The Lover (26 page)

"He didn't harm her!" Marie shrilled.

For the butler's sake, he hoped not.

"What
did
you do, Raoul?"

Raoul looked up. His eyes were glassy from drink. "I escorted Mademoiselle Aimes to the train station. To protect her."

Michael lit another match. For the first time in five years he relished the yellow teeth that ate wood, paper,
skin
.

"Did you look inside the trunk that you so anxiously apprised me of to see the results of a man being fed fire, I wonder? It's not a pretty sight."

"I do not know what you are talking about. I opened no trunk."

Perhaps not. It had been locked.

How long had the man planned for this moment? How many men had it taken to see it through?

One, two, three, four?

The fire steadily burned.

"Five years ago. How did he know that Lady Wenterton traveled to Brighton?"

"I telegraphed him."

Michael saw Diane's laughing face. She had blown kisses from the train.

It had been the last time he had seen her laugh.

Heat licked Michael's fingers. "Did you know what he was going to do to her?"

Raoul's gaze did not waver from Michael's. "
Non
."

"But you sent Mademoiselle Aimes to him. Knowing that Lady Wenterton killed herself because of what he had done to her."

"Oui."

"
C'est un mensonge
!" Marie hissed. "She killed herself because she was a whore. No woman can live with herself if she gives up her children!"

Michael ignored her. The man would not.

"Why did you do it, Raoul?"

Raoul's gaze slid away from Michael's. He reached over the blazing glass of gin for the bottle. "
L'argent
, monsieur. We cannot all make our fortunes by selling our bodies."

The glass exploded. Blue fire spit into the air; it simultaneously spread across the maple tabletop in a liquid sheet of blazing heat.

Raoul jumped up, wooden chair careening across the floor, alarmed now that his own life was at stake. He frantically slapped at his flaming shirtsleeve.

Michael dropped the match onto the burning table. "Everything has a price, Raoul. Remember that when next you close your eyes to sleep."

He turned around and walked away.

Neither of them would live long enough to enjoy the money.

The man would see to that.

Anne had heard that the earl's estate was guarded more securely than Buckingham Palace, yet the gatekeeper had unquestioningly granted her entrance, as had the rail-thin butler.

She followed the butler up the sweeping mahogany staircase. No runner softened their discordant steps. Her silk drawers, chemise, petticoats, and stockings whispered against her skin, her treat to herself, a reminder of the pleasure she had experienced the night before. Black wool rustled about her feet, her concession to her mother, a reminder of the mourning that she was still in.

The earl's home was palatial, a mausoleum of rich wood paneling, priceless paintings, and elegant, antique furniture. Surely a house this large employed a veritable army of servants, she thought uneasily: grooms, gardeners, footmen, parlor maids, housemaids.

Where were they?

An elevator waited at the top of the stairs, metal door barred. Brass and crystal wall sconces dotted the hallway; they emitted glaring electric light. It did not alleviate the darkness of the mahogany wall paneling and floor.

Her footsteps ricocheted down the long, endless corridor.
She should have gone straight to the cemetery
, they cautioned her, and seen for herself what the vandalism was before visiting the earl.

Too late
, the butler's footsteps answered: the earl had agreed to see her.

A rose damask-covered rococo chair rigidly stood at attention near the end of the hallway. The butler threw open the door beside it. "Miss Aimes, my lord," he announced before stepping aside to allow her entrance.

Anne clutched her black-beaded reticule.

The back of a gray-haired man faced the doorway. He sat in a wheelchair in front of a massive mahogany fireplace, wooden frame silhouetted by orange and yellow flames. Above his head on the mantelpiece, blue Sevres vases flanked a sculpted white marble clock. Windows on either side admitted waning sunlight. A tea cart was parked between the earl and a latticed Chippendale armchair.

Every instinct warned her not to enter the bedchamber. Her common sense ridiculed her apprehension.

She was no stranger to the sickroom.

The Earl of Granville was old and crippled. He could not harm her.

He was a former friend of her parents. There was no reason he would
want
to harm her.

Ignoring the warning tingles that trailed up and down her spine, Anne stepped inside. The bedroom door softly closed behind her.

"Welcome to my home, Miss Aimes. I hope you do not mind visiting an old man in his private chambers." The earl did not turn his head. His voice, genial and cultured, clearly carried across the room. "Please come sit beside me."

