Robin Schone (19 page)

to succumb to sex.”

The acrid sting of burning wool had brought tears to Victoria’s eyes.

He should not have burned the dress.

He should not have tried to comfort Victoria; there was no comfort to be had from a man who had

killed, and who would kill again. ,

Gabriel turned his back on Victoria—twice in one day, now—and strode into the bathroom. He

softly shut the door behind him. A barrier to reinforce the one that had momentarily slipped inside him.

Gray mist still writhed in the air.

Victoria had used his toilet: Gabriel lifted the wooden lid and used the toilet.

Worn drawers and limp stockings neatly hung over a towel rack.

Victoria’s pain-filled cry reverberated through him.
I am as clean as you are.

Water spotted the marble wash basin.

/

Gabriel stared into the mirror above it.

Dull gray peered through a fading patch of steam.

For one fleeting second Gabriel stared into the eyes of hope.

It coiled and disappeared like the illusion that it was.

Victoria stared at the closed door, unable to breathe.

A faint splatter penetrated the satinwood.

Hot color surged into her cheeks, identifying the sound.

Even an angel had to relieve himself.

The sense of unreality his confession had created dissipated. And once again she could breathe.

She firmly tucked the silk spread between her breasts. Grabbing the skirt to lift clear of her feet,

she gave him privacy.

A silver tray glinted on the black-marble-topped desk. The smell of ham and eggs and coffee filled

the air.

Victoria’s stomach growled.

When he’s hungry, feed him. When he hurts, offer him hope. When he has nowhere to go, give him

a bed to sleep in,
rang inside her ears.

Gabriel had fed her and he had given up his bed that she might sleep in it.

He had not offered her hope, but he had sought to comfort her.

Seduction.

The illusion of trust.

There was only one cup on the tray.

Victoria did not want to eat alone.

She poured a cup of coffee and inhaled the savory odor. It tasted like pure nectar.

Gray light permeated the library. Gold lettering glittered invitingly.

Victoria knew books; books had been her life for as long as she could remember. She did not know how

to comfort an angel.

Idly, she perused the rows and rows of leather-bound books. Straining to hear ... a whisper of air. A

footstep.

Gabriel.

Bold-embossed lettering caught Victoria’s eye: one man’s name, Jules Verne.

Journey to the Center of the Earth; Voyage au centre de la terre; Twenty Thousand Leagues

Under the Sea; Vingt mille lieues sous les mers; The Mysterious Island; L’Ile mysterieuse; Around

the World in Eighty Days; Le Tour du monde en quatre-vingts jours...

Gabriel possessed many works by Jules Verne, both in English and French.

She more carefully studied other books by Victor Hugo. George Sand . .. the English author

Shakespeare .. .

Every title came in both a French volume and an English volume.

Coffee forgotten, Victoria plucked up
L’Ile mysterieuse,
the French edition of
The Mysterious Island
’

by Jules Verne, and stood beside the one window.

The English version was far less weighty.

Which language did Gabriel prefer to read? she wondered . .. English or French?

Blinding light exploded overhead.

Victoria blinked.

She did not have to see Gabriel to know that it was he who had turned on the chandelier. Every bone

inside her body cried out her awareness.

He stood by the blue leather couch, framed by the glittering expanse of setting sun and shimmering blue

ocean in the painting behind him. His face was slightly pink; he had shaved. A black wool Derby coat and

gray pinstriped wool frock were draped over
his right arm. A crimson silk tie was knotted about a starched

white collar. The cut of a gray pinstriped waistcoat and trousers expertly fit his body. A silver cane

weighted his left hand, a black bowler hat his right.

There was no sign of the man with the beard stubble who had shared his needs with her. In his place

was an elegant, freshly shaven man.

Twenty-four hours earlier she would have thought him a pampered gentleman.

Victoria did not make that mistake now.

Gabriel was elegant. Gabriel was beautiful.

Gabriel was dangerous.

“Don’t stand in front of the window,” he curtly commanded. “And keep the blinds closed.”

Victoria did not move away from the window. “No one can see me.”

“You will not see the man who has a gun trained on you, mademoiselle,” Gabriel said silkily. “Perhaps

you will see a flash of light when he releases the trigger, perhaps not. One thing is for certain— you won’t

hear the gunshot: you’ll be dead.”

The danger of being shot by a man she had never seen was not real; the man in front of her was.

“You are going out,” Victoria said evenly. “Who is going to prevent someone from shooting you?”

Gabriel dropped the two coats, cane and hat onto the pale blue leather couch that had been his bed only

short hours earlier.

Leaning down, he retrieved a leather holster. Lifting up a cushion, then, he pulled a pistol out from

underneath. “He won’t shoot me.”

The barrel of the pistol was a dull blue-black.

The smell of ham and eggs cloyed inside her throat.

Victoria recognized that pistol: it was the one he had hidden underneath the white silk napkin the night

before. It was the pistol he had been prepared to shoot her with.

Victoria stepped away from the window, legs trembling.
Stomach
trembling.

Bitter coffee rose up inside her throat. “You are going out to look for him.”

And k ill him.

The unspoken words hovered between them.

“Yes.” Gabriel slipped the holster over his right arm and buckled the attached belt around his ribs.

“The ...”—tears pricked Victoria’s eyes; she didn’t want to be afraid, for her, for Gabriel— “the

prostitute said there was another House of Gabriel prior to the opening of this one. She said that it burned

down. Did the man you are looking for burn it down?”

“No.” Gabriel adjusted the leather strap looping his shoulder before sliding the revolver inside the holster,

his motions sure, practiced, as if he had done so thousands of times. He plucked up the pinstriped gray wool

jacket off the couch and faced Victoria. “I burned it down.”

Victoria took a deep breath; the silk knotted at her breasts loosened.

