'Til Death Do Us Part (2 page)

S
HE
BELONGED
TO
him.

He was locked inside a cage the size and shape of a coffin. A dark thrill heated his blood like a powerful, intoxicating drug.

When the time came he would purify the woman and cleanse himself with her blood. But tonight was not the time. The ritual had to be followed correctly. The woman must be made to comprehend and acknowledge the great wrong that she had done. There was no finer instructor than fear.

He huddled inside the concealed lift, listening to the sounds of someone moving about in the bedroom on the other side of the wall. There was a narrow crack in the paneling. Excitement sparked through him when he caught a glimpse of the woman. She was at her dressing table, adjusting the pins in her dark brown hair. It was as if she knew he was watching and was deliberately taunting him.

She was passable in appearance, but he had seen her on the street and had not been particularly impressed with her looks. She was
overly tall for a woman and her forceful character was etched on her face. She was dangerous. It was all there in her unnerving eyes.

No wonder he had been sent to purify her. He would save her from herself—and save himself in the process.

She was not the first woman he had saved. Perhaps this time he would finally be cleansed.

The lift had been installed inside the thick walls of the old mansion for the purpose of conveying an elderly, infirm lady from one floor to another. But the woman had died a few years ago, leaving the big house to her granddaughter and grandson. He had been told that neither of them made use of the device. Having been locked inside the cage for what felt like an eternity, he understood why. The air was close and still and the darkness was almost as absolute as that of the grave.
Almost
.

He was free to descend in the lift at any time. It was operated by an arrangement of ropes and pulleys that could be controlled from either inside or outside the compartment. He knew how it functioned because he'd had a helpful chat with one of the many tradesmen who came and went from the mansion on the days when the woman held the outrageous parties she was pleased to call
salons
. The truth was that the only difference between her business and a brothel was the pretense of respectability that she succeeded in giving the social gatherings.

The tradesman had informed him of the usefulness of the lift for conveying heavy items between floors. The man had also mentioned that the woman never made use of the lift. Evidently she had a fear of being trapped inside the cage.

The woman rose from the dressing table chair and moved out of sight. A moment later he heard the muffled sound of the bedroom door opening and closing.

Silence.

He slid the cage door aside and opened the wooden panel. The wall
sconce had been turned down low but he could make out the bed, the dressing table, and the wardrobe.

He moved out of the lift. The heady exhilaration he always experienced at such moments roared through him. With every step of the ritual he came closer to achieving his own purification.

For a precious few seconds he debated where to leave his gift. The bed or the dressing table?

The bed, he decided. So much more intimate.

He crossed the room, not concerned with the soft thud of his footsteps. The guests had begun to arrive. There was a fair amount of traffic in the long drive that led to the front steps of Cranleigh Hall. The rattle of carriage wheels and the clatter of hooves created a great deal of noise.

When he reached the bed he took the velvet pouch and the black-bordered envelope out of the pocket of his overcoat. He opened the pouch and removed the jet-and-crystal ring. A fashionable item of memento mori jewelry, the stone was engraved with the gilded image of a skull. The woman's initials were inscribed in gold on the black enameled sides:
C. L
. When the time came a small twist of her hair would be tucked into the locket concealed beneath the skull stone. He would add it to his collection.

He admired the ring for a moment and then slipped it back into the pouch. He placed the gift on the pillow where she could not fail to notice it.

Satisfied, he stood still for a time, savoring the intense intimacy of the experience. He was in her most personal space, the room where she slept—the room where she believed herself to be alone; the room where she no doubt felt safe.

That sense of safety would soon be destroyed. She belonged to him. She simply did not know it; not yet.

He started to go back to the concealed lift but paused when he saw
the framed photograph on the wall. It showed the woman as she had been some ten years earlier, a girl of sixteen or seventeen. She stood on the brink of womanhood, still innocent and unknowing, but already there was something disturbing about her eyes.

