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

shall take the first swallow,” he shouted over the din, “as a token of my absolute trust in Lady Claire’s healing abilities.”
    “Would you ladle some broth for me?” he asked Claire.
    Hands shaking, Claire poured the liquid into a mug and gave it to Flavian.
    Every eye in the hall fixed on him as he blew across the top of the cup — wisps of steam disappearing with each expelled breath. The room grew deathly still as Flavian pressed the mug to his lips. He tipped it and opened his mouth. The Adam’s apple moved up, then down, then up and down, again and again. He polished off the mixture in one long draught.
    “Delicious,” he said, thumping the mug on the long wooden table as if issuing a challenge.
    Claire ladled some for herself. Head high, she lifted the cup. “I swear to you all, this is nothing but salted chicken broth. It will make you feel better.” Exaggerating each gesture to make sure the servants saw, she drained her mug to the last drop.
    “Marlow,” Flavian said, looking hard at the butler. The servant rose reluctantly and walked like a condemned man to the pot. An angry buzz filled the hall. “Just a little ma’am,” he said.
    “Fill it,” Flavian commanded. “Now drink it, please.” The noise in the room grew.
    Marlow pressed his lips to the edge of the mug.
    “A little more, perhaps,” came Flavian’s voice, tinged with impatience.
    The crowd hissed and glared dangerously at Claire.
    A helpless look suffused the butler’s face. He locked eyes with his wife, as if saying a last goodbye.
    “Eech, can’t you leave the man alone,” a voice called from the assembly. It was impossible for Claire to tell who spoke.
    “The broth is fine, man,” Flavian said, running out of patience. Still, Marlow didn’t move.
    “It’s a guinea for the first man that drains his glass — a pound for those that come after,” Flavian added.
    In a trice, Marlow’s mug was empty, a wide smile planted on his face as Flavian handed him the coin.
    Soon everyone was drinking the broth. An air of merriment filled the great hall. Most important to Claire, the sickest ones didn’t object when she poured them a second round and pressed another pound in their palm. Carrying a tray of mugs to a group huddled near the door, Claire noticed a slight movement in the balcony at the far end of the hall. Kneeling behind the balustrade, Abella watched the festivities. When the girl noticed Claire’s eyes on her, she scurried backwards, disappearing into the shadows.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    The butler was the last to leave the great hall. Flavian occupied himself by wiping a bead of soup off the table, but he looked up as the servant backed away. For just a fraction of a second, their eyes met and he knew the rumors wouldn’t end. They’d say his lordship paid them to stay hush on the poisoning. But he knew Claire had nothing to do with the sickness in his home. Brooding, he took a sip of chicken broth.
    Claire pulled out a bench and sat at the long wooden table. She seemed tired. “They’ll still talk,” she said. “They’ll speculate.”
    “Perhaps so, but they’ll forget, too.”
    “I wonder.”
    “Anyone caught spreading lies about you will be sacked.”
    “Please don’t do that; it would only make things worse for me.”
    “It could be a whole lot worse for them.” He clunked his mug on the table.
    She pressed a hand to her heart, resignation tipping toward tears in her tight face. “Perhaps it’s time I went on to London.”
    Flavian shook his head “No.” He didn’t know why, but having her leave would be unbearable. “It’s the wrong thing to do. Then everyone will say it’s true.”
    She turned from him, forlorn and vulnerable. “How can you protect me if the whole household distrusts me?”
    “I tell you, nothing will happen.”
    But the look of exhaustion deepened. Without thinking, he touched her head, just to comfort her, just to caress her hair so she didn’t feel so alone. How he