The Lover (28 page)

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.

Paralyzed.

Desperately she rallied, trying to fight the drug. To purchase more time.
To understand what was totally incomprehensible
.

The earl and her parents were friends.

Why was he doing this to her?

Her lips were stiff; she forced the words out from between them. "Why was your nephew naughty, Lord Granville?"

"He would not kill you."

Death stared down at her.

Memory danced on the perimeter of Anne's consciousness like light on a hat pin.

Michel leaning against the library door, violet eyes flat.
Dead
.

Michel standing over her, his manhood glistening with her saliva and his arousal, steel hat pin winking.

Michel's fingers firmly gripping the back of her head while she licked and nibbled and suckled him.

Michel's passion:
I won't hurt you. I promise. No matter what, I won't hurt you
.

The earl leaned over and inspected her curiously, as if she were an insect.
Sin and cockroaches
. . .

"My nephew is aware that you are here, Miss Aimes, make no mistake of that. He cannot help you, though he will soon join you. But I digress. Imagine, if you please, this Lady Wenterton whom I mentioned. She quite fancied my nephew. Remember that I said she had a voracious sexual appetite. Imagine being consumed by lustful cravings yet being physically restrained with no means of gaining satisfaction. Imagine what that would do to a woman of her appetites."

Anne could indeed hear. And think.
And remember
.

Lady Wenterton… a woman of appetites.

You have never experienced intimate sex .
. .
or friendship
…
with another woman
?

I have known such a relationship. Once. A long, long time ago.

What happened?

She died
. Click.
She died
. Click.
She died
. Click.

Anne stared in dawning horror at the earl's right hand and the silver metal balls that rolled round and round between his fingers.

"And now, Miss Aimes, I want you to imagine the plight of a woman in your predicament. You are an amalgam of my nephew and Lady Wenterton. A loving daughter who also possesses a voracious sexual appetite. I can imagine the great guilt you must harbor, having killed your mother so that you would be free to gratify your passions. You have presented me with a unique opportunity."

Anne tried to scream, to argue the logic of accusing a "loving" daughter of murder.

She could not open her jaws.

"You're very tired, Miss Aimes." Silver flashed, metal clicked. The earl's eyes were bright with a malignancy that did not come from disease. "Should you like to hear more Marvell before you retire, I wonder? As I said, his poem is rather prophetic. I am sure you are curious about what I have planned for your chastisement."

Anne reached out to grab the wheelchair, to turn him over, to stop the madness.

She couldn't move; she couldn't speak.

He was going to kill her.

And she didn't know why.

"There's a good girl, don't strain yourself, you'll understand in due time." The earl knew what she was thinking. He did not mask his amusement. "Now listen up. It's really quite clear. 'But at my back I always hear / Time's winged chariot hurrying near: / And yonder all before us lie / Deserts of vast eternity. / Thy beauty shall no more be found; / Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound / My echoing song; then worms shall try / That long preserved virginity.' "

Worms.
Vaults
.

There should not exist an emotion greater than terror: there did.

The earl laughed congenially. Sympathetically. "You are no longer a virgin, of course, but I'm sure the worms won't mind. Would you care to join your mother now? She's waiting for you."

This could not be happening.

Her mother was buried. She had tossed the first handful of dirt onto the coffin.

He wouldn't bury her alive.

Tears of helplessness welled up in her eyes.

The earl leaned closer. "Yes, I think you are ready. But you must understand: your lust brought you to this. If you had controlled your sexual appetites and stayed in Dover, you would be safe. If my nephew had controlled his lust and remained in Yorkshire, you would be safe. And lastly, Miss Aimes—look at me when I speak to you!—I want you to understand that my nephew is not a bastard."

Malevolence shone in his faded eyes. "How did it feel to be fucked by a dead man?"

Anne at last understood.

A gift.

Michael clung to the thought.

The letter was a gift.

Gabriel had told him to go to the police. But he had had no evidence other than that which would have incriminated himself. Now he had concrete proof that William Sturges Bourne, the Earl of Granville, was not the benign, harmless cripple that the world believed him to be.

Why wouldn't the superintendent of police act on it?

Light and shadow shimmered around him; it reflected off of the glass topped desk, each flicker a second lost.

The superintendent of police thrust the letter back to Michael, gray wool night cap askew; at the same time he ripped off wire-rimmed glasses with his left hand. "I fail to see the urgency of your visit, sir. Come around the station in the morning. There was no need to wake me up in the middle of the night."

Michael took the letter and counted to three. "Has Mrs. Aimes's grave been vandalized?"

"Not that I know of, no."

"Did you go to the Earl of Granville, telling him that it had?"

"No, I did not, but I fail to see—"

"He has Anne Aimes."

