Heartless (29 page)

Luke himself had not mentioned it either, of course. Perhaps the colonel was too embarrassed to admit the fact that he had stood and watched a wedding party, like an uninvited guest, just like the people of the lower orders.

Luke replaced the book on its shelf and absently drew out another. That was not the only peculiar fact, though. There was also his strange conviction—but surely he must be wrong—that Colonel Lomax was the man who had walked with Anna at Ranelagh. He had been cloaked and hooded and masked. It had been impossible to gain anything more than an impression of height and slimness. There were probably a few thousand tall, slim men in England. It was foolish to imagine that he had recognized the same man in the new neighbor he had called on this afternoon. Lomax and Anna had shown no sign of having recognized each other.

But Luke could remember on both occasions—outside the church and at Ranelagh—that fleeting feeling he had had that he should know the man, though he had made no connection at the time between the two incidents. He had had the same feeling this afternoon. Lomax, Lomax . . . the name meant nothing to him, and physical recognition, if that was what it was, had eluded him.

It was all very foolish, he thought now, pushing the second book back into place impatiently and turning resolutely away from the bookshelf. If Lomax was the man outside the church—and Luke was almost sure he was—then his appearance there had been coincidental and of no significance whatsoever. And Lomax was surely not the man from Ranelagh—he could not be. If Luke had seen him before—possibly in France—then it had been so fleetingly that the memory of the occasion would not come back to him. It was quite unimportant.

He sat down behind the desk, rested his elbows on its top, and steepled his fingers, tapping them absently together. He realized that he had not taken the simple step of asking Anna if she had any previous acquaintance with Lomax. And he realized too, with some unease, that he would not ask her.

Was he afraid of the answer? Or the lack of an answer?

He frowned across the room. Why the devil had he not asserted his full authority from the start? Why had he permitted her to retain a secret that had deprived him of one of his marital rights? Why had he not forced her to tell it right then at the start?

His frown deepened. And what the devil connection was he imagining between her secret and the arrival of a perfectly amiable neighbor whom he had spotted once before, quite by accident, on his wedding day and whom Anna had never seen in her life before this afternoon?

•   •   •

With
the coming of spring there were changes at Bowden Abbey. Luke had found a new steward, Howard Fox, who came well recommended. He was to begin work within a few weeks, as soon as he had served out his notice at his previous employment. Ashley was to join the East India Company and to leave for India as soon as he was called. He was enthusiastic about his future, and Luke was happy for him. There he would be able to make his own way in life, as Luke had done. But things would be different for Ashley. He would know that he had the love and support of his family behind him—though his mother thought he was disgracing his name by associating himself with a business enterprise. Ashley would know that he could come back at any time.

And with the coming of spring Doris was returning to London for the entertainments of the Season. Indeed, she would have been on her way there sooner if the christening and the wedding had not kept her and her mother at home. Luke had not done quite as well at making his peace with Doris as he had with Ashley, though they had at least been able to treat each other civilly for a few months.

He wished for her happiness. He hoped she would have better experiences this year to obliterate the bitter memories of the year before. Nevertheless, he would probably have been content to let her go without any private or personal word had Anna allowed him to get away with it. But she would not.

“Doris will be leaving the day after tomorrow,” she told him two nights after they had made their visit to their new neighbor.

He grunted a reply. He was only half a remove from sleep, having just finished making love to her.

“Are you going to have a word with her?” she asked.

He resigned himself to staying awake for a few minutes longer. “A fatherly admonition to behave herself and not repeat last year's indiscretion?” he said. “Hardly, Anna.”

“I would hope not,” she said fervently. “Have you ever told her that you love her?”

“Not since I was twenty,” he said. “I believe she has passed the age of craving an outpouring of love from a mere brother, Anna.”

“Oh, there you are wrong,” she said. “And I know you love her, Luke. There is no point in reminding me that you know nothing of love as I am sure you are about to do. She needs to hear that you trust her, that you desire her happiness, that you love her. 'Tis what she has waited for all year.”

He considered her words. Did it matter to Doris? She seemed to have done very well without him for the past year. Except at the beginning, she had not appeared either sullen or moping as he had fully expected. But he knew that Anna was right. He had felt the rift himself. And fleetingly—just fleetingly—he felt the old resentment at the responsibilities and obligations that he had been burdened with though he had not asked for any of them.

