The Lover Page 22

  Perhaps, she thought on a wave of giddiness, it was the wearing of corsets that kept women in subjugation.

  She opened the bathroom door—only to remember the small tin on the sink.

  The diaphragm was featherlight.

  What if the maid, when cleaning, decided the tin was empty and discarded it? What if she opened it and recognized the small circle of rubber for what it was?

  Backtracking, Anne retrieved the rose-colored tin. She opened the nightstand drawer beside the four-poster brass bed to place it beside Michel’s tin of French letters.

  Sharp metal gleamed beside the stamped image of Graystone’s dour face.

  Anne remembered the wicked glint of light dancing on the tip of her hat pin. This was far more deadly.

  A chill that had nothing to do with the weather raced down her spine.

  Her father had kept a gun in his nightstand. For protection, he claimed.

  For masculine pride, Anne had surmised.

  Why would a man keep a knife by his bed?

  Why were her knees suddenly shaking?

  She slid her hand inside the drawer. Her fingers encountered something hard. Heavy.

  A pistol.

  It was more compact than the old-fashioned one her father had possessed.

  More blunt.

  More lethal.

  The metal was smooth and sleek, as if it had been recently polished.

  Michel was as adept with weapons as he was with a woman’s body.

  The thought came out of nowhere. It would not go away.

  Every warning Anne’s governess had fed her raced through her thoughts.

  Children would hurt her because of their envy.

  Men would abduct her to ransom her wealth.

  Dropping the rose-colored tin into the drawer, she shoved the wood shut so hard that the hurricane lamp rattled and a rain of rose petals fell to the table.

  Many men were proficient with weapons. Thieves were more plentiful in London than on the isolated outskirts of Dover.

  Michel would not hurt her.

  He had said so.

  After dropping her hat pin onto the floor.

  Anne hurriedly opened the door to the bedchamber that had witnessed her wanton abandon. She came face-to-face with a golden-haired man.

  A very handsome golden-haired man. He had cerulean blue eyes.

  She bit back a scream.

  He was in black livery. A footman. Not an assailant.

  The golden-haired footman stepped back and bowed. “Begging your pardon, ma’am. I thought I heard a disturbance. Shall you have breakfast now?”

  “Yes. Thank you.” She forced a polite smile, nerves screeching the outcry a lady was not allowed to make. “Could you direct me to Monsieur des Anges please?”

  “He is not here.”

  How dim the hallway suddenly seemed. How very silly her earlier fears.

  How thin the walls.

  If the footman had heard her slam the drawer to the nightstand, there was no question at all that he had heard her scream the night before. As no doubt the other servants had.

  She tilted her chin, daring him to think what he would. “Then you may direct me to the breakfast room.”

  The footman stepped aside, cerulean eyes unreadable. “Of course, ma’am. If you will follow me.”

  The butler waited for her at the bottom of the steps. Silver gleamed: in his hair, in his white-gloved hand. “Mademoiselle Aimes!”

  Tension knotted in her stomach.

  He held the silver post tray in front of him. The golden-haired footman waited beside the wrought-iron newel post, a silent witness.

  Raoul had similarly offered Michel a post, while she waited, a silent witness.

  The missive had not borne good news.

  She clutched the black metal balustrade. “Yes?”

  “This lettre arrived by special delivery, mademoiselle.” His dark eyes were politely blank. “It is addressed to you.”

  Anne breathed a sigh of relief. Mr. Little must have returned from Lincolnshire.

  Bowing, Raoul extended the silver tray.

  She scooped up the letter. “Thank you.”

  Stepping down the last step, she turned the white envelope over and read her name.

  It was not Mr. Little’s busy scrawl. Furthermore, the letter was addressed to her town house.

  Anne frowned.

  The envelope was stamped, but it had not been mailed in London. There was no return address.

  “Ma’am.”

  She glanced up at the blond footman.

  “The breakfast room is this way.”

  “Thank you.”

  Anne did not need him for guidance. The delectable odor of ham and bacon drifted down the hallway.

  The footman threw open the door to a small, square breakfast room at the end of the corridor. Sunlight sparkled on polished wood and silver. French doors showcased a rectangular garden. Budding rosebushes lined a brick wall.

  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 footm
an 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 bien.”

  Chapter 16

  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 Hôtel 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.