The Lover Read online

  “Twenty-seven years.”

  “You knew him in France, then.”

  “We knew each other in France,” he reiterated politely, watching her.

  Anne raised her chin, refusing to ask the question he knew she wanted answered. “Michel is French for Michael. You say your name is Gabriel. You are both named after archangels. Are they your true names?”

  “Michel is French for Michael,” he replied calmly, waiting … “And my given name is Gabriel.”

  Anne weighed the truth of his statement.

  It was highly improbable that two Frenchmen, two friends, both of whom had sold their services to women, would bear the names of angels.

  “What surname do you go by?”

  “I do not need a surname, mademoiselle.” Contempt laced his voice. “I am Gabriel. Ask any gentleman—and a surprising number of ladies—and they will know me.”

  Anne bristled. “You don’t like the men and women who come to your establishment.”

  “Sin is like cockroaches. It comes out in the night.”

  “Perhaps the people who come to you do not consider their needs a sin.”

  He leaned over the small round table. “Do you, mademoiselle?”

  “They should not be, should they?” she countered.

  A familiar expression darkened his pale face.

  She had seen that expression on Michel’s face.

  Part pain. Part regret.

  Relentlessness.

  “Ask the question, mademoiselle.”

  Anne’s heartbeat accelerated.

  “You claim Monsieur des Anges is your friend. Why are you intent upon talking about him behind his back?”

  “I want you to understand.”

  Understand what?

  She suddenly noticed that the baby’s wailing had subsided. A gust of cold wind swept through the room.

  A customer had exited. Or entered.

  “Very well. How did you and Monsieur des Anges enter into your previous professions?”

  “We met on a road to Paris. Two runaways. Neither of us had any money or food. A madame—a bawd, if you will—took us in. She fed us, clothed us, and taught us how best we could pay her back.”

  Runaways.

  “How old were you?”

  He had long, thick, dark eyelashes. They did not blink at her question. “Thirteen.”

  She felt the blood drain from her face. “You were only children.”

  His lips curled in a mocking smile. She had seen that smile on Michel’s lips. “Michel thrived on it, mademoiselle. He loved the women, the sexual excess. Don’t ever think otherwise.”

  Anne could readily believe Michel had.

  “But you did not.”

  Suddenly the waiter was between them. Dishes clattered; silverware rattled. The fair-headed young man nervously slid a plain white cup and saucer in front of Anne, then Gabriel. They were made out of stoneware rather than china; designed for utility rather than beauty. More dishes followed. A lemon wedge rolled off of a small white bowl onto the table.

  Anne sat back to allow him room to align a rolled-up white linen napkin beside her saucer. Gabriel did not sit back.

  The waiter’s hands visibly shook as he set Gabriel’s place. Without asking, the effeminate-looking young man grabbed the white porcelain teapot and poured.

  Steaming brown liquid cascaded into her saucer.

  “I will pour,” she shortly ordered. “You may leave us.”

  The teapot thudded onto the metal tabletop. “Very well, ma’am.”

  Feeling every bit as nervous as the waiter, she grasped the curved handle of the teapot. Gabriel obligingly held up his saucer and cup.

  As if he had not admitted to living off the street. Like the street sweeper lived.

  As if he had not admitted to being forced into prostitution at the age of thirteen.

  Numbly she wondered why she was so shocked.

  The age of consent for an English girl was thirteen. She could sell her favors and those who purchased them would be considered legal, law-abiding citizens.

  Why could not men be victimized by society as well as women?

  Hot steam misted the air; she filled his cup before filling hers. Carefully she set the heavy stoneware teapot down on the edge of the table.

  Anne’s gaze skidded away from his. He did not look forty; neither did Michel. Yet if they had met twenty-seven years earlier when they were thirteen, that was the age both men were. “Would you care for cream, monsieur?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Sugar?”

  “Three lumps, please.”

  Thank you. Please. How polite the two of them were.

  She dropped the prescribed sugar lumps into his cup, and added two to her own. He did not wait to be offered lemon, but reached for it himself, fingers long, strong, elegant.

  “I neither want nor need your pity, mademoiselle.”

  Anne carefully unrolled her napkin and draped it across her lap. “Nor do I offer it to you.”

  “I did not take you as a woman who would hide from the truth.”

  Anne realized she still clutched his handkerchief. At the same time she realized she still wore her gloves.

  It was the height of bad manners to wear gloves while taking tea.

  Dropping the wet handkerchief into her reticule, she peeled off her gloves and shoved them underneath her napkin before answering. “I do not pity you, monsieur.” Squarely she met his gaze. “I admire you.”

  “You admire me, mademoiselle?” he asked softly, cup poised between the saucer and his beautiful, chiseled mouth.

  A cold shiver raced down her spine.

  Dimly she noted that he held his cup in his left hand.

  “Admire you,” she repeated firmly. “Many people in your circumstances would not have been so successful. You now own your own business. A very prosperous one, I am sure.”

  His silver eyes turned gunmetal gray. He returned his cup to the saucer. An answering clink of cups colliding with saucers surrounded them. “And you think that I should be proud of my establishment?”