Gabriel’s silver eyes dared her to ask the question that raced through her head:
why?

“Your books—you have both English and French editions,” she said instead. “Which do you prefer to

read?”

“I learned to read English.” He did not lie. “Someday I hope to be equally proficient in French.”

Her fingers tightened around soft leather. “Who taught you to read English?”

“Michael.”

“Michael is English.”

“Yes.”

The question came unbidden. “My father has never visited your house, has he?”

The shock Victoria had experienced the night before at seeing reputable men and women—men and

women who were her father’s associates—lingered in her thoughts.

“No, your father has never visited my house.”

Victoria believed Gabriel.

“My father would not hurt me,” she said firmly.

But to convince whom? Herself?

Or Gabriel?

“Not even to protect his reputation?” Gabriel queried gently.

“I think he might find vindication in the fact that I am where I am,” she said matter-of-factly.

For once, truth did not bring pain.

She had known the price of leaving his protection when she had been sixteen. She would never go back,

even if he would accept her.

“And what about your brother?”

Gabriel’s question knocked the breath out of Victoria’s lungs. Her fingers dug into the leather, insensitive

to the damage she might cause. “How do you know I have a brother?”

Stupid, stupid question.

The library registrar. . .

“I know that he is thirty years old.” There was no mistaking the scorn in his eyes. “I know that he’s a

man, mademoiselle, well capable of caring for a sister. But he didn’t.”

Victoria tilted her chin. He had no right to judge her... “My brother is not aware of my circumstances.”

“Why not?”

“He ran away when he was twelve.”

“And he didn’t care enough to ever come back and see how his sister fared?”

Victoria was momentarily taken aback at the anger in Gabriel’s voice.

Her brother had cared ... too much.

“My brother ran away because of me.” Memory clouded her eyes. “I do not blame him.”

But Victoria blamed her father.

She would
always
blame her father.

“Why did he run away, Mademoiselle Childers?”

Revulsion tightened Victoria’s stomach.

“My father punished Daniel,” she said reluctantly.

The father had often punished Daniel, she did not need to add.

Gabriel would be repulsed, the old Victoria warned.

Gabriel deserved to know the truth, the new Victoria argued.

Gabriel silently waited. Her choice ...

Victoria looked back ...

“I heard Daniel crying later that night, so I went into his bedchamber, and I climbed into his bed, and I

held him. To comfort him,” she said defensively, hating that she still felt defensive after all these years. “He

went to sleep in my arms. I fell asleep, holding him. My father awakened us.”

Victoria could not hold back the pain and the anger.

“He accused us of. . . of lying together in sin.” She audibly swallowed. “My father does not understand

that one can love— and touch—without carnal desire.”

“So you became a governess,” Gabriel said.

“Yes.”

“And you loved other women’s children—”

Victoria’s lips quirked in wry amusement. “Not all children are lovable—”

“—because you did not trust yourself with men.”

Victoria could no longer run from the truth.

“Yes.”

Two faint bongs sliced through the tension, Big Ben announcing the hour.

“Desire is natural, mademoiselle.” Silver lights danced inside his eyes. “The man who used your desire

against you is at fault, not you.”

Victoria imagined a boy who wanted a bed to sleep in ... an adolescent who wanted success so that he

would never be poor again ... a man who wanted to feel the pleasure he created for others.

“The man who used your desire against you was at fault, sir,” Victoria said compassionately, “not you.”

Gabriel’s head jerked back as if Victoria had slapped him.

Victoria waited for Gabriel to accept the truth.

Thrusting his arms into the pinstripe coat, Gabriel turned his back and grabbed up the derby coat, cane

and hat.

She glimpsed the dark-haired guard who waited outside the door.

Gabriel did not acknowledge him.

Victoria stared into dark, curious eyes. And then the door closed behind Gabriel.

Leaving Victoria alone.

She was suddenly ravenous.

Sitting down in Gabriel’s chair, she laid the French book down for easy access and lifted the silver dome

off of the plate.

A blue enameled ring circled the white china.

Victoria ate with pleasure. When she had finished the last bite of ham, the last piece of egg and the last

crust of a flaky croissant, she replaced the silver dome and carried it to the door.

The dark-haired man—younger than Gabriel by at least ten years—turned to her with a drawn gun.

She had surprised him.

He had surprised
her.

“Please tell the chef that breakfast was quite delicious,” she said evenly, holding out the tray.

Slowly the man’s dark eyes took in the blue silk spread that bared Victoria’s shoulders.

A spark of mischief flared inside his gaze.

Apparently, prostitution had taken neither the joy nor the desire out of him.

“Thank you, ma’am.” Sliding the pistol underneath his black jacket, he smiled and took the tray. His

voice was soft, cultured, the voice of seduction. “Pierre will be pleased.”

Her heart skipped a beat. He really was quite handsome.

“Thank you.” Victoria hesitated self-consciously. She took a deep breath. There really was no need for

self-consciousness—there was nothing she could do to shock anyone in the House of Gabriel. “Please tell

Pierre that I would appreciate it if my next meal is served with a tin of condoms. . . .”

The London air was damp and chill. Yellow fog embraced the city.

Gabriel idly swung the silver cane.

It was hunting time.

He knew the address he sought; he just did not know if the man he wanted would be there.

Gabriel found the town house without mishap. It faced the park.

Childish voices permeated the yellow gloom that blanketed London. The children played London Bridge;

their nannies caught up on gossip.

No one would notice two men strolling in the fog. And if they did, no one would be able to identify them.

“Shoeblack fer a penny, guv’nor,” a gruff voice offered.

Gabriel stared down into six-year-old eyes that looked like they were sixty-six. He let the shoeblack

shine his shoes.

He did not think of his shoes. He did not think of the man he sought.