"Now see here, my good man, Lord Granville is a morally responsible gentleman who is confined to a wheelchair. He don't go about abducting women. Miss Aimes is no doubt safely asleep in her bed, where all decent folk should be—"

"No, she's not," Michael brutally interrupted him. And lied to further convince him of the urgent need to visit the earl. "She telegraphed her servants and told them what train she would be on. A groom met her and drove her to see the earl. She told him to come back and pick her up in an hour. When the groom returned he was not allowed back onto the estate. No one has heard from either her or the earl."

"Her estate is a goodly distance from Lord Granville's." The superintendent's bushy gray side whiskers twitched in his irritation. "No doubt she stayed the night. Visit the old lord in the morning and you'll see for yourself."

"Tomorrow morning is too late," Michael said flatly.

He suspiciously surveyed Michael. "How is it you have this letter, if it was indeed intended for Miss Aimes?"

The superintendent would dismiss him if he told the truth, that a lonely spinster had sought to buy herself a little happiness and instead had been entangled in a twenty-nine-year-old nightmare.

"Miss Aimes was staying in London with mutual friends," Michael lied again. "She did not take the letter with her when she left. Our friends, upon reading it, thought the wording peculiar and contacted me. All I am asking, Superintendent Drake, is that you and a few of your men accompany me to Lord Granville's estate. If Miss Aimes is safe, then you will have the satisfaction of knowing that you have done your best to ensure a woman's safety."

"This is not London, sir. Our lords do not molest our gentlewomen. Get out of here, or I will see that the streets are safe from the likes of you," Drake growled.

The letter made no difference.

The truth rarely did.

Michael refolded the paper and put it back inside his coat. Reaching down, he pulled out an indisputable weapon from his outer pocket. "Perhaps this will persuade you, Superintendent Drake."

Drake's jaw dropped at sight of the Adam's revolving pistol. "Now see here—"

Michael saw too damn much.

The earl was succeeding.
Again
.

He cocked the hammer, effectively silencing Drake. "You are coming with me. Now."

Drake's face turned a shade lighter than his gray hair. His side whiskers trembled. "Who do you think you are, bursting into my house like this?"

"A dead man," Michael said in all sincerity.

"My wife is upstairs."

"All the more reason to cooperate."

"I am expecting my first great-grandchild."

"Then let's not deprive it of a great-grandfather."

Michael alertly watched the older man as he eyed the top drawer in his desk. "I don't want to hurt you or your wife, Superintendent Drake. All I want is to ensure that Miss Aimes is well."

Stepping around the desk, Michael opened the drawer and retrieved the police-issue pistol there, another revolver. Drake averted his gaze away from Michael's scarred skin.

He shoved the superintendent's gun into his left pocket; metal butted metal, an instrument of death knocking against a tin filled with a whore and a spinster's salvation.

"The servant who let me in." Michael withdrew his hand from his pocket. "I want you to tell him to fetch you some clothes. Tell him you have urgent business to attend to."

"Why don't you go out to the earl's estate and see for yourself if Miss Aimes is safe?" Drake blustered.

Because Anne would not survive if the man took Michael.

And that was precisely what the earl planned.

A spinster's life to bag a whore.

"I am not a patient man," Michael said evenly. The revolver did not waver in his hand. "I suggest you hurry."

Drake had sat behind a desk for too long. He would not win in a hand-to-hand struggle with a man twenty years his junior.

He knew it. Michael knew it.

Jerkily the older man stood up. Michael stepped back to allow him to pass.

"No unexpected motions, please, Superintendent Drake. You have far more to lose than I."

The superintendent's steps were hobbled by the muzzle of the gun Michael thrust into his left kidney. When they reached the study door, Michael stepped to the side. "Remember what I said. No one need be hurt. Do not open the door all the way."

Stiffly Drake cracked open the door. "Maynard. Maynard!"

The young footman who had let Michael into the superintendent's house responded quickly. Had he listened at the keyhole? "Yes, sir?"

"There's trouble at the police station, Maynard. Be so good as to grab some clothes for me."

"Sir." The footman was clearly astonished at the constable's request. "Shall I wake your valet?"

"No, no, hurry, man, no time," Drake said, agitation translating as testiness. "I have plans to make."

"Very well, sir."

"Maynard—"

Michael tensed.

"Yes, sir?"

He could feel the superintendent's indecision.

Would the scarred man kill? Or would he run?

Would Drake live to see his great-grandchild? Or
would he die
?

The superintendent of police was not a gambler.

"Careful you don't wake Mrs. Drake," he said gruffly.

"No, sir."

Drake closed the door. He was pale but otherwise composed. "What are you going to do?"

"We are going to gather up some of your men and visit the earl," Michael replied matter-of-factly.

"There's no need to involve anyone else in this distasteful matter."

"There is every need, Superintendent Drake."

"Why?"

"I doubt if the earl would hold a superintendent of police in higher esteem than he does a solicitor."

