The Lover (25 page)

Another footman—brunet rather than blond, amber-eyed instead of blue—seated her at a round oak table. An oak buffet featured a variety of silver-covered chafing dishes.

"What will be your pleasure, mademoiselle?"

The footman spoke with a decided French accent. The
r
rolled across his tongue.

Heat spread over Anne's cheeks. Did all Frenchmen so cavalierly use the term
pleasure
? "I will have bacon, please. With eggs. And toast."

"Très bien."

English. French. Michel's servants were really no different from her own. More handsome, perhaps, but equally impersonal.

How ridiculous it was to live in fear of a servant's disapproval. No doubt they valued a decent wage far more than they valued their employers' morals.

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask how long he had been in England.

One year? Five?

The butler also spoke with a pronounced accent.

At what point did a Frenchman lose his French accent?

The footman turned away before she could phrase her question.

She carefully opened the sealed letter. It was dated three days hence.

My dear Miss Aimes,

You no doubt do not recall me, but I was a dear friend of your parents. They often visited me before ill health incapacitated them. Please accept my condolences, belated though they are. My own health is precarious. It prevents me from traveling; otherwise I most assuredly would have expressed my sympathies in person.

I would this letter were not necessary. The superintendent of police, apprised of your holiday in London and aware of my former friendship with your family, sought my advice. It is with deep regret that I inform you that your mother's grave has been vandalized in a most monstrous manner. I will not distress you with the details, other than to say it is the work of grisly men. We will await your instructions. Please forward your response and I will make the necessary arrangements that your blessed mother may once again rest in peace.

W. Sturges Bourne

Anne stared at the signature, precisely written with a broad nibbed pen.

William Sturges Bourne was the Earl of Granville. She had never met him, but her parents had spoken of him with the pity that those who enjoy uncertain health reserve for those who in the prime of their life are struck down by misfortune. By the time Anne had reached a presentable age her mother had become bedridden and her parents' visits to the earl had ceased.

A plate slid onto the table in front of her. The smell of bacon and eggs clogged in her throat.

Revulsion sped through her at the thought of her mother's grave being desecrated. What details did the earl not want to distress her with? What necessary arrangements needed to be made so that her mother once again rested in peace?

Anne's first instinct was to contact her solicitor.

She did not need to hear his words to know what he would advise.

"Coffee or tea, mademoiselle?"

Her head jerked up. The handsome brunet footman stood beside her chair, patiently waiting.

Anne realized that her stomach churned with more than revulsion.

She did not want to go back. To once again become immersed in the death and misery that permeated the very grounds of the Dover estate.

Her parents had been dead for ten months.

When would it end?

"I beg your pardon. What did you say?" she asked, mouth dry.

"I asked if mademoiselle would care for coffee or tea."

His amber eyes seemed to say another thing entirely.
Duty… or desire
? they seemed to ask.
Selfish pleasure…or filial responsibility
?

But in the end there was no choice.

She had let her mother down once. She would not do so again.

"Please send Raoul in."

The liveried footman bowed; at the same time he stepped back out of her vision. "As you will, mademoiselle."

As
she
willed.

Metal clattered behind her. Sunlight warmed her face.

Anne reread the letter.

The wording was old-fashioned. Overly dramatic. A letter written by an old man who no doubt made the antics of some rambunctious schoolchildren into a more heinous crime.

There was no need to be alarmed.

She would arrive and find that her mother's tombstone had been vandalized with paint or some such thing.

Her pain and suffering was over.

As was Anne's.

The tense wire running through her shoulders eased.

She had had the courage to solicit sexual favors. She had then had the courage to endure a gynecologist's examination.

It was time to go back and make her peace with her mother. To forgive both of them.

The contract with Michel was binding. She did not need to choose between duty and desire. There was time enough for both.

"You sent for me, mademoiselle?"

The butler stood in the open doorway, hands behind his back.

Anne folded the letter and straightened her shoulders with resolution. "When will Monsieur des Anges return?"

"I do not know."

Anne knew how long it would take to travel to Dover by coach.
Too long
.

Her heart leaped at her daring.

"I would like a train schedule for Dover, please."