Her brother was also in the picture. He appeared to be about ten years of age. The two adults in the photograph were no doubt the children's parents. He could see something of the man in the boy.

He took the picture down from the hook and hurried to the lift. Stepping inside, he closed the panel and then the cage door. Darkness as deep as the jet stone in the ring enveloped him. He dared not light a candle.

He groped for the cables and breathed a sigh of relief when they worked. He lowered the lift to the ground floor.

When he emerged he found himself back in the small antechamber behind the rear stairs. There was no one about. The elderly housekeeper and her equally aged husband, the butler, were busy with the social gathering in the library.

In the old days when the mansion had housed a large family and a dozen or more servants it would have been nearly impossible to slip in and out of the place unnoticed. But now there was only the woman, her brother, and the old housekeeper and butler in residence.

He made his way out through the tradesmen's entrance and moved, unseen, into the gardens. The gate was still unlocked, just as he had left it.

A few minutes later he was lost in the fog. He clutched the framed photograph very tightly in his gloved hand. The weight of the knife in its sheath beneath his greatcoat was reassuring.

The ritual was almost complete.

The woman with the unnerving eyes would soon understand that she belonged to him. It was her destiny to be the one to cleanse him. He was certain of it. The connection between them was a bond that could be shattered only by death.

“Y
OU
CAN
'
T
BE
serious,” Nestor Kettering said with the cold arrogance of a man who was accustomed to getting whatever he desired. “I know that deep in your heart you still love me. You cannot have forgotten the passion we felt for each other. Emotions that powerful cannot die.”

Calista watched him from behind the barricade of her mahogany desk. A mix of anger and disbelief crackled through her. “You are wrong. You destroyed the feelings I had for you over a year ago when you ended our association.”

“I was forced to end things when I discovered that you had deceived me.”

“I never lied to you, Nestor. You believed me to be a wealthy heiress. When I disabused you of that notion you disappeared overnight.”

“You gave me the impression that you were well situated.” Nestor swept out a hand to indicate the great house and gardens around them. “You not only deceived me, you continue to deceive respectable Society and your clients. The truth is you are in trade, Calista. You cannot deny it.”

“I don't. Just as you cannot deny that you are married now. You found your heiress. Go home to her. I have no interest whatsoever in becoming your mistress.”

It had been a mistake to agree to speak privately with Nestor, she thought. Three weeks ago he had sent her a bouquet of flowers and a note asking to meet with her. She had been startled because she had not heard from him in nearly a year. She had immediately instructed Mrs. Sykes to get rid of the flowers. Not for a moment had she considered acknowledging the floral gift.

The second bouquet had arrived a few days later. Once again she had told the housekeeper to toss the flowers into the rubbish.

She had not expected Nestor to show up on her doorstep because she had given him no encouragement. He was a wealthy man now. If he wanted a mistress, there were plenty to be had in London.

When he had arrived, unannounced, a short time ago, Mr. Sykes had mistaken him for a potential client. That was not entirely his fault, Calista reflected. Nestor had a great talent for convincing others to believe what he wanted them to believe.

He was a breathtakingly handsome man with an elegantly sculpted profile, silver-blond hair, and eyes as warm and blue as a summer sky. When he smiled it was almost impossible to look away. But it wasn't his polished good looks that made him so dangerous—it was his gift for charm and deception.

Indeed, Calista thought, he was a magician of sorts, one who specialized in breaking hearts and destroying other people's dreams.

The thing about a magician, however, was that once one knew the secret behind the tricks, the fascination with the performance was shattered forever. Seeing Nestor again after a little more than a year apart, she could only give thanks for her narrow escape.
To think she had once considered marrying him
.

Now she had to find a way to get rid of him. She had a legitimate
prospective client due to arrive in a few minutes. She did not want Trent Hastings to overhear the quarrel that was taking place in her study. She had it on good authority that the author was a recluse who might easily be put off by such a scene.