  Anne stirred her tea once, a quick turn of her wrist. “I am very grateful that there are establishments like yours.” Carefully she set her teaspoon on the edge of her saucer. “Men and women are not supposed to require the services you provide. But obviously we do; otherwise you would not be in the business you are in. And that, monsieur, would be the shame.”

  Gabriel sat perfectly still. “Do you know why the waiter was so nervous, mademoiselle?”

  “No, I do not.”

  “He frequents the House of Gabriel.”

  “I would think your prices are too steep for a waiter.”

  “He does not come to buy a woman’s services.”

  Anne tried to contain her surprise. Forcibly she restrained herself from turning and looking for the fair-haired young man who had waited upon them. He was hardly more than a boy. “Women purchase his services?”

  Gabriel leaned across the table, his gaze pinning her. Hot steam framed his face. His silvery eyes were arctic. “Men purchase his services.”

  It took several seconds for the significance of his words to register.

  She instinctively resisted what he was implying.

  The look in his eyes did not allow her the luxury of resistance.

  He wanted to shock her.

  He wanted her to be repulsed.

  Swallowing both shock and repulsion, she managed, “Does he enjoy it?”

  “Perhaps. Some do.”

  Lifting her cup, her little finger crooked at the prerequisite angle, she took a sip of tea.

  Anne was used to translucent bone china. The stoneware was thicker; unfamiliar. The scalding liquid inside brought tears to her eyes.

  She resolutely replaced the cup into the saucer. “If he does not, why does he do it?”

  “Do you know the price of a loaf of bread?”

  Her silence was answer enough.

  “A quartern lo
af costs seven pence. Do you know what a room rents for?”

  Anne’s lips tightened.

  She knew what cab fare cost: sixpence a mile. She knew the cost of a pair of silk stockings: five shillings.

  She did not know what it cost simply to survive.

  “What would you choose, mademoiselle, given the choice of starving in the streets or sleeping at night in a bed with a full belly?”

  She saw the emaciated street sweeper in her mind’s eye. He had pushed her in front of an oncoming carriage for a silver shilling.

  He could just as easily have received a copper penny for his efforts.

  Never had she wanted for food, clothes, a bed—security.

  “But the waiter has a job,” she protested.

  “It pays twelve shillings a week. Rich men pay fortunes for certain young men.”

  Sudden understanding cut through her. “For beautiful young men.”

  “Yes.”

  For fair-headed, beautiful young men, she did not need to add.

  Men like Gabriel.

  If she damned the boy’s actions, she damned her own. She damned Michel. And she damned the man sitting across from her.

  She would not be a hypocrite.

  Her reticule contained a diaphragm and a tin of French letters, both testament to her lack of respectability.

  Anne stiffened her spine, her unconfined breasts further proof of her lapsing morals. “Then I hope that the waiter will someday possess enough money so that he will no longer feel compelled to engage in activities he finds unpleasant. And I hope that he will then find someone who will give him pleasure. To make up for everything he endured.”

  Gabriel’s cold alabaster skin paled. He pushed back his chair and stood up. “It is time to leave, mademoiselle. We are late.”

  Chapter 13

  Gabriel was not at the night house. No one there had seen him since midnight.

  Michael flung open the rain-shrouded door to his town house.

  Raoul jumped around in surprise, a pair of small scissors in his right hand and a withered purple bud in his left. His swarthy face paled. “Monsieur!”

  Michael strode past him toward the veined marble stairs. He did not bother closing the front door behind him; he would be leaving soon enough.

  Footsteps hurried after him.

  “Monsieur! The water! Monsieur! The mud!” The butler’s distress rolled over Michael; it did not affect him. Everything was dispensable: the town house, Raoul, Anne. “Monsieur—Monsieur Gabriel is in the library!”

  Michael halted.

  Gabriel. In the library.

  The cold rage burning inside him found an outlet.

  Noiselessly he pivoted. Raoul raced ahead of him to open the library door.

  Gold gleamed in the gray light. The embossed leather books had not been damaged by the flames or smoke. They alone remained familiar.

  The library door closed behind him with a gentle swish. A hard click followed, metal notching metal.

  Flickering motion danced in the corner of his eye: fire.

  Michael turned on a rush of pure energy.

  Gabriel stood facing the fireplace, his blond hair a silver halo in the glimmering dance of light and shadow.

  A less perceptive man would not have noticed the slight stiffening of his back.

  A less perceptive man would inhabit hell in flesh as well as in spirit.

  “Where’s Anne?”

  Michael’s voice was soft. It penetrated the four corners of the library.

  Slowly Gabriel turned, his face serene. God’s messenger boy.

  He casually held a silver-handled cane.

  It had been made by the same artisan who had fashioned Michael’s cane.

  Silently they surveyed one another while the pattering rain and the burning coals closed around them.

  Front to back. Back to front.

  There was no place to hide. No place to run.

  Judgment Day had come.

  “She’s upstairs, changing into dry clothes,” Gabriel said finally.

  His voice was equally soft. It, too, filled the library.

