Dangerous to Know (18 page)

She had lived with another man once. Years ago. She’d told me all about him. It hadn’t worked out. Not in the end. When we met in Paris there was no one of importance in her life. That was lucky for me. We were well suited. I liked her braininess. The way her mind worked intrigued me. I couldn’t stand dumb women. I’d known a few of those.

Too many.

I closed my eyes. Drifting. Thinking. Mostly about Catherine.

There was never any pressure with her. Or from her. She allowed me to be me.

To be Jack. To her I was her friend. Her lover. I was not the son of the famous Sebastian Locke. I was not John Lyon Locke, the last of Locke Foundation. She did not know that side of me. Nor did she care the line in a great American family, head of Locke Industries and the about it.

Catherine often heard me on the phone with the president of Locke Industries. And with those others who ran the company for me. As they had done for my father. Sometimes I spoke to my assistants at the foundation in front of her. But she paid scant attention to my phone calls. Neither was she curious about my other business interests.

Fortunately she loved the chateau and the winery. This pleased me. -I had started to share my thoughts with her about the wine business.

“She always listened attentively.

She understood my love of the land My land, my vineyards.

Another aspect of her character was her lack of interest in my wealth.

Catherine seemed to be as disdainful of money as Sebastian had been.

Material things did not matter to her. This did not trouble me.

I only wished she would let me spoil her. Give her gifts occasion ally. But she found it hard to accept things from me. Unless it was a book. Or something else that was inexpensive.

She interrupted my thoughts of her when she said softly, touching my shoulder, “Jack, are you asleep?”

“No. Only dozing. Well, half-dozing.”

“I’ve just thought of something.”

“What?”

“Did the mysterious woman in your father’s life show up at his funeral?”

“I wonder why not? Don’t you think that’s peculiar?”

“Not really.” I answered. “The funeral was small. A family affair. In Cornwall, Connecticut. It was strictly private. Verboten to anybody not -close. Or closely connected to him.”

“I see. I’ll tell you something, though. If I were in love with a man and engaged to be married to him, and if that man died unexpectedly, I’d be in touch with his family immediately,” she exclaimed. “Even if I hadn’t met them, even if they didn’t know about my existence. I would want to be with them, to share my grief. And I would certainly want to be at his funeral.” Catherine paused, bit her lip. “It’s strange, Jack, it really is when you think about it. I mean, that she hasn’t been in touch with you or Luciana, if only to express her sympathy, give you her condolences.”

“She hasn’t,” I said. “But she could have been at the memorial service for all I know. Hundreds of people were. It was held at the Church of St. John the Divine in Manhattan. Since a public announcement had been made, the world at large knew about it. And came.”

Catherine sighed. “And because you never met her, you wouldn’t have known whether she was present or not.”

“Precisely.”

“Do you mind if I ask you something else? Something a little more personal?”

“Shoot.”

“Had your father changed his will?”

“No. Why?”

“I just wondered. Often people who are about to commit suicide put their affairs in order.”

“His affairs were in order, Catherine. Already had been for years.

He was made that way. Mr. Efficiency. That was Sebastian.”

“No legacy left to a woman you’d never heard of?”

“No. His will was made three years ago. Nothing was changed in it.

If there had been a legacy to a person I didn’t know, I’d have made it my business to find out about her.”

“Yes, of course you would, darling. I’m beginning to realize these are stupid questions. I can be such an imbecile at times. Oh dear.”

She fell silent.

So did I.

She moved her head and the firelight danced in her long hair, turned it into a shimmering cascade of flame around her pale face. She moved again, turned her head the other way, exposed a long white neck.

Catherine had a swanlike neck, as Antoinette Delaney had had.

In a rush of words, I said, “You’ve often reminded me of someone, of my Special Lady, but never more so than you do tonight, Catherine.

It’s uncanny.”

“Your Special Lady? Who’s that?” This was asked softly, but I noticed that her face had tightened.

“Her name was Antoinette Delaney. She was Vivienne’s mother. I loved her from the first moment she came into my life. When I was six.

She was like a mother to me. Kind, warm, adoring.”

