The Lover Read online

  Anne remembered how lonely her parents had been. How eager for company that rarely came. How pitifully anxious they had been when it did.

  She resignedly reached for her cup. The flavor of the tea did not improve with the third sip.

  “Have you ever been in love, Miss Aimes?”

  “Have you, sir?” she riposted politely.

  “Yes, Miss Aimes, I have.”

  Lord Granville was the second person who confessed to having loved. Man. Woman. Friends. Lovers.

  Or perhaps the earl had loved a man. As a lover.

  She determinedly swallowed another sip of tea.

  “Then you are fortunate.” She set down her cup with finality. “I do not believe love is a highly prized commodity in our society.”

  “That is because people are afraid. Money is more material. But you aren’t afraid, are you, my dear?”

  Yes.

  Anne was afraid of many things. Loneliness. Growing old. Dying … alone. But she did not visit the earl to discuss her fears.

  The relentless click, click, click was beginning to wear on her nerves.

  “You have spoken to the superintendent of police, my lord. Does he have any idea as to who is the culprit?”

  “You are uncomfortable talking about love.” Speculation flickered in his eyes, and something else, something dark that was gone even as she tried to name it. “Why is that, I wonder?”

  Perspiration trickled down her temple. Moisture pooled underneath her breasts.

  “I do not think that I am qualified to discuss the subject, Lord Granville,” she said stiffly. “Perhaps another day—”

  “There is a poem that I often reflect upon,” he interrupted trenchantly. “It is by Andrew Marvell. In it a man attempts to convince his lady love to sample the pleasures of the marriage bed. ‘The grave’s a fine and private place, / but none, I think, do there embrace,’ he tells her. It is quite prophetic. Have you ever read the poem?”

  The heat that flashed through Anne owed nothing to the roaring fire in front of her. Discussing sexual love with a man who professed to be Michel’s friend was one thing; this was another matter entirely.

  She crumpled her napkin and dropped it onto the tea cart beside her cup and saucer. “No, I have not. I told my groom I would be only a few minutes. The horse will be restive. If you will excuse me—”

  “Spring is such an unpredictable season, is it not?” he cut in smoothly, rheumy eyes guileless. “I confess, I never seem to get warm enough. My manservant took advantage of your visit to have a few moments to himself. Would you mind terribly fetching a quilt from my chest?”

  Courtesy demanded that she see to his comfort before she took her leave. “No, of course not.”

  Stuffing her gloves and reticule between her hip and the chair arm, she stood up and glanced about the long, rectangular bedchamber. It was paneled in the same dark mahogany that lined the hallway. What fire and sunlight the paneling did not consume, the dark four-poster bed did.

  “The chest is on the other side of the bed, my dear,” he affably instructed her, as if unaware of the social gaffe he had committed or her eagerness to escape. “Against the far wall. The quilt is in the top drawer.”

  Anne walked into the blessedly cool shadows.

  A life-size portrait hung on the wall beside the chest of drawers. A young man leaned against a horse, quirt in hand, chiseled lips curved in a faintly mocking smile.

  She had seen that smile before.

  The young man had black hair that was curled in a manner considered fashionable in the early 1830s. It looked blue in the dim light.

  Anne retrieved the quilt, eyes trained on the portrait. She could almost make out the color of the young man’s eyes.

  She could almost remember seeing him.

  Dancing. Laughing. Weaving through a forest of jewel-colored gowns and black formal wear while the music soared—

  “I was rather a handsome chap in my salad days, was I not, Miss Aimes?”

  Starting guiltily, Anne turned away from the portrait.

  Lord Granville had soundlessly maneuvered his wheelchair to the four-poster bed. He reached for the stained-glass Tiffany lamp on the nightstand. “Some say that my nephew is the spitting image of me. What do you think?”

  She thought that his mind wandered.

  His nephew had died two years after the accident that had claimed the earl’s mobility, his only brother, sister-in-law and three nieces.