“Yes, madam,” he said with an exaggerated sigh. “May I go to sleep now?”

“Yes, you may,” she said, snuggling closer, but he thought he detected disappointment in her voice. Just as he had felt the suggestion of desperation and clinging in her arms and her body while they had made love. The same sort of desperation, but more controlled, as he had experienced on two previous occasions. But he did not want to consider the reasons for it just now.

“I shall have a word with her tomorrow,” he said. “And I shall have a word with Theo next time I see him about talking me into marrying you.”

This was better, he thought when he heard her chuckle against his shoulder. And yet he was learning something about himself. He had not suspected himself capable of cowardice before. But he had teased her instead of confronting the issue that was in the forefront of his mind.

And he no longer felt sleepy at all.

Damnation.

•   •   •

Doris
looked at him in some surprise the following morning when he strolled into the breakfast parlor and asked to have a word with her when she had finished eating. But he did not make the mistake he had made on a previous occasion. When she came into his office a short time later, looking rather wary and defiant, he did not remain behind the barrier of his desk.

“'Tis a little cloudy outside this morning,” he said, “but not cold. Shall we stroll in the garden?”

She looked even more suspicious than she had before.

“I know what you are going to say,” she said when they were in the formal gardens and he had tucked her arm through his. “I am not going to try to write to him or see him, Luke. I told you I hated him and I meant it. And I am a year older than I was then and a year wiser. I do not need you to act the part of stern father.”

“How about concerned and affectionate brother, then?” he asked.

“Affectionate?” She looked at him and laughed.

“Do you remember what you were going to ask the king one day?” he asked her.

She frowned. “Ask the king?”

“You were going to ask him to allow you to marry me,” he said, “because you loved me more than anyone. More than Papa and George and a little more than Ashley. Do you remember?”

She looked incredulous for a moment and then burst into genuine laughter. “No! Did I really?” she said.

“You were five years old,” he said. “But as soon as you were grown up you were going to ask him. I let you down, Dor.”

“By not taking me to the king?” Her look had become wistful.

“By acting without either wisdom or compassion last year,” he said, “in that affair with Frawley.”

“That.” She flushed. “You did quite right, Luke. I would have been dreadfully unhappy with him. I believe I hinted of my plans to Anna at Ranelagh in the hope that someone would stop me. Though I did not admit that to myself at the time.”

“I should have hugged you tightly and refused to let you go until you had promised not to give my favorite sister's affections to a damned fortune hunter,” he said.

“I am your
only
sister, Luke,” she said.

“Precisely,” he said, “and a sister I have been without for far too long. Don't ever do it again, Dor, or I will kill the man, whoever he is. You may marry whom you will with my blessing—within reason, of course—provided he loves you more than five thousand pounds or fifty thousand or five hundred thousand.”

“Within reason?” She had stopped walking and was smiling at him.

“Words I should not have added,” he said ruefully. “Pardon me. The weight of responsibility is sometimes heavy on my shoulders. I worry about you. But I do trust you, Dor, now that you are twenty years old and have a wiser head on your shoulders than you had last year. I trust you to make a choice that will be for your lasting happiness.”

“As you did when you chose Anna?” she asked.

The question caught him off guard. “As I did,” he said and realized as he said it that it was at least partly true. But lasting happiness? His mind touched on that desperation he had felt in his wife last night.

Doris put her arms about his neck then and kissed him, first on one cheek, and then on the other, and finally and smackingly on the lips. There were tears in her eyes when she drew back her head.

“How sorry I am now,” she said, “that I made you speak first. All year I have been wanting to tell you how sorry I was for my childish behavior and how glad I was that you had freed me from what would have been an intolerable situation.”

He smiled at her.

“You do that too rarely,” she said. “When you smile, you look just like the brother I remember. Oh, la, I believe now that you really are my brother Luke.”

He chuckled, and she linked her arm through his again and drew him along the path through the gardens, away from the house.

“I am very glad,” she said, “that you did not marry Henrietta, Luke. I wish George had not married her either.”

He stiffened. “George had no choice,” he said. “If he was unhappy, 'twas no more than he deserved.”

“Oh, fie,” she said, “you do not believe that, do you, Luke?”

“This is not a subject I choose to discuss,” he said.

“Oh, nonsense,” she said. “You do not believe that George ravished Henrietta, do you?”

