The Lover (33 page)

Michael had hunted down every single servant who had worked on the estate of the man whom he believed had been his father. No one had mentioned Frank.

Michael dispassionately studied the earl. "Why would you kill them, Frank?"

"Yes, tell him, Frank." The man couldn't contain his glee at destroying another person's life.

"I cut the reins," Frank confessed.

The truth at last.

Michael remembered the thundering of the horses' hooves. The terror that had hammered inside his chest while his father pried the leather reins from between his hands. Shrill girlish screams. His mother crying out. The abrupt cessation of sound when the gig went over the cliff.

"Why?" Michael asked hoarsely.

"I was a drifter," Frank related jerkily. "Your father hired me. A day later he found me drunk on the job, so he dismissed me. I knew he was taking the gig. I cut the reins."

It was not the gun that weighted Michael's arm.

He stared at the man, the emotion he had strove to distance himself from swelling over him.

All through the years he had believed either he killed his family, or the man did.

The earl openly flaunted his satisfaction.

"You knew," Michael gritted. "All those years you knew Frank was responsible for their deaths and you blamed me."

"You did kill her," the earl gloated. "She wasn't supposed to attend the picnic. She was supposed to beg off due to some minor indisposition. Instead she accompanied my spineless brother and you and your sniveling sisters. When I arrived at my brother's home, Frank was sobering up. He felt guilty. He sobbed out the whole sorry story and begged me to go after him. If your mother had not been on the carriage I would not have wasted my time. But she was. And I had her in my reach. I would have saved her, but she threw you into my arms. Yes, I loved your mother, and she chose you over me. You did kill her, Michael. Every day I live with her death."

Michael had not believed anything would ever again surprise him.

He had been wrong.

So many people had died…
because of a mother's love
.

The earl leaned forward in his chair, a sharp protest of squeaking wood. "You've never killed, Michael; I killed before you were born. Some call it expansionism, some call it God's supremacy, but really war is just a gentleman's sport. I could have eliminated you so easily, but I wanted you to know what it felt like, having the woman you loved reject you. So I waited, and watched.

"You were quite the stud, weren't you, nephew? How did it feel to have Lady Wenterton turn away from you? You were burned in her eagerness to escape a life with you, and I rejoiced in your pain. In your suffering. At last you knew what it was like to have a woman turn away from you, to die while you could do nothing to stop her death.

"But I knew, Michael, that someday you would recover from your burns. I knew you would want another woman, whore that you are. Imagine my delight when Miss Aimes solicited you, disfigured though you were. How did it feel knowing that you had to choose between Miss Aimes and me?

"Yes, I know exactly how much you want to kill me. You'll enjoy it, Michael. Pull the trigger, and die knowing that you're no different than I am."

The count down ended.
Three .
. .

Michael felt a sigh of air, a whisper of a kiss.

Gabriel, who had not touched anyone in so long Michael ached for him, kissed him on his scarred cheek.

A messenger's kiss of death.

"For you, Michael," he murmured.

A deafening blast resounded in his ears. The earl's head exploded. Blood and gray matter sprayed the air.

The bullet had not come from Michael's pistol.

Frank froze. Michael watched the life drain out of him.

Just another pawn.

Crimson speckled his paper-white face. A glob of gray matter slid down his stiff black coat.

Twenty-nine years of hell was over.

Frank's arm dropped. Michael lowered his pistol.

Gabriel stepped back—God's messenger, not the man's.

"He was dying." Frank dumbly stared down at the old man who had ruled them all. "In a few more months he would have been dead and it all would have been over."

Michael almost felt pity for the hellhound.

Frank lifted his head and stared at Michael.

There was no regret on his face. No remorse for the lives he had taken.

"He's not your father," Frank said dully.

Michael believed him.

"Your mother didn't love him. That's why he couldn't forgive you."

Perhaps Anne had been right. Perhaps the old man had been insane.

The police would investigate.

What would Frank tell them?

What would Michael tell them?

Michael turned.

"The cook." Frank's voice halted him as he stepped toward the door where Gabriel waited, his hair a silver halo. "Her name is Mrs. Ghetty. There is a letter underneath my mattress. The earl sent the servants on holiday so that—"

So that Michael and the woman he had taken pleasure in could be killed with no witnesses.

"When she returns, tell her where the letter is. Tell her it is for her. Tell her she will be taken care of."

Michael didn't turn around. "You can tell her yourself."

"The earl's solicitor has in his possession a sealed envelope. In that envelope is a signed confession in which I admit to cutting the reins that caused the death of your family. The solicitor's instructions are to open it in the event he dies an untimely death. No doubt there are other letters that detail the crimes I have committed while in the earl's service. I am not going to prison."

And so he, too, would die.

Michael's gaze locked with Gabriel's. The two men walked out of the earl's study.

A shot rang through the dawn. The echo followed them down the hallway.

The sound of justice.

The hollow click of their footsteps did not falter.

A man stood at the front door, his back as straight as an eighty-five-year-old man bowed by arthritis could stand. "My lord. Shall I go for the constable?"

The old butler was too dignified not to receive a like amount of dignity.

Denby had known Michael's father. Had watched him grow up into a man while his older brother grew up into a monster.

Had he known what the earl had done to Michael?