"
Très bien
. I will send a footman to the station."

"I have never ridden on a train." She tilted her chin, defying etiquette, which forbade personal exchanges of any sort between a servant and gentry.
Defying society that forbade the union between a man who was renown for pleasuring women and a spinster who desperately yearned to experience pleasure
. "Is it safe for an unchaperoned woman to travel on one?"

"It is, mademoiselle. Dover is only sixty-three miles away. A short distance. Many of the trains have special compartments for women only. I will see you safely boarded. A coachman or groom may meet you at the Dover station."

Anne swallowed more pride. "My visit is not expected. Would there be a cab available at the station, do you think?"

Raoul stared at a point over her head. "If I may say so, mademoiselle, it would be in your best interests to arrange for transportation before you board the train here in London. It is not safe for a woman to loiter in a station alone."

Dover was a bustling port town. If there was not a cabstand at the station, there were bound to be cabs in the near vicinity. "Then I will just have to take my chances."

"You could always send a telegram, mademoiselle, and arrange for someone to meet you. I could take care of that for you after you board the train."

Such a simple solution.

Her estate bordered the town of Dover. A groom could meet her with a gig.

How sheltered she was.

Not only was she ignorant about the basic economy of the price of bread, but she was dependent upon her servants to arrange her very life.

No more.

"Yes. Thank you. What a splendid suggestion." She smiled warmly. "I would like writing materials, please."

If Michel did not return before she left, she would leave him a letter explaining that it had become necessary that she leave London for a day or so.

Heat flooded her cheeks.
She could not return to Dover without a corset
.

She tilted her chin, knowing that the entire household would soon learn of her lack of proper attire. As society would soon learn of her association with Michel des Anges. "And I will need a maid to help me change."

Raoul bowed, his face hidden from her view. "
Très hien
."

Smoke and steam spiraled up from the waterlogged ruins of the bedchamber. Michael stared down at the withered, charred body nestled among a bed of ashes and coiled wire springs.

It was unrecognizable.

No silver hair for a halo. No silver eyes to cast mocking barbs.

The skull and face were smashed.

Michael had fought with the fire brigade to extinguish the fire. Then he had fought the firemen to enter the smoking remains of the House of Gabriel.

Too late.

Gabriel had died before the fire ever started.

Dawn had passed. Noon had passed.

The battle was over.

Michael trembled. And did not know why he was so cold when the walls continued to smoke with heat.

"Come away, sir. This place ain't safe. It could tumble down around our ears any minute. Come along, now." Fingers grasped Michael's coat. "There ain't nothin' more to do here."

The emotion he had been unable to feel only seconds earlier fountained through him, a geyser of rage, pain, and grief. He jerked his arm out of the man's grasp. "Get your fucking hand off me."

"Sir, it ain't safe. Please. There ain't nothin' to do for your friend 'ere."

Yes, there was one thing he could do.

He had not been able to save Gabriel from the man. But he could protect him from the collapse of his house.

Leaning over, Michael carefully lifted Gabriel's body into his arms.

Heat seared his hands, his coat, his chest.

Michael did not feel the pain.

Diane had been heavier when he had dragged her out of the blazing inferno that she had turned her bedroom into. But Diane had not been reduced to bones held together by charred skin and sinew.

Slowly, careful not to jar Gabriel, he carried him out of his house, which had brought him no pleasure and now never would.

Michael blinked. Sunlight pierced the overhanging cloud of smoke. The fire brigade had dispersed. Men and women crowded the street, gawking, pointing, talking, laughing. A barrow was parked near the curb. Copper pennies and ginger beer frenziedly exchanged hands.

"Gie' 'im't' us, sir. 'E needs't' rest o'er 'ere, 'e does."

Two men held either end of a stretcher.

Michael protectively tightened his grip; bones ground together. They did not belong to Michael.

Kaleidoscopic images flashed in front of his eyes.

Diane. Her burned body clasped to his chest. Men taking her away from him. Men taking Gabriel away from him.

History repeating itself.

Time to let go.

Michael gently laid Gabriel on the stretcher. The men took him away.

