey; however, it was apparent who the apex predator was as Lady Langley swiftly moved him into her crosshairs. He needed an escape. ‘You flatter me, Your Grace.’
The duchess’s keen eyes flicked from Grey to land on Clio as she disembarked the train. An odd desire to step in front of Clio, shielding her from view, had him shifting to his left. Lady Langley misinterpreted his movement, winking before leaning to her right to squint at Clio.
‘Is that a crow on the girl’s shoulder?’ The duchess’s shrill voice had all heads swivelling to follow where she pointed her fan.
Clio must have felt the weight of such sudden regard.
She lifted her gaze from where she had been watching a young girl and her mother exiting the train to confront the stares of more than a dozen remaining passengers milling on the platform.
Instead of blushing or looking for somewhere to hide, she threw back her shoulders, taking time to look each passenger in the eye until, one at a time, they all turned away.
The last person she stared down was Thomas.
He was at least a dozen yards away from her, yet he felt the same arc of electricity that buzzed through him every time she was near zing down his spine and tighten his bollocks.
Unlike the other people on the platform, he didn’t look away. He held her gaze.
‘Miller, go and rescue that poor young thing before the wild crow claws out her eyes.’
Before the footman escorting Lady Langley could follow her orders, Grey grabbed his arm, halting him. ‘I wouldn’t.’ He turned to the duchess. ‘That isn’t a crow, Your Grace. It is Sir Robin.’
‘Stuff of nonsense! That thing is nothing like a robin.’
Thomas’ lips twitched. ‘Yes, of course, you are correct. It is a raven named Sir Robin.’
‘That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.’
Thomas had thought the same when he first met Clio, but he found a need to defend both the bird and the woman as Clio drew closer. ‘He is our dear cousin’s pet.’ He delivered the last few words with a charming smile for Clio, whose eyes widened for a fraction before quickly narrowing in suspicion.
Ah. You have no idea how charming I can be when motivated. But you are going to find out.
‘Bastard!’
The duchess turned her head sharply, looking for whoever had been so rude as to shout a profanity in public, but no one was near enough to be the culprit.
Clio stopped at the edge of their group and delivered a rather exemplary curtsey as Sir Robin fluffed his feathers.
Grey lifted a brow and didn’t miss the scowl she directed at him before returning her focus to Lady Langley and tipping her lips in a demure smile.
You aren’t fooling me, Clio. There is nothing reserved about you.
Cynthia put her hand on Clio’s arm. Thomas didn’t miss the squeeze of reassurance his sister gave. ‘Allow me to introduce Lady Clio Blair of Stirling and her darling pet raven.’
Sir Robin Goodfellow clacked his beak and whistled. The glint in his black eye had Thomas wondering if he didn’t dislike being referred to as a pet.
Nonsense! He can’t understand us, let alone have any opinions about what we are saying.
Sir Robin tilted his head at Thomas. ‘Blunder head!’
Well, at least he didn’t say, ‘Bastard.’ Surely I’m rising in his esteem.
Or he was wise enough not to get caught swearing by the duchess.
Lady Langley burst into laughter. ‘What a clever trick. Can he say anything else?’
Clio’s smile was sharper than carved glass. Before she could answer, the raven turned and readjusted his perch on Clio’s shoulder. ‘Fancy girl,’ he quipped.
Cynthia slapped her hand over her mouth at the euphemism, and Thomas clenched his jaw.
Not so wise, after all.
Lady Langley would hardly allow such a well-aimed insult at her fidelity. No one called a duchess a whore. Not even a raven. If Sir Robin wasn’t careful, he would soon find himself baked into a pie.
Clio shook her head and laughed, and Thomas wondered if she might find herself in the same pie as her raven.
‘Well, I never!’ Lady Langley pressed a hand against her throat.
‘He thinks you are rather beautiful, Lady Langley.’
The duchess’s eyes widened as she froze mid-exclamation. ‘Pardon?’
‘My uncle taught him that word every time Aunt Rowan came into the room to annoy her. My aunt is quite stunning. She is Sir Robin’s favourite. He only uses that word to describe her. It is a real honour, Your Grace.’
‘Stunning,’ Sir Robin chirped. ‘Fancy girl. Stunning.’
Lady Langley lifted her chin, looking from Clio to Sir Robin and back again. Her cheeks darkened to rose as her lips curled in a slow smile. ‘Stunning, you say?’
Sir Robin clacked his beak.
The duchess turned to Cynthia. ‘I must say, you have the most interesting relatives. We certainly shan’t have a dull time while you’re here.’
Both Thomas and Cynthia exhaled in tandem. Thomas shook out his hand, which had inadvertently tightened into a fist.
‘Come along. Everyone’s waiting at Blackthorn Manor. Cook has outdone himself, even if he is French.’ Lady Langley said the last as if the word tasted of bitter hemlock. Looping her arm in Cynthia’s on one side, and Clio’s on the other, the duchess pulled them along with Thomas trailing behind.
Sir Robin turned his head, catching Thomas in his obsidian gaze. He could have sworn the bird winked. Which was impossible.
Or magic.
Clio’s afternoon had been an endless lesson in opulence, starting with their arrival at Blackthorn Manor.
The gravelled drive they rolled over was lighted by gilded lamps set five feet apart, reminding Clio of enchanted fairy orbs leading her into another land.
As they passed through a stone archway, the gate of black iron was pulled aside by two groomsmen whose only job seemed to be waiting for carriages to arrive and depart.
Lady Langley had an affinity for the French Renaissance building style.
Her palatial home sported spiked gables too numerous to count, rising into a sky painted red and purple by the setting sun.
It was breathtaking, and Clio worked hard to school her expression into one of polite interest instead of absolute awe.
The manor sat in the centre of a velvet green lawn dotted by topiaries, statues, and expertly pruned gardens that would be an assault of colour and scent in the summer but were dormant so early in the year.
A master sculptor created a fountain of satyrs in fearful pursuit of cavorting nymphs.
It stood in front of a large lake with mute swans, as white as purity and as graceful as ballerinas, gliding in lovers’ pairs.
On the other side of the lake, the drive led directly to the recessed entry of the house.
It was framed by elaborately carved columns reaching four stories from the stone entry to a turreted roof.
The entire staff, dressed in smart black and white uniforms, with green and gold livery for the footmen, lined either side of the entry.
Clio was no stranger to the finer things in life.
While her youth had been spent in a modest cottage in the Scottish midlands, when Aunt Rowan brought them to London, wealth had found them quickly.
It wasn’t long before she forgot the exact smell of peat once permeating every dress she owned.
Bathing in the brook near the village seemed like a story told by someone else as she soaked in her Parisian tub full of steaming, scented water.
The gnawing ache of an empty belly or the numbing pain of frozen fingers and toes were mist and memory.
But she never completely forgot the fear of it.
She knew she was blessed, and she thanked the goddess for it each day.
But sitting in Lady Langley’s carriage and viewing Blackthorn Manor in all its glory made it very clear, Clio might not have known absolute poverty, but neither had she ever experienced true luxury.
‘Oh my,’ she breathed.