Evidently perceiving that he could not induce her to take the blame for their parting, Nestor switched to another tactic.

“Leaving you was the hardest thing I've ever done, Calista.” He raked his fingers through his hair and began to pace the small study with a languid, catlike stride. “You must understand my situation. I had to marry a fortune for the sake of my family. You must see that I had no choice.”

At one time she had viewed Nestor's dramatic gestures and intense moods as evidence of a romantic spirit. She had believed him to be a man of strong passions; a man who sought a true metaphysical and intellectual bond with her. But today it was clear that what she had once mistaken for passion and great depth of feeling was, instead, nothing but shallow melodrama. There was better acting to be found in the theater.

What had she ever seen in him? she wondered—aside from his smoldering gaze and poetic good looks, of course.

“I do comprehend the situation you were in,” she said. She glanced at the clock and saw that her next appointment was due in less than five minutes. It was past time to get rid of Nestor. “I comprehend precisely why you wanted to marry me. You were under the impression that my grandmother had left a fortune to me and my brother. When you discovered that all we got was her monstrosity of a mansion, you did not walk away from me—you ran.”

Nestor stopped at the window, clasped his hands behind his back, and bowed his head. “You will admit that this grand house gives an impression of wealth.”

“I find that impression useful in my business,” she said briskly.

He shook his head. “Do not tell me that you have not thought of me this past year. I dream of you every night.”

“I do not think about you often, Nestor, but when I do I give thanks that you ended our association when you did. I dread to imagine what my life would have been like if we had married.”

He turned to look at her with a beseeching expression.

“You may be content with your spinsterhood, but I am married to a coldhearted bitch who thinks it is amusing to have affairs with my friends,” he said.

“Probably because she suspects you are having affairs with her friends.”

Nestor exhaled a long, heartfelt sigh. “I will not deny that I have occasionally sought comfort where I could find it. I am lonely, Calista. I remember how we used to laugh together and share our impressions of books and art and poetry. As far as I can determine, my wife's only serious intellectual pursuits are shopping and séances.”

“As she evidently has the money to pursue both, I fail to see the problem.”

“I have endured nearly a year of a marriage made in hell,” Nestor said through his teeth. “The least you can do is spare me your sarcasm.”

She got to her feet. “This meeting is finished. You appear to be under the mistaken assumption that I would be eager to resume our relationship. But that is not the case. It has been over a year since you revealed your true nature to me, and now that I am aware of it, I am no longer interested in pursuing any sort of association with you.”

“I don't believe that.” He stopped in front of her desk and flattened his palms on the polished surface. “You are afraid to trust your heart again. I understand. But I remember your passionate spirit very well.”

“Whatever I once felt for you evaporated long ago, Nestor.”

“Nothing could vanquish that burning flame. You and I are not like other people. We are possessed of a deep appreciation of the
metaphysical. We comprehend the meaning of a true marriage of the souls. We do not need the legal trappings. We are meant to be together until death do us part.”

“Under the circumstances I'd rather you didn't quote the old lines in the wedding vows to me. You are wasting your time, Nestor.”

“You must give me a chance. You owe me that much.”

“I owe you nothing,” she said. “I insist that you leave. I have an appointment in a few minutes.”

“Do not tell me that you no longer have feelings for me. I refuse to believe that. You and I were privileged to know a rare sort of love, one that will once again transport us to a higher plane on the wings of passion. I promise that I will rekindle the emotions you once felt for me.”

“Sorry. Not possible.”

She had been in the introductions business for some time now, and if there was one thing she had learned, it was that friendship—not passion—provided the only solid foundation for an enduring relationship. All she promised her clients was an opportunity to meet like-minded people and perhaps develop friendships. If some of those associations were transformed into marriages, that was all well and good. But her agency made no guarantees. And her clientele, spinsters and men of a certain age who found themselves alone in the world, were usually as clear-eyed as she was on the subject.

