The Lover (20 page)

" 'Ere now!"

Between one blink of dark, bloodshot equine eyes and another, Anne was hauled backward. The horse plunged past her, carriage whipping at her cloak. A ghostly face pressed against the cab window, hollow eyes briefly catching her gaze.

Suddenly the sky opened up. The cab was gone. And gray, soot-laden rain misted her vision.

Big Ben continued to strike the time.

Death knolls.

The village bells had rung during her parents' funeral. It had rained then, too.

A black bowler hat sat in the middle of the street: the cabby's hat. A carriage wheel had crushed it.

Anne swirled around—heart pounding, breath choking;
someone had pushed her
—and stared eye-to-eye at an unkempt man of indeterminate years. Greasy brown hair stuck out from underneath his tattered sporting hat. Tiny drops of water beaded on his dirt-encrusted face.

"Thar ain't no way't' git a 'ack, ma'am," he said sternly. "Ye coud git 'urt 'oppin' out in th' middle o' th' strait, ye coud."

Her spine between her shoulder blades burned and throbbed, robbing her of oxygen. It did not stop the tide of heat that flashed through her like a kerosene-doused fire.

She had almost been killed. And this—
this filthy man
—thought she had deliberately jumped into the cab's path?

Anne opened her mouth to shout at him—she who had never before shouted in anger—only to remember that he had saved her life.

Her jaw snapped shut.

Big Ben's deafening tolls abruptly died. Air rushed into her oxygen-deprived lungs. The singsong grind of carriage wheels filled her ears. And once again Anne was in control of her emotions, alert as she had always been.

For a stranger to harm her.

For society to laugh at her clumsiness.

Pedestrians hurried past the undignified spectacle that a destitute man and a lone, disheveled spinster presented. Their faces were shielded by black umbrellas that before the blow which had sent her catapulting into the street had been folded in expectation of… what? Rain, or an innocent bystander? Did they scurry to escape the cold drizzle—or the perpetration of a near-fatal collision?

There was only one person who knew for certain.

Silver arced through the gray rain. Her emaciated savior deftly caught the tossed coin.

"You may leave now." The voice behind her was cold. Hard. Clipped. The voice of a man who was used to issuing orders. "The lady is safe."

The street man grinned, winked. Grabbing a dilapidated broom off the sidewalk, he turned and raced away.

It dawned on Anne that the throbbing between her shoulder blades could as easily have been caused by a broom handle as by the tip of an umbrella.

She started forward. "Wait one second—"

"I told you you're safe."

The unkempt street sweeper disappeared behind a wall of dark cloaks and black umbrellas.

Anne turned around in a rush of grenadine, wool, and bouncing bustle. The stranger did not seem to comprehend the fact that she had been pushed in front of a cab.
And someone was responsible
. Quite possibly the street sweeper—
whom he had rewarded
. "That man—"

The words froze in her throat.

The tall man who stood over her was breathtakingly beautiful. Rain wreathed his fashionable black bowler hat and pearled his face. His double-breasted, gray wool reefer jacket was of the best cut. But it was not the chiseled perfection of his features or his elegant attire that caused Anne's heartbeat to stutter and her throat to lock shut.

Silver-gray eyes regarded her flatly. "You were saying?" he asked politely.

Cool rain misted her burning cheeks.

Smoky, candlelit darkness had haloed his bare blond head and dimmed his gray eyes, but there was no mistaking those too handsome features.

This man had greeted her at the entrance to the House of Gabriel. Then he had escorted her to Michel's table.

Her heart raced to make up for the missed beat.

Had he followed them?

Had he followed
her
?

He lightly held a silver-handled cane between black-gloved fingers.

Had he
pushed her
?

"You are fortunate he did not swipe your reticule."

Anne remembered the diaphragm inside her reticule.

Her reticule was looped about her wrist; otherwise it, like the cabby's black hat, would now be residing in the street.

Overrun by carriages.

She clutched her black-beaded bag to her chest. "I beg your pardon?"

"The street sweeper could have easily stolen it. Instead he pushed you," he offered imperturbably.

For a second Anne could not tell if it was fear or rain that trickled down her spine.

She stepped back. "You saw him?" she asked. Forcefully she swallowed the rest of her sentence:
and did nothing to stop him
?

He stepped forward. "It's a common enough practice among those who live off the streets. One pushes a woman—or an elderly gentleman—rescues them, and is rewarded with coin. No one is hurt. They buy gin and bread. And they survive another day."

But she almost
had not
survived.

She remembered the sheen of fear in the horse's eyes.

She remembered the undiluted terror she had felt at the thought of dying.

Without trying out the diaphragm.

Anne struggled to remain the calm, rational woman she had always believed herself to be.
Before
she had embarked on the liaison with Michel des Anges.

"I see," she said. He spoke as if it were commonplace for an obviously well-to-do man to watch a woman be accosted and do nothing to prevent it.
And perhaps in London it was
. "If you will excuse me, I must be on my way—"

"You have received a shock. There is a pastry shop nearby. I insist upon buying you a cup of tea."

Anne took another step back. "Thank you, that is not necessary."

The beautiful, elegant stranger followed her. "But it is necessary."

She no longer mistook the coldness that sped down her back for rain: it was fear, pure and simple.

"There really is no need to trouble yourself—"

"I am Michel's friend, mademoiselle. He would not be pleased if I were remiss with your welfare."