Anne did not want to take a seat. She wanted to escape back into air that was not tainted with the smell of carbolic disinfectant. Immediately she was ashamed of her thoughts.

The earl had not asked to be an invalid. He, too, had suffered from circumstances outside his control.

"Thank you, Lord Granville. It was very kind of you to see me."

Her shoes clicked a hollow trail across the vast expanse of wooden floor. The tinny echo drove home to her just how isolated the earl's estate was and just how far removed she was from the life she had lived before venturing to London.

In the last few days she had thrice accompanied strange men:

Michel, Gabriel, and the man who had met her at the station, a new groom hired by her bailiff in her absence.

A whimsical smile touched her lips.

And now here she was, visiting a strange man in his bedchamber.

She rounded the latticed armchair; heat blasted the smile off of her face. Gingerly she perched on the edge of the maroon velvet-upholstered seat.

The earl's face was pale with pain and wrinkled with age. She judged him to be in his early seventies. He looked like a man who had had few pleasures in his life—or wanted them. His eyes—faded, rheumy eyes whose color was indistinguishable in the uncertain light—stared at her shrewdly, as if assessing her reaction to his infirmity. "Forgive me for not rising."

Anne's gaze slid away from his. "There is no need to apologize, my lord."

Two gilt-edged cups and saucers rested on the tea cart. A silver-covered serving dish sat between matching cream and sugar containers. It was weighted down by a small stack of folded white linen napkins. Lemon wedges were piled in a small silver bowl. Steam rose from the silver teapot, as if the tea were freshly brewed.

As if the earl had expected her.

Anne fought down a new wave of uneasiness.

A faint, rhythmic click resonated over the monotonous
tick, tick, tick
of the mantel clock.

Her gaze unerringly settled on the earl's right hand; it rested on the thin wooden arm of his wheelchair.

He rolled something between his fingers. Something that gleamed like silver… She glimpsed two metal balls. They were somewhat larger than the marbles she had seen village children play with.

A log collapsed in the fireplace; sparks and yellow flame flew up the chimney.

Jerking her gaze back to his, she licked lips that suddenly felt parched. "I want to thank you for your letter, my lord. It was very kind of you to take it upon yourself to notify me of the vandalism to my mother's grave."

"Not at all, Miss Aimes."
Click. Click. Click
. "Your parents were particular friends of mine. We spent many an evening playing piquet."

He smiled. There was something vaguely familiar about that smile. "Would you care for tea, my dear?"

"I do not wish to intrude on your hospitality, my lord. Obviously you are expecting a guest. I will take only a few moments of your time."

"Nonsense. You are not intruding on my hospitality. My guest will not be here for some time," he replied cordially. "Please do me the honor of pouring. You have no idea how much I hoped you would visit when I wrote that unfortunate letter. I do not go out now. It is a lonely life, being old and sick. But then you know that, do you not, my dear?"

Yes, she did know that. Most of the people who had attended her parents' funeral had not visited them in years.

"Thank you." She tugged her black silk gloves off of her fingers and reached for a napkin. "I would enjoy some refreshment."

Anne poured, reminded of another teapot, stoneware instead of silver. Of another man, silver-haired rather than gray. Of eyes staring, probing.
Watching
.

Hair prickling on the nape of her neck, she carefully placed the heavy silver teapot on the tea tray. Lifting her head, she caught his gaze. "Would you care for sugar, Lord Granville? Cream? Lemon?"

A cloud of steam hovered between them.

He smiled blandly. "I will have whatever you have, my dear."

Her lips involuntarily tightened. Gabriel had said much the same thing when the waiter at the pastry shop had taken her order.

He had followed her, Michel's silver-eyed, silver-haired friend. Why did she suddenly feel as if the earl, too, had been spying on her?

Anne added two cubes of sugar to first his cup of tea and then hers. The earl did not touch his. She wished she had followed his example.

It tasted as if she had added bitters rather than sugar.

Hastily she set the delicate bone china cup into its saucer. "You said that my mother's grave had been vandalized in a 'monstrous manner.' Exactly what was the nature of the vandalism, Lord Granville?"

His busy fingers paused. The
tick, tick, tick
of the marble clock was inordinately loud over the roar of the fire. "Is not the tea to your liking, Miss Aimes? Pardon me, servants do take advantage of a crippled old man. I will ring for fresh—"

"No, no, it's fine, really." Anne lifted her cup and forced down another swallow. "Has the superintendent of police—"

"You must miss your mother very much, my dear." His voice cut through hers; he resumed the rhythmical rolling of the two silver balls. "She died two days after your father, I believe. It was very tragic. Most unfortunate."