Although she was not about to tell Nestor, the truth was that now, safely ensconced in the spinsterhood that she had once feared, she had serious reservations about the value of marriage, at least for women. It was a stacked deck of cards in favor of men, as far as she was concerned.

The Married Woman's Property Act a few years earlier had provided a measure of legal relief for females—they could now own and control property in their own names after marriage. But given how difficult it was for a woman to earn a respectable living and actually
acquire
property, the reality was that the act did little for a vast number
of females, many of whom were trapped in dreadful marriages. Divorce was still extremely difficult and expensive to obtain. It often left a woman facing life on the streets.

She no longer held any romantic illusions about the institution of marriage. It was Nestor who had helped teach her that lesson. And for that, she could not forgive him.

The clatter of hooves and carriage wheels drew her attention to the scene outside her study window. A hansom was coming up the drive. Her next appointment, no doubt. She really had to get rid of Nestor.

The cab halted at the front steps of Cranleigh Hall. A man in a long gray coat got out. The high collar of the coat was pulled up around his face, partially concealing his profile. The hat pulled down low over his eyes obscured even more of his features. He carried an elegant walking stick with a curved handle in one leather-gloved hand but he did not use it to make his way up the steps to the front door. He moved with a long, purposeful stride. A very determined man, she thought.

Anticipation flickered through her. So this was Trent Hastings.

She did not know what she had been expecting, but this whisper of excitement was certainly not it.
He's here on business,
she reminded herself.

She tried to get a better look at him but he was out of sight on the top step now.

“Are you listening to me, Calista?” Nestor asked. Anger and impatience flared in his tone.

“Hmm? No, actually, I'm not listening to you. Kindly do me the great favor of leaving. I am very busy today.”

“Bloody hell.” Nestor visibly seethed. “I'm not here to apply to become one of your clients. I am here because I cannot live without you.”

“You appear to be doing very nicely without me. And I have absolutely no desire to become your mistress.”

“I have money now. I will take care of you. We will be lovers.”

“Sorry, otherwise employed at the moment. You do not love me. You never loved me. I think the only person you are capable of loving is yourself. Admit it, you are here because you have grown bored with your marriage.”

“You're damn right, I'm bored.”

“That is your problem, not mine. Leave, Nestor. Now.”

“Damn it, you're too old to play the silly, naïve virgin,” he hissed. “What are you now? Twenty-seven? I'm sure you've taken any number of lovers from your list of so-called clients.”

For the first time, her temper blazed.

“How dare you?”

“I merely put the obvious into words,” Nestor said. He smirked, pleased to have drawn blood. “There is no need to put a respectable face on your business. An introductions agency, indeed.” He snorted. “I must say I admire your ingenuity. You have proven to be a remarkable businesswoman, Calista. But let's be clear. You are nothing but the madam of a high-class brothel.”

Anger and a whisper of panic flashed through her. She was very careful about how she operated her business. She worked only by referral. She made certain that her brother, Andrew, researched all of her potential clients before she accepted them. The salons and teas she hosted were elegant, eminently respectable affairs.

But she was keenly aware of the dangers of malicious gossip. Nestor was not the first man who had concluded that her agency provided something other than respectable introductions.

“I do not care to listen to your insults.” She reached for the bellpull. “Leave now or I will summon my butler to escort you out.”

“That doddering old man who met me at the door? He can barely hold a visitor's hat and gloves. He would faint dead away if you demanded that he try to forcibly remove me.”

She hoisted her skirts a few inches above her ankles, whisked around the side of her desk, and crossed the study.

She yanked open the door. “Get out of here now or I will scream.”

“Have you gone mad?”

“It's certainly a possibility. My nerves have been badly frayed of late.”

That was no less than the truth. She had found the second memento mori object on her pillow last night. After the discovery, she and Andrew and Mr. Sykes had gone through every room on every floor of the big house, checking the locks on windows and doors. She had not slept much at all.

“Calista, you must listen to me,” Nestor snarled.