Lord Monroe's Dark Tower: The Albright Sisters: Book 2 by Elf Ahearn

use one of the pots … ”
    “You see!” Abella cried.
    Betty’s hand fluttered to her throat.
    “But I personally washed it afterwards, and besides, the herbs I gave you wouldn’t cause sickness.”
    Abella’s mouth quirked skeptically. “Maybe you pick something bad in fields,” she said, her chin high in defiance. “You probably get something by accident.”
    His features stiff with anger, Flavian retorted, “I was there. Lady Claire gathered St. John’s wort and valerian root, nothing more.”
    “Ha! Before she come, you don’t know what those herbs look like. How you know she tell you truth?”
    For just a fraction of a second, Flavian looked down.
    Dear God, he doubted her!
“But what would I gain from poisoning everyone?” Claire heard the desperation in her own voice. She went directly in front of Flavian, piercing him with her gaze. “I would never, ever do such a thing.”
    His mouth opened to respond, but Abella cut him off. “Maybe you a little upset at Vav. Maybe he do something you don’t like.”
    Guilt dashed unbidden through her heart. For an instant, she flicked her eyes away from his face. His kiss in the field, and the shuttered way he’d treated her afterwards — the memories pressed against her rational mind. “I wouldn’t … ”
    Betty stepped closer to the room’s cave-like exit. She stared at Claire, mouth open, and eyes wide. Then she ducked her head, bobbed a curtsey, and darted from the bedroom.
    “Look what you’ve done, Abella,” Flavian growled, “within seconds every servant on this estate will be in an uproar.”
    Claire wrung her hands. “Oh God, I swear I would never bring anyone to harm.”
    “You did nothing wrong.” He glared at his ward. “Apologize at once.”
    “I said was probably accident.”
    “There was no accident! Lady Claire did not harvest the wrong herbs.”
    Abella’s face turned red and she pounded her fists on the bedspread. “I no care what you say. On pain of death, I never drink that potion again. And I no drink this either!” In one violent gesture she hurled the chicken broth across the room. China smashed against the wallpaper, splattering soup onto Claire’s fresh gown.
    “Great God Almighty,” Flavian grabbed the bedstead and lifted the structure off the floor. Terrified, Abella scrabbled for a hold on the mattress. He dropped the bed with a crash. “What has gotten into you?”
    Abella shrank in horror behind the bed sheets, but inside her mask of fear, Claire saw it again: that little glint of calculation.
    The girl was up to something, but to what possible end?
    Flavian yanked the bell pull furiously, and then paced the floor until Marlow squeezed into the room. “What is it, my lord?” the servant said, still pale and swaying from the morning.
    “Get the servants into the great hall at once.”
    “But they’re all sick, my lord,” the butler blurted.
    “Please let them rest,” Claire cried, gripping Flavian’s arm.
    He shook her off. “I command you to have everyone in the great hall on the double.”
    With a frightened bow, the butler scuttled through the dark hole — the only escape from Abella’s miserable, clogged bedroom.
    • • •
    Within minutes, the household was as active as a village green on fair day. Claire heard whispers, the movement of feet slowing as the servants approached the great hall, each with the word “poison” fresh on their lips. Hurriedly dressed in livery and aprons, many so sick they could barely walk, they peered at her, some with flashes of hatred and resentment lighting their exhausted features.
    “Sit, sit,” Flavian told them. He waited until the room quieted.
    “A terrible accident has befallen our home,” he told them. “We don’t know the cause of it. Bless the Lord, no one died, and I pray you all fully recover. To that end, our guest, Lady Claire, has made us a strengthening broth. I want you all to have some now.”
    A murmur of alarm filled the room.
    “I