  Electric light circled him, a very proper old gentleman dressed in a starched white shirt, black tie, tweed wool trousers, and a dark burgundy velvet smoking jacket with black satin lapels. Dropping his hand, he fully faced her. Smiling. Waiting for Anne to tuck the quilt around his wasted legs.

  Anne reluctantly complied.

  He suddenly did not seem so helpless. So harmless.

  His legs through the dark green quilt and tweed wool trousers were more bone than flesh. The fingers on his right hand continued to rhythmically move, silver flashing, metal clicking.

  Glancing up, she caught his gaze.

  The earl’s irises were translucent in the lamplight, like violet colored glass. His contracted pupils were as black as jet beads.

  It dawned on her who the earl reminded her of when he smiled. It dawned on her who the man in the portrait reminded her of.

  Anne jerked upright, her heart pounding. “It was unforgivable of me to intrude on you without notice, Lord Granville. Pray do not trouble yourself anymore. I will see myself out.”

  A satisfied smile blossomed across his aged face. “I am flattered, Miss Aimes. You do see the resemblance.”

  She backed away on rubbery legs. “I do not know what you are talking about.”

  “Of course you do, my dear.” He continued smiling and rolling the two silver balls between long, shapely fingers. Click. Click. Click. His fingers were the same length and breadth as the scarred ones that had fondled her breasts. Massaged her clitoris. Penetrated her vagina. “You see the resemblance between me and my nephew. The man whom you paid ten thousand pounds to fuck you.”

  She bumped into wood. Hard. Porcelain rattled; silver clattered.

  He stared at her, mildly curious, as if he had not just claimed the most notorious stallion in England for a relative. As if he did not know that she had paid ten thousand pounds. So his nephew would fuck her.

  But he didn’t have a legitimate nephew. The boy had died twenty-seven years earlier.

  Gossip about her sexual liaison was bound to reach Dover, but not the monetary arrangements.

  Mr. Little would not betray a client’s confidence. The earl could have obtained his information from only one other source.

  Michel des Anges had known all along who she was.

  Lies. Everything he had said had all been lies.

  His desire for friendship. Intimacy. The pleasure he derived from a spinster’s gratification.

  There was only one reason she had been lured back to Dover.

  “My mother’s grave was not vandalized.” Anne held the earl’s gaze. Forcefully she tamped down the pain that chuckled and bubbled inside her chest. “Was it, Lord Granville?”

  “Wasn’t it?” he asked politely.

  “While you are to be commended for claiming a by-blow for a nephew, I am afraid you have made a grievous error.” She inched around the tea cart, trying to preserve her dignity while keeping her face turned toward the earl. Another man who had fallen on hard times. “You may circulate whatever defamation you wish. I will not pay either you or Michel des Anges more than the ten thousand pounds that we agreed upon.”

  An odd smile played about his lips; it sent a cold shiver shimmying down her back. “I never expected that you would, Miss Aimes.”

  More lies.

  “Then we will forget this day,” she said. And knew that she too lied.

  She would never forget this day. This moment.

  No wonder she had not been able to envision the man who had claimed he wanted to be h
er lover inside a cheap pastry shop. His blood was more blue, if not as respectable, than was hers.

  Had that been what Gabriel had wanted her to understand?

  That her lover was the bastard nephew of an earl?

  Her gloves … Ah, there they were, they had slid between the cushion and the chair. She scooped up her reticule—and promptly stumbled forward.

  Mortification at her clumsiness scorched her cheeks. She hurriedly straightened, determined to show that she was unscathed by the earl and his nephew’s attempt to inveigle money from a love-starved spinster. “Good day, sir.”

  “I do not think so, Miss Aimes.”

  Anne ignored the earl. The mahogany floor between her and the door yawned before her. Memories turned her legs to lead, images of her taking Michel into her mouth; of him caressing her back and buttocks while she propped her leg on the toilet seat and fished about inside her vagina.

  She had been happy. For three days and nights she had been given more joy than she had known in her entire life.