"Monsieur." Gaston stepped up to Michael. His nightshirt was stuffed inside wool trousers; his feet were bare. He twisted his hands. "We could not save him. We tried. We could not save him."

Michael was the only one who could have saved him.

Blood throbbed in his temples. His lungs hurt. His eyes burned. The man must have known about Gabriel. Why had he killed him
now
?

"How many died?" he asked curtly.

"Just Monsieur Gabriel. No one else. The fire… it burst out of his
chambre
. We tried, monsieur."

Whereas Michael had taken no precautions to protect his one and only friend.

"Tell the employees that they will be paid through the month."

Month
carried over the cacophony of the crowd.

All he had wanted was one month. One woman.

What had Gabriel wanted?

Had he known when the man struck?

Had he experienced an explosion of pain and wondered
why
?

"Our… everything, it is gone," Gaston said in a rush. "We have nothing, no money—"

"I told you everyone will be paid," Michael bit out angrily.

He was not prepared to lose Gabriel.

Gaston's face, underneath the soot and smoke, turned crimson. "We have no place to go, monsieur," he said with quiet dignity.

Michael reined in his anger.

Gabriel had taken care of them, his homeless people and French immigrants. Somehow he had always found them work, a place to live—through Michael, through clients. But now Gabriel was dead.

Who would take care of Gabriel's people when Michael died?

"Go to the Hotel du Piedmonts. I will arrange payment. Tell the concierge what is needed in the way of clothing. He will take care of it."

"
Merci
, monsieur." Gaston's shoulders straightened. "Shall I make arrangements for Monsieur Gabriel?"

Michael had left instructions in his will in the event of his own demise. Had Gabriel?

Did it matter?

Funerals did not bring back the dead.

"No. I will take care of it."

But not now.

Now he had to worry about the living.

Michael no longer knew whom the man would strike. Or when.

Did Gabriel's murderer lurk in the crowd, sipping a ginger beer?

Did he plan another visit tonight?

Would he try to take Anne? Or would he try to kill her?

Michael refused to enter the first two cabs he hailed. The cabbies' loud curses proved their honesty. He climbed into the third cab.

The stench of burned flesh overrode the smells of old leather and damp hay. Roses would not mask the odor.

Silently he let himself into his town house.

He could not smell the hyacinth plant over the reek of Gabriel's burned flesh.

He wanted a bath. He wanted Anne.

He wanted the nightmare to end.

John, a golden-haired footman, stepped out from around the marble staircase and blocked his way.

Michael stopped short.

He had instructed John to guard Anne. Even as he looked into the footman's cerulean blue eyes—eyes that had seen too much poverty and too many perversions—he knew Anne was gone.

The footman calmly reached inside his black jacket. He held out an envelope to Michael. "You have a letter, sir."

Michael tensed.
Goddamn it
. He wouldn't lose her. "Where is she?" he snarled, knowing the answer.

The man had taken everything.

"The letter, sir." John continued to hold out the envelope. "I was told to give it to you."

Michael didn't want to read a fucking letter.

He wanted Anne.

He wanted to know who thought sterling coin was worth so many lives.

"Where's Raoul?"

"I was told to tell you that the letter would explain what you need to know, sir."

Violence would do no good.

John was not afraid of death. Of pain.

He was too much like Gabriel.

With one exception.

He had gotten out of the business before it had taken away his soul.

Michael snatched the envelope out of the footman's hand.

The handwriting was masculine. Familiar.

Michael felt the blood drain out of his head. He ripped open the envelope.

There was no mistaking the handwriting.

A high-pitched hum rang inside his ears.

He remembered Gabriel's body. How weightless it had been.

He remembered Gabriel's face, smashed beyond recognition.

He realized how cleverly he and Anne had both been manipulated.
By lust. By love
.

Michael had walked into the man's trap as easily as Anne now walked into it.

He glanced up. John's face was impassive. "When was this letter delivered?"

"Three hours ago."

While Michael was conveniently away, fighting to save his
friend's
life.

"Who delivered it?"

John did not have to answer.

When would the games end?

"When did Anne leave?"

"Three hours ago."

"Did the
messenger
accompany her?" he snapped.