He had no wish to talk of the matter with anyone, least of all his sister. Somewhere, long filmed over but still very capable of being ripped open again, was a deep and painful wound. There had been his loss of Henrietta in the past. There had been another loss too, perhaps worse. There had been the loss of George, his beloved brother.

“There was a baby, Dor,” he said stiffly. “And George married Henrietta. You do not suggest it was mine, do you?”

She tutted. “Children see a great deal they are not supposed to see,” she said. “I saw a great deal, Luke. She had an eye to George as soon as he came home from his Grand Tour, looking very handsome and very dashing. And of course he had a marquess's title and was Papa's heir. She flirted with him whenever your back was turned. She wanted to be a marchioness and a duchess one day.”

“Doris!” His voice was like cold steel. “You speak of your sister-in-law, I would have you remember. You will be silent now or change the subject.”

But she would not be cowed. “And I speak, too, of my brother,” she hissed at him, “and of yours. You cannot have believed such evil of him all these years, Luke. You cannot. There was seduction between George and Henrietta, 'tis true. But 'twas Henrietta who was the seducer, I swear. George merely gave in to a moment's weakness and suffered for it the rest of his life. Poor George!”

Luke felt himself turn cold. “We will speak no more of this,” he said. “I would not quarrel with you when we are newly reconciled.”

“Luke.” She looked at him with tear-filled eyes. “'Twas because of Henrietta you stayed away for two years after George died, was it not? You still loved her? You still love her? Oh, poor Anna.”

“No, I do not love Henrietta. But I said we will speak no more,” he said quietly, his eyes flashing dangerously, and at last she obeyed.

He did not know if what she said was true. He did not know if he wanted it to be true. But it did surprise him that he had not thought of it for himself before now. He had grown a hard shell of cynicism during his ten years in France. And yet somehow Henrietta had been held outside that shell, the one inviolable piece of perfection in his past. The one object of love in which he had continued to believe even though it had not survived into the present.

And yet believing in her, he had had to bear the deep wound of his brother's cruel betrayal. And it was the need to take away the pain of that wound that had forced him to kill all love in himself.

“Shall I tell you what kind of husband I shall look for in London this spring?” Doris asked after a few minutes of silence.

“Yes, do,” he said, covering her hand with his.

C
OLONEL
Henry Lomax paid a courtesy call at Bowden Abbey the same afternoon. He shook hands warmly with Ashley, was charmed to make the acquaintance of Lady Doris and disappointed to learn that she was to leave for London the following day with her mother. Disappointed for himself, that was, and dared he speak for all his new acquaintances in the neighborhood? For the gentlemen in town, of course, the arrival of two such lovely ladies would be a fortunate event indeed.

Doris, blushing and laughing, was won over by his gallantry.

Henrietta was clearly interested in this handsome and attractive new arrival to the neighborhood. “La, sir,” she said when they were all seated in the drawing room, taking tea, “'tis hard to believe that there will be a stranger in my girlhood home for the next year.”

“A stranger, madam?” he said. “I trust that very soon that word will be changed to neighbor and friend.”

Henrietta blushed. “'Tis just that I have so many fond memories associated with that house,” she said.

“Then you must be no stranger to it during the coming year, madam,” he said. “You must come as often as you wish—with her grace, your sister-in-law, for company, I would hope.”

“Oh, la,” Henrietta said, laughing, “you did not believe I would dream of coming alone, sir? But your offer is most generous. If Anna cannot accompany me, I shall bring a maid.”

“'Twould be my pleasure, madam,” he said, “to see you make free with your former home.”

Luke watched with some interest. In many ways it would be a relief to find that Henrietta was taking his advice and putting the past behind her. A new man in her life might be just the thing for her. And Lomax, though a good deal older than she, was quite personable enough to be attractive to women, he supposed. The man was all charm and amiability. Luke was not quite sure why he could not like him, unless it was those foolish thoughts he had had after that first call.

“You served for a long time with the army, Colonel?” he asked. “With which regiment?”

Lomax answered all his questions. He gave a good deal of detailed information on military matters, but at the same time engaged the interest of the ladies by including interesting little anecdotes, especially as related to the years he had spent in America. He was a skilled and a courteous conversationalist, Luke was forced to conclude.

“You have lived in France?” Luke asked him.

“Alas, no.” The colonel laughed. “Unlike you, your grace, I lack the polish in both appearance and manners that only a long sojourn in Paris can give a man. My visits to France have all been of lamentably short duration.”