“And I remind you of her?” she asked, sounding slightly incredu -bus.

“Am I motherly?”

I laughed. “She was very beautiful. Like you. You have her coloring.

The same red hair, white skin, green eyes. She was as tall as you are.

As willowy and graceful.”

Catherine smiled.

I said, “I’ve not told you this before … but my own mother died when I was two. Of bone-marrow cancer. Sebastian married Christa about two years later. They had Luciana together. But Christa was an alcoholic. Sebastian put her in a clinic. To dry out. She never came back to live with us. He didn’t want her around us. Or anywhere near him. I think he despised her.”

“So Antoinette was a friend of your father’s? Or was she his lover?”

“Yes, his mistress. We were together for six years. All of us.

In Connecticut and here at the chateau. They were wonderful years.

Whatever I am today, she helped to make me. Any good there is in me comes from her. From her influence. And her love.”

“That’s such a lovely thing to say. So touching. And she must have been quite unique. No wonder you call her your Special Lady. But why was she only with you for six years?”

“She died.”

“Oh Jack, I’m sorry. How tragic. She can’t have been very old.

What did she die of?”

“She had an accident. At least everyone said it was an accident.

She fell down the basement steps at Sebastian’s farm. She died instantly.

She broke her neck.”

“Why do you say, everyone said it was an accident in that peculiar tone of voice, as if you don’t think it was?” Catherine’s eyes fastened on mine.

I didn’t respond. I looked away.

“Do you think she was murdered?”

“I’ve never known what to think,” I said at last, turning to her.

‘It seems odd that she was going into the basement. In the early hours of the morning. And if she was pushed, who could’ve done it? Who would’ve wanted to anyway? Sebastian was in Manhattan. On business Aldred was at the farm. He was my father’s major domo. We were there.

Luciana and me. And her nanny. And the housekeeper. Sebastian arrived at about seven. From New York. He said he’d come up early to go riding with Antoinette. But I’ve often wondered about that.”

“Are you suggesting that Sebastian pushed her?”

“I don’t know.” I’d never confided this to anyone else before. I took a deep breath. Then I plunged. “He might have,” I muttered.

“But why?”

“I don’t know.”

Catherine shook her head slowly. “Shades of Amy Robsart.”

“Who’s Amy Robsart?” I asked.

“She was married to Lord Robert Dudley, and on September the eighth in the year 1560 her body was found at the foot of the staircase in Cumnor Hall, where she was then living. Her death caused a terrible flurry at the time, became something of a cause clbre, and in fact, it rocked the whole of England. You see, Robert Dudley was the closest friend of Queen Elizabeth the First. They were actually childhood friends. He was her dearest and most beloved companion. Never far from her sight.

After she became Queen of England she bestowed many honors on him.

He had a very high rank at court, and he was her Master of the Horse-“

“And rumored to be the Queen’s lover. If I remember my British history correctly,” I volunteered.

Catherine nodded. “That’s right. Amy’s death was a mystery, and some people tried to implicate Robert Dudley. Even the Queen was under suspicion briefly. But since he was at court with Queen Eliza beth he couldn’t have pushed her himself.”

“But he might have hired someone to push her … is that what you’re getting at?”

“More or less. Certainly the stakes were high enough.”

“In what sense?”

“With his wife’s death, Robert Dudley was a free man … free to marry Queen Elizabeth.”

“Would that have been possible?”

“Constitutionally, yes. And she did love him. Just as he loved her.

But Elizabeth Tudor didn’t want to marry anyone. Not really. She didn’t want to share her power. In any case, I don’t think he was involved or implicated in his wife’s death. Neither was the Queen.

She was far too smart to be a party to that kind of thing. As you know, I earned a doctorate in English history. What you don’t know is that I specialized in the Tudor period. It’s my forte. And in my opinion, Amy Robsart Dudley killed herself. I’ve actually written about this.”

“And she did it because of her husband’s involvement with the Queen?”

“No. Amy was known to have cancer of the breast. She was ill, and she may have grown despondent. Anyway, that’s my considered opinion . She did herself in by throwing herself down the stairs.”