  Michael was not fooled.

  “You didn’t post any of your men.”

  Orange and blue flames outlined Gabriel’s legs. Dangerous. Unpredictable. “No.”

  “But you stood watch, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Waiting for Anne.”

  “Yes.”

  He had waited. Watched. And followed.

  Agony ripped through Michael.

  Goddamn him.

  Gabriel was his only friend. And he had betrayed him.

  Not to the man. But to his woman.

  “Why?”

  Gabriel did not pretend to misunderstand him.

  “I wanted to see what it was that you were willing to die for.”

  Michael could feel his hackles rise. Memories of moonlight and dogs flitted through his mind—strays fighting over a bone, territory—a woman.

  “You were so sure that I would let her leave my side?” he taunted.

  “You can’t watch her every minute.” Gabriel was not drawn by Michael’s anger. “You know that, or you wouldn’t want my men to protect her.”

  Yes, Gabriel would wait for that one lone minute, Michael thought savagely. Endlessly. Tirelessly. Until Anne left the town house unescorted.

  And she had.

  His hands clenched into fists.

  He knew he couldn’t watch over her all the time. But he didn’t want to know it.

  He wanted to think that he could protect her.

  He needed to believe that he could protect her.

  There had to exist one small factor in his life that he could control.

  “Where did she go?”

  Gabriel shrugged. “London proper.”

  Shopping?

  “How did you persuade her to come back with you?”

  “A beggar pushed her in front of a hack.”

  And rescued her for a reward.

  But beggars weren’t always quick enough to save their victims.

  For a second he couldn’t breathe.

  Anne could have died, and he would not have been able to stop it. He would not even have known about it—until it was too late.

  It was already too late.

  He gritted his teeth. “What did you tell her?”

  “I asked her if she would like to test my expertise in bed.”

  A coal exploded in the fireplace.

  “You son of a bitch.”

  Michael had felt many things for Gabriel throughout the years they had been together. He had never felt hatred.

  Until now.

  He hated his games.

  He hated his perfect, unmarred skin.

  Gabriel lightly fingered the silver handle of his cane that, when twisted, became the hilt of a sword. “Don’t you want to know what she said, Michael?”

  Was Anne changing clothes … or packing to go?

  “Do I?” he asked tightly.

  “She said she saw you when she made her debut.”

  Once. Eighteen years ago. At a ball.

  A vivid image of Olivia Hendall-Grayson, Countess Raleigh—Michael’s first English procuress—flashed before his eyes. She liked beautiful young men. So did her husband.

  The same memories were reflected in Gabriel’s eyes.

  Different women. Different men.

  Years of pleasure. Years of pain.

  A smile twisted Gabriel’s lips. “Don’t you want to know what I asked her then, Michael?”

  Michael, too, had learned the art of patience.

  “What did you ask, Gabriel?”

  “I asked her which of us she would prefer if it had been me she had seen first.”

  The rage and the pain caught in Michael’s chest.

  In all the twenty-seven years they had been together, Gabriel had never once talked about the choices that had been taken from them or the choices they themselves had made.


  “What did she say?” he asked softly.

  “You, Michael. She would have chosen you. Because of your eyes.”

  Bitter irony twisted Michael’s lips.

  He had flirted with English society for thirteen years and no one had recognized his eyes.

  “I told her how you became a whore.”

  The burning coals snapped and popped behind Gabriel. Behind Michael a sheet of rain pelted the bay window.

  “And did you tell her how much I loved it?”

  Gabriel’s stare did not falter. “Yes.”

  “Did you tell her what you are, Gabriel?”

  “She knows.”

  The breath whistled out of Michael’s lungs. “You brought her back to me. Why?”

  “She believes I should take pride in my house.” Shadow darkened Gabriel’s face. “That men and women require its services.”

  Michael stilled.

  Anne had pulled away from him rather than suffer his touch in public.

  He fought down a black wave of jealousy.

  This was a side of his spinster he had not seen—perhaps would never see.

  “Why did she say that?” he asked dispassionately.

  “I took her to a pastry shop. Timothy works there.”

  Timothy, like Gabriel, had been borne homeless. English rather than French. A nameless bastard in any language. Gabriel had found him a job, that he might learn a trade other than whoring.

  Had Anne been shocked? Repulsed?

  Her own life had cheated her of choices. Did she understand that life also cheated others of choices?

  When it was time, which of the two needs would she remember?

  The need for sex?

  Or the need for vengeance?

  “I wasn’t going to bring her back to you, Michael.”

  Michael had not expected him to. “I know.”

  “Do you know what else she said?”

  Michael no longer knew what to expect.

  “She said that she hopes Timothy will someday find someone who will give him pleasure. To make up for everything he has endured.”

  Emotion coiled inside Michael’s gut.

  Regret; for the internal scars that did not heal. Relief; that Anne had seen the worst Gabriel could offer. And had accepted the wounded world of two worn-out whores.

  “It’s over, Gabriel,” Michael said quietly. “I know you’ve killed. I know who you killed. And I know why.”

  “How do you know who I’ve killed?”