A fact that did not preclude the possibility of Luke's having seen him there at some time. But memory of the specific occasion still eluded him.

“You have been back from America for some time,” Luke said. “You were in London last spring? My wife and I were there too as well as my mother and brother and sister. 'Tis surprising we did not meet you then.”

“Not as surprising as it might seem,” Lomax said with a shrug and a smile. “After such a long absence, your grace, it took me a while to become reacquainted with old friends.”

Luke had half lowered his eyelids over his eyes, a habit he had acquired in France during his months of serious gambling. Watch keenly while appearing to be lazily daydreaming, an older and experienced gambler, who had taken an interest in him, had once told him. But Lomax met his eyes and hesitated a moment.

“You married in London last spring, your grace?” he asked, frowning. “I have the strangest notion that 'twas your wedding I observed from outside the church. In an aimless walk about town I came upon a group of people waiting outside a church and at the same moment the doors opened and I realized that a wedding party was about to emerge. Curiosity caused me to pause and to gaze in what I must confess was an unmannerly way. And I do believe”—he paused to glance at Anna and smile—“yes, I do believe you were the bride and groom. What a curious coincidence!”

“Yes, indeed,” Luke said, raising his eyebrows in feigned surprise. So there was his explanation, perfectly reasonable, the sort of explanation he had imagined for himself a few days ago. It had been coincidence, and Lomax had not immediately recognized them here almost a year later. Why should he? They had been total strangers to him. Or else the man was being very clever. He had seen something in Luke's eyes and had adjusted his behavior according to what he had read there.

Or perhaps it was Luke who was being too clever. Was there anything whatsoever of which to be suspicious?

Colonel Lomax set down his empty cup and saucer on the table beside him and showed signs that he was about to take his leave.

“The formal gardens of Bowden Abbey are famous, sir,” Henrietta said, “as perhaps you have heard. And there is color in them again now that spring is well advanced.”

“Indeed, madam,” the colonel said, getting to his feet and making her a bow. “I caught tantalizing glimpses of their beauty from the window of my carriage as I approached the house.”

Henrietta smiled warmly. “'Tis a beautiful day, sir,” she said. “Far too lovely to be spent entirely indoors or inside a carriage.”

“You are quite right.” He smiled at her. “At least a part of the day should be enjoyed in a stroll amid beautiful surroundings with a beautiful companion.” He turned and bowed to Anna. “Would you do me the honor of showing me the gardens before I leave, your grace?”

Luke only half noticed Henrietta's quickly hidden look of chagrin. His full attention focused on his wife, who rose gracefully to her feet, smiled, and informed Colonel Lomax that she would be delighted.

Was there any sign in her face, Luke asked himself, watching her keenly, that this whole situation was not exactly as it appeared on the surface? Any sign that she had a previous acquaintance with this man? Any sign that she was either pleased or displeased by his request? There was nothing that he could detect unless there was a certain blandness in her smile, a certain lack of her usual warmth. But he might well be imagining that, twisting the facts to suit his groundless suspicions.

But Lomax? Had he not almost openly snubbed Henrietta? A man would have to be as insensitive as a brick not to have seen that she had set her cap at him and had been hinting that he take a walk alone with her. And it seemed to Luke that there had been something almost deliberate, almost theatrical in the snub, as though Lomax had deeply relished administering it.

And yet again, it could be imagination. Could it not be conceived of as a courtesy to turn to the mistress of the house to show one the gardens or a part of the house?

During his years in France, Luke had learned to follow his intuition. More than once it had enabled him to avoid a nasty situation. He could never remember an intuition that was as strong as this one, that nagged at him so persistently. He could ask Anna. That would be the simplest course. But Anna, he knew, would look blankly at him and deny everything. There was another way, perhaps, one that would at least give him a little more information about the handsome and charming Lomax.

After the colonel had stepped outside, Anna on his arm, Luke watched them for a while from the window of his study. They were strolling and talking, just as one might expect a guest and his hostess to be doing. Lomax was dressed in a full-skirted blue coat with gray knee breeches, white stockings and buckled shoes. His bag wig was carefully powdered. He carried his tricorne hat correctly beneath his arm. It was impossible to say for certain that it was the same man who had walked with Anna at Ranelagh, cloaked in black from head to toe.