  Anne had always known that no man—especially a man such as Michel des Anges—would want a thirty-six-year-old spinster for more than her money.

  Why did the truth hurt so much?

  Please, God, she prayed, just let me get to the door. Don’t let me cry in front of this man.

  God answered her prayer.

  She gratefully wrenched open the door.

  A man dressed in black blocked her progress. He had receding sandy hair.

  Recognition slammed through Anne.

  He was the butler her solicitor had hired to oversee her London town house. A picture of English moral rectitude.

  “Shut the door, Frank, there’s a good boy. Miss Aimes is not ready for you yet.”

  Face expressionless, the sandy-haired man obediently pulled the door closed. Pale features shone in the polished mahogany. They were capped by a black, featherless hat.

  Her parents’ worst fear was coming to pass: she was being held hostage for ransom.

  Heart hammering against her ribs, Anne whirled around. The room whirled with her. “You cannot keep me here against my will. My groom—”

  Her jaws snapped together.

  Gabriel’s voice mocked her. A lone woman should never accompany a stranger.

  How neatly she had played into their hands.

  Isolating herself by staying with Michel. Taking the train with no escort. Accompanying a man who claimed to be recently hired by her bailiff.

  The earl’s faded violet eyes gleamed with malice. “You are very astute, Miss Aimes. Yes, the man who drove you here was hired by me. Or perhaps I should say, he was hired by Frank. Frank is very thorough in these matters.”

  “My servants are expecting me, Lord Granville. If I do not soon arrive they will summon a constable.”

  “Come, come, Miss Aimes,” he mockingly chided. “You must by now realize that no one is expecting you. Raoul telegraphed me, not your servants. How else do you think I would have been prepared for you?”

  How many people did it take to abduct one woman? she wondered on a wave of horror.

  A lover. An earl. A blond-haired butler who was not a butler. Jane—had she been an abigail, or an accomplice? Raoul—was he a butler?

  Was Gabriel a friend of her lover? Or simply a beautiful man hired to follow her, to ensure she did not stray or come to harm before her money was harvested?

  She remembered the man with the blue-black hair who had stood outside her solicitor’s office.

  And knew that it had been Michel.

  She squared her shoulders. “My solicitor will go to Scotland Yard.”

  “Your solicitor is dead. His corpse was delivered to my nephew.”

  Mr. Little. Dead.

  Anne’s heart stopped beating. The clock continued ticking.

  “I created a special greeting to accompany the delivery,” the earl preened. “‘From one solicitor to another.’ Although there are, of course, far more derogatory terms for my nephew. Whore comes to mind. Still, I thought it was a rather clever play on professional titles, don’t you?”

  Anne saw again the black trunk inside the solicitor’s office. Smelled again the stench of charred flesh.

  And knew exactly when he had been delivered.

  She had comforted Michel—no, no, Gabriel had confirmed that Michel was Michael in French, not that it was his name. Dear God, she didn’t even know the name of the man whose flesh she had taken into her body and her mouth—for the death of a business acquaintance.

  For the death of Mr. Little.

  Her heart lurched inside her chest; raced to catch up with the ticking clock.

  Incongruously she realized it had not been fear that had hardened her nipples when Gabriel had confronted her in the rain; it had been the cold that had done so.

  This was fear, the ice that coursed through her veins. She had no nipples, no limbs, no fingers. Her entire body had been converted into living, breathing terror.

  “I will scream.” She bit the insides of her cheeks to keep from doing the very thing she threatened to do. “A servant is bound to come to my aid. You cannot hold a woman against her will.”

  “I beg to differ, Miss Aimes. I have. And I will again. My servants will not hear you. Those who might be sympathetic to your plight, that is. I sent them on a holiday for the next few days. By the time they return, no one will be the wiser.”

  “I will give you money,” she offered desperately. “All the money you wish.”

  “I have no need of your money.”

  No need of her money! Then what—

  She took a deep breath. She would not panic.