Drake bristled. "The Earl of Granville is a law-abiding citizen. Which is more, sir, than I can say about you!"

"If he is a law-abiding citizen, he will forgive us our trespass," Michael said dryly.

"You're not from around here." Drake's eyes narrowed intently underneath his bushy gray eyebrows. "I would remember those scars."

Michael did not bother correcting him.

"When your servant knocks, open the door just wide enough to take the clothes. Dismiss him. And hand the clothes to me."

The dim echoes of a Westminster clock chimed a quarter hour.

It was the only sound in the house.

Drake jumped when the footman knocked; the first outward sign of nervousness he had thus far displayed. He jerked open the door.

"Thank you, Maynard. You may go to bed now. I don't know when I shall return home."

"Thank you, sir."

Michael shook the proffered clothing to make sure that they did not contain any concealed weapons before handing them back to the superintendent one at a time: gray woolen drawers; gray woolen vest; starched white cotton shirt; brown wool trousers; orange and brown plaid waistcoat; brown woolen socks; monogrammed handkerchief; and black shoes.

The older man turned his back and stepped into his underwear and trousers before discarding the shield of his robe and nightshirt.

Michael allowed the superintendent the dignity of whatever privacy he could afford him and watched his shadow on the door rather than his bared upper torso. When he turned around, fully clothed, Michael silently held out his braces and brown wool coat.

Drake's footsteps were heavier than Michael's; together they passed through the foyer. Silver framed photographs crowded the dark, rose papered walls and cluttered the cramped occasional tables whose legs were concealed by lace cloths. Michael kept the muzzle of the gun pressed against Drake's left kidney, his own body blocking the pistol from view in case Maynard was more curious than obedient.

The Clarence cab was parked in front of the superintendent's modest brick home. Michael had earlier instructed the cabby as to what he should do. Silently, watchful lest Drake bolt out the opposite door, he climbed in beside the superintendent and braced himself for the journey that had started with a lone spinster's desire.

Flickering gas streetlamps alternately filled the cab with light and darkness. The rhythmical clip-clop of the horse's hooves rang out in the night. Dover was quieter than London, the air more pure.

Home.

It had been twenty-seven years since Michael had been on the earl's estate. Twenty-seven years since he had made his vow.

"I've seen you before." Drake's voice was disembodied in a lull of darkness.

Michael didn't answer.

"You have the look of a Sturges Bourne."

"That isn't possible, is it, Superintendent Drake?" Michael replied remotely. "The earl is the last of the line."

"Men don't always sire children in marriage." Light splintered the darkness, turning black into gray, shadow into flesh. The superintendent peered more closely at Michael. "Are you a bastard come to stir up trouble?"

The cab passed the streetlamp. Gray turned back to black, flesh to shadow.

Yes, he was a bastard. But not through his bloodlines.

Drake's bushy gray side whiskers glowed in the darkness. "Who are you?" he persisted.

Light once again flooded the cab, revealing Michael's scars, his eyes, his features. He smiled. "I told you, Superintendent. I'm a dead man."

Drake jerked back. "That's not possible."

Michael let his silence speak for him. Darkness swallowed the truth.

"Michael Sturges Bourne is dead."

The carriage hit a bump.

"He's buried with his family," Drake insisted.

A carriage traveling from the opposite direction passed the cab; the pounding of hooves filled the alternating light and darkness before fading into the night.

"Why would he bury you if you're not dead?"

Michael pictured the marble tombstone in the family plot.

His name was engraved in it. The date of his birth. The date of his death. The epitaph that was forever burned into his mind just as his scars were burned into his flesh.

Beloved son, brother and nephew.

He wondered if there was a body in his casket, or if it was empty, waiting for him.

"Why have you come back now, after all these years?"

Drake would not shut up until he had some answers.

Michael could at least resolve one of his questions.

"I've come back to kill my uncle."

He was alerted by the rustle of clothing and the squeak of the springs. Drake was preparing to wrench open the cab door and jump out.

Michael jammed the muzzle of his pistol into the superintendent's side. "But that's between me and my uncle. Right now all I care about is Anne Aimes."

"Why are you so certain that he would hurt her?"

"Because he's hurt other women."

Gaslights lit up the arched entrance to the police station. The cab rolled to a stop.

"Who were these other women? What happened to them? If they were harmed, why have their assaults not been reported?"

Why, indeed?

"They are dead, Superintendent Drake."

"If you failed to report their deaths you are guilty of complicity, sir," the superintendent barked.

Michael smiled humorlessly.

No one had believed him as a child.

As an adult…

Diane's family had been too eager to hush up any scandal. They were not interested in learning about the truth.

Drake drummed his fingers on his knee, remembering, perhaps, that no one had seen Michael Sturges Bourne's corpse. Or perhaps he remembered that people were rarely what they seemed.