"No, sir. Raoul did. He escorted her to the train station."

Anne would arrive in Dover in time for tea.

The man would offer her refreshment. And she would drink it.

And there was
nothing
Michael could do to stop it.

"Miss Aimes wrote a letter, sir."

"Where is it?"

"I believe it is in the trash bin, sir. Raoul would know best."

Raoul.

Butler. Caretaker.
Pawn
.

Every man has his price.

He wondered what lie the butler would have fabricated to explain Anne's absence.

How long would Raoul have attempted to delay him?

Bending his head, Michael carefully refolded the letter and slipped it back into the envelope. Opening his jacket, he slid it inside the pocket slit in the silk lining, thoughts racing, ideas forming.

Slowly he raised his head. "And has Raoul returned from his trip to the train station?" he asked evenly, his gaze pinning the footman.

"He is in the kitchen," John returned imperturbably. He stepped aside.

Michael could not afford to hope. But he did.

For one desperate second he hoped that friendship was stronger than jealousy. Greed. Hate.

"Did he tell you to inform on my butler, John?"

John stared straight ahead. "No, sir. I was concerned for the lady."

Either he lied… or he told the truth.

Michael believed him.

No one commanded complete loyalty. The letter in his hand was proof.

Downstairs, the scent of roasting meat filled the air; a beef roast instead of human flesh. Mrs. Banting, his cook; Marie, his housekeeper; and Raoul, his butler, sat at a long, rectangular, maple wood table. The cook, a short, plump woman with apple red cheeks who had always reminded Michael of an elderly fairy he had once seen portrayed in a children's storybook, peeled a potato. Marie, steel-rimmed glasses perched on her nose, wrote in a ledger. A glass and a bottle of gin sat in front of Raoul. Both containers were half-empty.

Or perhaps Raoul saw them as half-full.

The cook was the first to see Michael. She jumped up and awkwardly curtsied, potato in one hand and a paring knife in the other. "Sir."

Marie glanced up, her expression freezing. The tip of her steel nib audibly snapped. Raoul alone remained undisturbed by Michael's presence. He reached out and poured more gin into his glass.

A malicious smile curled Michael's lips.

Raoul's hand visibly shook, belying his unconcern.

He
should
be afraid.

"Mrs. Banting, please get me a box of matches," he politely ordered.

"Yes, sir. Of course, sir. Are you all right, sir? I heard about the fire. Is Mr. Gabriel all right, sir?"

Gin splattered onto the maple wood table. Marie jerked the bottle out of Raoul's hand and slammed it down.

Her hand shook, too.

Which of the two, his butler or his housekeeper, had been most eager to betray him? he wondered.

"The matches, Mrs. Banting. I am waiting."

The cook dropped the knife and potato into a large aluminum bowl filled with peels and potatoes. Wiping her hands on her apron, she hurried across the kitchen and nervously fumbled on a shelf near the black iron cooking stove. She returned with a box of matches, flinching away from his fingers when he took it from her hand.

"Thank you," Michael said gently. "You may leave now."

Bushy gray eyebrows shot up her wrinkled forehead. "But, sir, dinner—"

"Is cooking. I know, Mrs. Banting." Michael refocused on Raoul and Marie. "I won't take long. I have several bottles of an excellent sherry dated 1872. Be so kind as to fetch one from the cellar. I'm sure you will find it much more palatable than gin."

"Now see 'ere," Mrs. Banting protested, revealing her gutter origins, another one of Gabriel's homeless people. "I only 'ave a bit of a nip 'ere and now't' take th' chill out o' me bones—"

Michael did not care if she bathed in gin every night, so long as she performed her duties.

He spared her a glance. Her normally flushed cheeks were pale, revealing a broken network of veins that were the source of her perpetual rosy glow. "Go, Mrs. Banting."

The cook fled. Marie snapped shut her journal and folded her glasses.

Raoul still did not look up.

Michael slid open the box, retrieved a match, struck it, and walked over to the table. He dropped the flaming stick into the glass of gin.

Blue flame swooshed upward.

Marie gasped and jumped up from the table.

The smile twisting Michael's lips widened. "Imagine if I had fed you that match, Raoul."