  “Then what do you want from me?”

  “I want you to understand.”

  Anne cringed at the familiar words. “Understand what?”

  “I want you to understand that you cannot escape the consequences of killing your mother.”

  She gritted her teeth. “I did not … kill … my mother.”

  She had not had the courage to.

  Her mother had begged her to release her from the pain, and she had done nothing.

  “Come now, Miss Aimes. You cared for your mother. You nursed her. You slept in a room adjoining hers so that you could minister to her. She was found on the floor, cold and stiff. Did you not hear her fall? Did you not hear her cries for help?”

  Pain crowded the fear that thudded throughout her body. She had heard it all before, village whispers deliberately pitched so that she could hear them.

  Had Michel secretly laughed at her, when she told him she knew what it was like to be an object of curiosity?

  It wasn’t her marital status that inspired their gossip, he had told her. It was her wealth.

  Why hadn’t she listened to what he said instead of what she wanted to hear?

  “I … did not … kill … my mother,” she repeated more stridently.

  “Of course you did, my dear. And you will be punished for it. But there are other things you must first understand.”

  Darkness edged Anne’s vision. She swayed, caught the doorknob behind her to prevent herself from falling face-first onto the floor. Her gloves and reticule dropped from suddenly numb fingers, a whisper of sound and a jarring plop. She leaned against the door to keep from collapsing.

  Horror clogged her throat. “You put something in the tea.”

  “Don’t worry, Miss Aimes.” The earl expertly maneuvered his chair to the tea cart and brushed the napkins off of the lid on the silver serving dish. He carefully lifted it, as if afraid of spilling whatever was inside. “The paralysis will be temporary.”

  Securing the silver dish on his lap, he rolled the chair toward her. The track of wheels on the wooden floor grated along her spine. “You will not be able to move or speak, but you will be able to hear. And think. And remember.”

  The wheelchair stopped five feet away from her. He stared up at her, rheumy eyes intent. “Oh, yes, Miss Aimes, you will most definitely be able to think and remem
ber.”

  “You are insane,” she whispered.

  This entire situation was insane.

  Why would the earl and his illegitimate nephew do this to her if they did not want her money?

  The earl watched her speculatively. “Do you know, my dear, that is what those who lack power always say about those who are in power. One becomes quite the philosopher when confined to a wheelchair. A point of example: we all possess one distinguishing quality that will either bring us great joy or immeasurable suffering. Twenty-nine years ago my nephew was a very loving boy. Contrary to what the Greeks taught us, guilt is the other side of love, not hate. Imagine the pain an eleven-year-old boy felt, knowing that he was responsible for the death of his family.”

  She knew what the earl was doing. She would not be made to feel guilty.

  The accident that had taken the boy’s life had been just that—an accident.

  Her mother’s death had been an accident.

  Anne had gone to sleep.

  While her mother tried to get out of bed and do the job Anne had refused to do.

  She had fallen.

  While Anne slept.

  She had died.

  While Anne slept.

  “Yes, I see you do imagine how my nephew felt. Guilt is a wonderfully corrosive sentiment. It did not take him long at all to realize how selfish it was of him to enjoy life when I confronted him with the reality of death.” The earl briefly touched the silver-covered dish; his face creased with reminiscent pleasure. “Now imagine Lady Wenterton, a spoiled, beautiful woman who possessed a voracious sexual appetite. There are devices, Miss Aimes, that can create excruciating desire in a woman. No doubt my nephew would have introduced you to such dreadful delights had I allowed him more time. But he was ever a naughty boy.”

  The last was said with indulgent reproof.

  Anne felt herself sliding, sliding, sliding ….

  Laughter welled up into her throat.

  Lady Wenterton … who was she? Lustful cravings …. Naughty boys who engaged in murder.

  Anne’s skirt, bustle, and petticoats bunched up in the small of her back.

  The urge to laugh abruptly died.

  She sat on the floor, silk stockinged legs stuck out in front of her.