Except for one thing. There was a way he had of leaning slightly sideways, bent solicitously over his companion, listening to what she said. It was an elusive something, not anything Luke could have described with any conviction in words. But it was something that turned him cold.

It was the same man. He would swear an oath on it.

He sat down at his desk, drew paper toward him, and tested the nib of a quill pen before dipping it into the inkwell and beginning to write. Theo, he did not doubt, would get him the information he needed. He wanted to know everything there was to know about Colonel Henry Lomax, starting with his military record.

•   •   •

“It
does my heart good to see you again, my Anna,” he said. “It has been far too long. Motherhood must agree with you, as I knew it would when I allowed you to become a mother. You are more lovely than ever.”

For perhaps the first time anger was stronger in Anna than fear. “I am not your Anna,” she said curtly. “And you have no business coming here under an assumed name and duping innocent people.”

“You have courage and spirit,” he said. “I have always admired that in you, Anna.”

“What is the sum total of my father's remaining debts?” she asked, knowing even as she spoke that it was quite hopeless. “What does my family still owe you? Give me the sum, sir, and I shall have my husband pay it. And there will be an end of the matter. You may return to your life and I may resume mine.”

“But you are my life, Anna,” he said, chilling the fire of her anger. “Does he love you that well? He appears to be a cold and a proud man, and has a reputation as such. But I can understand that you have been seduced by a handsome appearance. Would he enjoy knowing that he has a thief and a murderer for a duchess?”

“You know I am neither,” she said.

“I may believe in you,” he said, “because you are my life, Anna. But alack, there are those more objective and thus more reliable than I who can swear to your guilt.”

She clutched her anger to her like a cloak. “I can perfectly understand what has happened,” she said. “I would have to be an imbecile not to realize. From the first you marked me as your victim and set your trap. And like a foolish innocent I walked right into it. I understand that. The only thing I do not understand is why. Why are you doing this to me? 'Tis not the money. What, then?”

“Ah, Anna,” he said softly, leaning his head closer to hers, “'tis that I love you.”

“Love!” Fury exploded in her, but in time she remembered where she was, in the formal gardens at Bowden, in full sight of anyone who cared to watch from the house. “I would have married you after Mama died and you were so kind and understanding. I would have loved you. Did you realize that?”

“There could never have been marriage between you and me, Anna,” he said. “'Tis not that kind of love between us.”

“There is no love between us,” she said. “Only a sick kind of obsession on your part. You would not have me as wife or mistress and yet you marked me so that no other man would have me—or so you thought. I hate you. If there were a stronger word to express what I feel for you, I would use it.”

“'Tis because you do not understand,” he said. “You will, my Anna. In time, a little while yet, you will understand all and you will see the rightness of spending the rest of your life with me. You will be more happy than you can possibly dream.”

“I am happy now,” she said. “I have a husband and child and a home and family and friends.”

“Family,” he said softly, a note of wistfulness in his voice. “You have a daughter. I was glad to learn 'twas a girl, Anna. 'Tis better so. I would like to see her some time soon.”

Her blood ran cold. “No,” she said.

“The gardens are as lovely as your sister-in-law said they were,” he said, turning back and looking at the house. “The perfect setting for such an old and splendid house. There is beauty of design in America, Anna, but not the feeling of history and antiquity one senses in old British houses. Shall we stroll back? I would not outstay my welcome.”

“How did you get inside the house?” she asked him suddenly, chilled by memories of terror that she had suppressed for several months. “Or even into the park? How did you get inside the houses of my neighbors when I was there without anyone seeing you?”

“Anna,” he said softly, “I am the air you breathe.”

“Was it a servant? You bribed a servant?” She had considered the possibility before, but servants did not hear her private conversations or attend entertainments in other houses.

“I am as close as your heart, my Anna,” he said. “And you will be as close as mine when you understand all.”

His carriage had been brought up to the door. He entered it when they reached the terrace after bowing over her hand. Anna did not stay to watch him on his way. She hurried inside and upstairs to the nursery, where Joy was mercifully alone with her nurse. Anna picked her up, sent the nurse for tea belowstairs, and set about coaxing smiles from her daughter.

There had to be a way out, she thought. There had to be. She could not be his abject slave for the rest of her life. There had been no demands today. But there would be. From now on she would have to live in constant fear of his visits and his demands. But she was reaching the end of her tether. She would not tolerate this for much longer.