“Antoinette wasn’t ill’ I remarked, thinking out loud. “The autopsy would have brought that to light. If she had been. So I suppose her death was an accident.”

“I think it must have been. I didn’t know your father, but I doubt very much that he would cornnrit such a crime. Or hire someone to do it for him. Why would he? What motive did he have? He wasn’t married to Antoinette. If he’d wanted to break up with her, he could have done so easily enough. He could have left her. It’s as simple as that. He didn’t have to resort to murder.”

“I guess you’re right.”

Catherine moved closer to me, put her arms around me, and held me tightly. “Don’t let something like this haunt you, as I believe it has been doing for years and years.”

“Off and on,” I admitted.

After a moment Catherine got out of bed and went into the bath room.

I lay there thinking about my father. I wished she had not brought him up. Certainly not t marry Queen Elizabeth.”

“Would that have been possible?”

“Constitutionally, yes. And she did love him. Just as he loved her.

But Elizabeth Tudor didn’t want to marry anyone. Not really. She didn’t want to share her power. In any case, I don’t think he was involved or implicated in his wife’s death. Neither was the Queen.

She was far too smart to be a party to that kind of thing. As you know, I earned a doctorate in English history. What you don’t know is that I specialized in the Tudor period. It’s my forte. And in my opinion, Amy Robsart Dudley killed herself. I’ve actually written about this.”

“And she did it because of her husband’s involvement with the Queen?”

“No. Amy was known to have cancer of the breast. She was ill, and she may have grown despondent. Anyway, that’s my considered opinion . She did herself in by throwing herself down the stairs.”

“Antoinette wasn’t ill’ I remarked, thinking out loud. “The autopsy would have brought that to light. If she had been. So I suppose her death was an accident.”

“I think it must have been. I didn’t know your father, but I doubt very much that he would cornnrit such a crime. Or hire someone to do it for him. Why would he? What motive did he have? He wasn’t married to Antoinette. If he’d wanted to break up with her, he could have done so easily enough. He could have left her. It’s as simple as that. He didn’t have to resort to murder.”

“I guess you’re right.”

Catherine moved closer to me, put her arms around me, and held me tightly. “Don’t let something like this haunt you, as I believe it has been doing for years and years.”

“Off and on,” I admitted.

After a moment Catherine got out of bed and went into the bath room.

I lay there thinking about my father. I wished she had not brought him up. Certainly not tonight. Not now. The discussion had been going on half the day. Ever since Vivienne’s phone call this morning.

I groaned under my breath. I was sick of it all. And I was relieved Vivienne was going to New York later this week. When she was pounding someone else about Sebastian Locke she was leaving me alone.

Vivienne maddened me at times.

Catherine came back, gliding across the floor. She got into bed, curling up against me, kissing me lightly on the cheek.

“You don’t want this, do you, darling?” she asked as she took the brandy balloon out of my hands and put it on her bedside table.

“Well,” I began, but she stopped the flow of words with her lips.

She began to kiss me, lightly at first, but then the kisses became hot, fervent, passionate. Her tongue grazed mine as she slid it into my mouth. I kissed her hard, wrapping my arms around her body, pulling her on top of me as I did.

We stayed locked together for several moments. Then! broke away cupped a hand under one of her breasts, and brought my mouth down to the nipple. I heard the soft groan in the back of her throat as I kissed her breast.

chest and onto my stomach. Then she slithered down in the bed.

Eventually Catherine pulled away and trailed her mouth across me. She crouched over me, touching me everywhere. Caressing the most vulnerable parts of me.

I heard my own groans as she began to make to me. She was a versatile lover. The most imaginative I’d known.

Mindless flicking was not her style. Thankfully.

Her long hair trailed across my thighs and her mouth was suddenly on me, encircling me. I closed my eyes. Her warmth and softness enveloped me.

Usually I became a potent lover within seconds, when ever she did this.

Tonight nothing happened. I remained flaccid.

The foreplay was going on far too long. I soon began to realize that.

She was growing tired. Suddenly, mortified and angry with myself, I stopped her ministrations. Gently I pushed her away.