"Is there no other servant here, Denby?"

"They are on holiday, sir. Save for the pot boy. I feared he was coming down with measles, so I would not let him go. But he is well now."

Was Denby aware of what the earl had done to Anne?

"Did you not think it strange, Denby, when Miss Aimes visited the earl but did not leave?"

"I was not aware of a visitor, my lord," he replied, dignity intact. "That is, until I heard the commotion with you and the constable. The earl hired a temporary butler so that I could nurse the pot boy and get some rest. My bones have been troubling me of late."

No one would have questioned the death of an eighty-five-year-old servant and a small pot boy.

The earl's secret would have been safe.

"Have the pot boy fetch a constable, Denby."

"When he arrives, what shall I tell him, my lord?"

"Tell him the truth. That the earl has been killed and that Frank put a bullet through his own head after the deed was done."

Denby blinked. "Shall you be back, my lord?"

"No, I won't be back."

"You're the last of the line."

Michael pictured Anne, covered in chocolate.

"No, Denby, I'm the first of my line."

"What will happen to the estate, my lord?"

"I'm sure the earl left provisions for you. If not, contact me through Miss Aimes. She will know where to find me."

If she still wanted to find him.

Denby stood his ground. "You're an earl, sir. This is your home now. You have responsibilities."

"You are confused, Denby," Michael said gently. "I am not an earl. Michael Sturges Bourne is dead. Don't ever forget that. If the superintendent of police asks you, tell him the blood line has ended."

Denby blinked. "The Sturges Bourne name is an old one, sir. An honored one. You are making a mistake."

It wouldn't be the first mistake Michael had made.

"When Mrs. Ghetty returns, tell her that Frank left her a letter underneath his mattress. Tell her he loved her. Will you do that for me, Denby?"

"Yes, sir." It could have been tears in his eyes. Or perhaps it was age that filmed them. "Good-bye, sir."

Denby closed the door behind Michael and Gabriel, a sharp click of closure.

The sky was pale pink. Michael's breath steamed in the chill morning air.

Sharp sensation filled him, witnessing another day. "What did the man offer you?" he asked, throat suddenly tight.

"The second man."

Gabriel did not have to elaborate.

Two men had raped him, not one as Michael had believed.

Cold air rasped his lungs. "You never asked for my help either, Gabriel."

Gabriel threw his head back and stared at the sky, as if searching for something. "Perhaps I didn't believe I deserved help, Michael."

"Who was the man in the fire?"

"Did you think I was dead?" he asked, breath a silver cloud.

"Yes."

Gabriel lowered his head and met Michael's gaze. "Did you mourn me?"

"Yes."

"Yet you thought that I would kill you."

In the end… "Yes."

"Frank came to the house a week ago," he said neutrally. "I was to deliver a letter to Miss Aimes. If she did not voluntarily visit the earl, I was to get her there by whatever means were necessary, while at the same time creating a diversion to forestall you."

And then he was supposed to kill Michael.

"You copied the letter that he had written for Anne."

"If you had not been able to convince the police to assist you, neither of us would be alive, Michael. He had planned for every contingency."

Except one.

The man had not taken into consideration the friendship between two male whores.

"He was mine to kill, Gabriel."

"Do you know, Michael, in twenty-seven years you haven't changed. You're still hungry. Killing takes that away. I find that I like the fact that one of us can still feel. You may hate me for what I did, but hatred is better than feeling nothing."

"You don't feel anything,
mon vieux
?" Michael asked.

Gabriel's answer was simple, blunt; unequivocal. "No."

Michael did not correct him. Sometimes lies
were
the only thing that protected one.

"What will you do, now that your house is gone?"

"Build another one."

"You think the second man will come to you?"

"I know he will."

Michael walked down the stone steps. The horse, a plain brown sorrel in the pink light, had eaten the buds off of the shrub. He grabbed the reins and forcibly pulled its head away from its breakfast.

"Michael."

He looked up. Gabriel stood at the top of the steps, hair a silver halo in the new dawn.

"I didn't push Anne Aimes. Nor did I kill a man to take my place in the fire. He was a beggar I'd found dead in the gutter. I didn't think you would spend all day rummaging around the ashes. If you had not been so damned sentimental, you would have gotten to her sooner."

Michael put his foot in the stirrup and vaulted onto the horse.

He suddenly felt light-headed. His right cheek burned.

The kiss of an angel.

"I lied to you, Gabriel."

"I am shocked,
mon frère
."

Gabriel had withdrawn back into his shell.

"I told you that the man had killed everyone I loved. I was wrong. You were there."

He kicked the horse into a gallop.

Gabriel would make his own way back to London. But what would Anne do? He had told her that come the morrow she could cancel their contract and he wouldn't object.

Michael Sturges Bourne wouldn't. But Michael had long ago given up any claims to being a gentleman.

The gate stood open, as he'd left it. A plain, square brougham waited on the other side. The coachman sat in the box, staring straight ahead. A groom stood by the lead horse.

The gelding shook its head, hooves prancing, mane flying.

It recognized the groom and the horses.

Michael's heartbeat raced faster than his thoughts.

His spinster believed he had used her.
And he had
.

She believed he had killed his uncle.
And he would have
.