Anne set her cup down. And lied. "Yes, it was."

Both her father and her mother had been riddled with uncontrollable pain. Their deaths had been a blessing.

"Do you enjoy London, Miss Aimes?"

Click. Click. Click.

Sweat formed on her forehead. The earl seemed unaffected by the blazing heat only a few feet away from them. "Yes, I find that I quite enjoy it, thank you."

"It must have been difficult to tear yourself away from your friends. London is a gay town, not like our staid country life here."

An image of the House of Gabriel flashed through her mind. Of disreputable women and wealthy gentlemen.

Light flickered in the earl's faded eyes. As if he guessed her thoughts.
As if he knew exactly how she had spent her time in London
.

Had gossip spread that quickly?

"The vandalism, Lord Granville," she said firmly.

"Forgive me, an old man's mind sometimes wanders. Do drink your tea, there's a good girl. We don't want it to get cold. Are you quite certain you don't want me to ring for another pot?"

Anne remembered how lonely her parents had been. How eager for company that rarely came. How pitifully anxious they had been when it did.

She resignedly reached for her cup. The flavor of the tea did not improve with the third sip.

"Have you ever been in love, Miss Aimes?"

"Have you, sir?" she riposted politely.

"Yes, Miss Aimes, I have."

Lord Granville was the second person who confessed to having loved. Man. Woman. Friends. Lovers.

Or perhaps the earl had loved a man.
As a lover
.

She determinedly swallowed another sip of tea.

"Then you are fortunate." She set down her cup with finality. "I do not believe love is a highly prized commodity in our society."

"That is because people are afraid. Money is more material. But you aren't afraid, are you, my dear?"

Yes.

Anne was afraid of many things. Loneliness. Growing old. Dying…
alone
. But she did not visit the earl to discuss her fears.

The relentless
click, click, click
was beginning to wear on her nerves.

"You have spoken to the superintendent of police, my lord. Does he have any idea as to who is the culprit?"

"You are uncomfortable talking about love." Speculation flickered in his eyes, and something else, something dark that was gone even as she tried to name it. "Why is that, I wonder?"

Perspiration trickled down her temple. Moisture pooled underneath her breasts.

"I do not think that I am qualified to discuss the subject, Lord Granville," she said stiffly. "Perhaps another day—"

"There is a poem that I often reflect upon," he interrupted trenchantly. "It is by Andrew Marvell. In it a man attempts to convince his lady love to sample the pleasures of the marriage bed. 'The grave's a fine and private place,
I
but none, I think, do there embrace,' he tells her. It is quite prophetic. Have you ever read the poem?"

The heat that flashed through Anne owed nothing to the roaring fire in front of her. Discussing sexual love with a man who professed to be Michel's friend was one thing; this was another matter entirely.

She crumpled her napkin and dropped it onto the tea cart beside her cup and saucer. "No, I have not. I told my groom I would be only a few minutes. The horse will be restive. If you will excuse me—"

"Spring is such an unpredictable season, is it not?" he cut in smoothly, rheumy eyes guileless. "I confess, I never seem to get warm enough. My manservant took advantage of your visit to have a few moments to himself. Would you mind terribly fetching a quilt from my chest?"

Courtesy demanded that she see to his comfort before she took her leave. "No, of course not."

Stuffing her gloves and reticule between her hip and the chair arm, she stood up and glanced about the long, rectangular bedchamber. It was paneled in the same dark mahogany that lined the hallway. What fire and sunlight the paneling did not consume, the dark four-poster bed did.

"The chest is on the other side of the bed, my dear," he affably instructed her, as if unaware of the social gaffe he had committed or her eagerness to escape. "Against the far wall. The quilt is in the top drawer."

Anne walked into the blessedly cool shadows.

A life-size portrait hung on the wall beside the chest of drawers. A young man leaned against a horse, quirt in hand, chiseled lips curved in a faintly mocking smile.

She had seen that smile before.

The young man had black hair that was curled in a manner considered fashionable in the early 1830s. It looked blue in the dim light.

Anne retrieved the quilt, eyes trained on the portrait. She could almost make out the color of the young man's eyes.

She could almost remember seeing him.

Dancing. Laughing. Weaving through a forest of jewel-colored gowns and black formal wear while the music soared—