Mademoiselle.

The man did not sound French.
Until he spoke it
.

Michel did not sound French. Until
he
spoke it.

Two women and one man waited on the street corner for an omnibus. Avoiding Anne's gaze, they turned their backs toward her and huddled underneath their shared umbrella.

Anne took another step backward. She squared her shoulders.
She was not a coward
. "I will tell Monsieur des Anges of your concern."

The blond-haired man stepped closer, his breath a silvery plume of vapor. "Do you not wish to know more about Michel, mademoiselle?"

She could not stop an involuntary retreat. "Friends do not bear tales, monsieur."

The man paused in his pursuit. "I love him, too, mademoiselle."

The misty drizzle turned to a downpour.

There was no thunder to herald the change. No lightning. Just an electric tingle of awareness.

Anne paused in her retreat, eyes wide.

In all her years she had never heard anyone say they loved another. Not husband to wife. Not mother to child.

Cold water slashed her face. "I do not love Monsieur des Anges."

A matching rivulet of water trickled down the blond-haired man's flawless face. "Every woman who has ever been with Michel has loved him, mademoiselle."

But Michel had not loved them
, he did not need to add. Michel had loved only one woman.

And she was dead.

Rain dripped off the brim of her round black felt hat, featherless now.
What had Michel done with the feather after he had pleasured her
? she wondered inanely. "Did you follow me?"

Rain dripped off the brim of the stranger's black felt bowler hat. "Yes."

Oh, God.

She had never before realized a woman's nipples hardened with fear.

They did.

Every inhalation, every exhalation, caused her linen shift to abrade her uncorseted breasts.

Anne fought to regulate her breathing. "Why?"

"I do not want Michel to be hurt."

She blinked away a blinding drop of rain.

The dangerous encounter was becoming increasingly farcical.

Surely she had not heard the stranger correctly.

"You think I am going to hurt Monsieur des Anges?" she asked incredulously.

"Michel has not had a procuress since the fire that scarred him." The blond-haired man's gray eyes remained cold, flat, devoid of emotion. His skin gleamed like wet alabaster. "He is more vulnerable than you know."

Anne remembered the warm play of sunshine on Michel's manhood. The silver glint of her hat pin. His unleashed passion:
I won't hurt you
.

The memory was instantly replaced by the impersonal touch of the gynecologist's probing fingers and chill metal instrument.

Physicians had listened to her mother's heart through the protective covering of a nightgown or chemise. Never had she been subjected to such a thoroughly humiliating examination as that which Anne had endured.

A lump rose inside her throat.

She
was more vulnerable than she had ever known.

Before Michel she would never, ever have bared her body. Especially to a doctor.

"I would be happy to receive you at"—if he had followed her then he knew where she was currently residing—"Monsieur des Anges's town house. We may then include him in our discussion."

The stranger's gray eyes remained inscrutable, a part of the cold and the rain—silver ice to counter Michel's violet fire. "Are you afraid of me, mademoiselle?"

"No, of course not," she lied.

"Then you are ashamed to be seen with Michel's friends."

The stranger's face was closed, expressionless: waiting for rejection.

As Michel had been prepared for rejection when he accused her of being ashamed of touching him.
Wanting him
.

All at once she felt ridiculous, standing in the rain without an umbrella to protect her from even the most basic elements.

Wet hair straggled down her back.

What was she afraid of?

No man would have designs on a woman her age. Especially one who was as disheveled and untidy as she now was.

There was nothing the stranger could do to her in public.

Nothing more than a street sweeper had done
, an inner voice jeered.

Anne stiffened her spine.

She was cold. She was wet.

She wanted to hear whatever the stranger could tell her about Michel.

"Very well, monsieur. I would be delighted to take tea with you."

"Thank you." He did not offer her his arm. "The pastry shop is this way."

He was as tall as Michel. Perhaps taller, Anne thought as he adjusted his stride to match hers. The two men both moved with effortless grace.

They passed fewer and fewer people on the streets. Gaslights illuminated unfamiliar shop windows. Clerks and customers freely ranged within, faces distorted by the water-sluiced glass, unaware of Anne Aimes; of where she had come from or where she was going.

Water poured down her face, her collar.

Panic overcame her resolution.

Some would claim that a woman who wore no corset and who carried upon her person a diaphragm and a tin of French letters deserved no better than she got. It occurred to her that perhaps those people were correct.

No doubt many men knew Michel. Men who were not his friends.

Perhaps the silver-eyed man had followed Anne when she retrieved her clothes. And had then visited her solicitor.

Perhaps he knew who she was.

Perhaps Mr. Little had already received a note demanding money for her ransom.

Without warning, the stranger stopped. Water rolled off of his pale, alabaster skin. "You should be frightened, mademoiselle. A lone woman should never accompany a stranger."

Anne's breath stopped in her lungs.

Stepping around her, he opened a sturdy wooden door.

The aroma of freshly baked pastries and brewed coffee slapped her in the face. Inside, gas-filled balls of white glass brightly lit a crowded restaurant. A baby cried. Women laughed. Men talked in a raucous roar.

She made no move to step inside.

"You are safe here, mademoiselle." Silver eyes speculatively gauged her. "It is tea I desire. I assume that is what you also desire."

Anger warmed her cheeks. She stepped inside.