The Lover (27 page)

"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 her 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 remember."

"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."