Thief of Hearts (50 page)

"Then Edwina, my wife, became pregnant, had a child, and I tried to make myself forget. I was delighted to be having a son, the legitimate heir I'd wanted for so long. I turned my attention to my new family. And I'll admit, I was sick of being rejected by Elizabeth. But I never loved Edwina, and Neil was a disappointment almost from the hour he was born."

"Neil?"

"Your half-brother. Edwina spoiled him, but it was more than that." He sank back against the sofa tiredly and spoke with half-closed eyes. "He was a wild child, cruel, not natural. I could tell you awful things. And he didn't grow out of it; if anything, he only got more beastly. I tried everything cut off his allowance, even told him I would disinherit him as soon as I found my other boys." He smiled the smile Brodie was beginning to treasure, beginning to wish he knew ways to encourage. "My twins," Regis said softly. "My beloved sons."

"But you've only got one 'beloved twin' left, dear Father. In a minute, you won't have any at all. You'll just have me."

Neil Vaughn—Neil Gunne stood in the doorway, grinning a ghastly brown-toothed grin. One hand was wrapped around Anna's shoulders; the other held a gun to her temple.

Somehow Brodie got to his feet. His body felt paralyzed, as if all the blood and muscle had washed out of him. Anna's white face reflected his panic back at him. "Let her go," he said in a croak, and Neil laughed.

"Oh, I don't think so." He lowered the gun slowly, dragging the barrel down her neck, her chest, until it lodged in the crease between her breasts. "No, John, I don't think so." He laughed again, and Anna shuddered, smelling his foul breath. "Are you surprised because I know your name? I've always known you weren't Nick. After all, I'm the one who put a knife in his heart." Anna gave a gasping sob, and his fingers threading her hair jerked her head back when she would have slumped forward in despair. "I thought I'd as good as killed you too when I slit your whore's throat, but you turned up again like a damned phoenix. Not this time, though, I don't think. This time I'll be more direct." His lips drew apart in a grisly smile. "Subtlety was my downfall the first time, but I've learned you can't trust someone else to do your work for you. Not even the hangman. Get away from my father."

Brodie had stepped in front of Regis, blocking him from Neil's gun. "Was it your thugs who tried to kill me in Naples?" he gritted out, not moving. His brain felt stuffed with cotton; all he could do was stall while he waited for an opening, a moment, a chance.

Neil nodded. "Stupid, incompetent dago pigs. All they succeeded in killing was your bodyguard."

"Three people are dead because of you."

"Five in a minute."

Brodie heard a buzzing in his ears. "Four. That's all you need. Let Anna go."

"Oh, sorry. Can't do it."

Regis used his stick to get to his feet. "Neil," he said, as if there were no breath in his lungs. "For the love of God—"

"Stop! Don't come near me, Father, or I'll have to kill you, too. And that would ruin everything. Your death comes a little later. At home, where it will look natural."

Brodie was sure he meant it, that he would shoot his own father without a thought. "Let Anna go," he said again, moving to his left, away from Regis. Neil pivoted, turning Anna with him, following with his eyes. He slid the gun up to her cheekbone, still holding her hair.

She closed her eyes, and felt a dangerous acceptance flood through her. It terrified her. Her arms were free. She sent Brodie a wild, beseeching look, praying he would understand and react. As if she were clenching her hands together in anguish, she cupped her right fist in her left hand. She took a slow, deep breath and drove her elbow into Neil's ribs with all her strength.

The gun went off in her ear, and she knew she was dead.

Then how could she see Brodie hurtle across six feet of space and crash to the floor with Neil in his arms? She screamed, clutching at her hair, watching them roll and roll over each other, bringing furniture down all around them. Another shot fired with an ugly muffled sound. The two men lay still. Anna screamed again when Neil stumbled to his knees, then his feet. Brodie lay still in a pool of his own blood.

She staggered toward him, sank to her knees beside him. Cradled his head in her arms, moaning. Rocked him in blank, mindless misery.

"You won't do it, old man."

Nell smiled at his father, who held a pistol, Brodie's pistol, which had fallen to the floor, in two quaking hands. Neil turned his gun and his smile on Anna. She heard the hammer cock. Goodbye, she said, or thought, into Brodie's white and lifeless face.

An explosion. Neil's body hit the floor with the force of a felled tree, and the room shook. Regis stared down at his dead sons.

"We're so terribly sorry for your loss, dear."

"You poor child, if there's anything we can do… "

"What a terrible tragedy, He was so young, and with so much to live for."

Mourners filed past the closed casket before speaking quietly to the veiled widow seated nearby with her family. She returned their condolences with a nod or a murmured word, a gentle squeeze of the hand; behind the heavy veil, friends and acquaintances thought they saw tears.

Cousin Stephen, dignified in black, greeted visitors and guided them to chairs in the Jourdaines' best drawing room. The widow's aunt sat by her side, upright and formidable, patting her hand in a bracing way from time to time. Next to her was Cousin Jenny, weeping softly into a lace handkerchief. Behind them the widow's best friend, Milly Pollinax, sat beside Mr. McTavish. From time to time she dabbed at her cheeks; strangely, though, her handkerchief was dry. Stranger still, behind the discreet screen of her lashes, there was a gleam of anticipation in Mrs. Pollinax's pretty dark eyes.

The smell of autumn hung on the light breeze that billowed the curtain in the open window. Late crickets piped in the shrubbery, and evening birds called out shrill good-nights from the willow trees. The sinking sun sent morose shadows across the polished floor, the polished casket. A servant lit candles. Mourners began to wonder whether there would be refreshments.

From the back of the room a low, uneasy murmuring began. Visitors in front were too well-bred to turn around, but they wanted to, especially when the restive hum grew louder. A man was threading his way between chairs and mourners, moving toward the casket. When he reached it, he stood with his head bowed, one hand resting lightly on the rich mahogany. His other arm hung from his shoulder in a black sling. The murmur turned into fierce, whispered questions. The widow stared fixedly through her dark veil at the man's back. He turned.

There was a collective gasp of astonishment. Cousin Stephen glided up to the newcomer and shook his hand, muttering sedately. A new whispered refrain started to circulate through the room: "The brother!"

"It's the brother, they were twins."

"This one's name is Brodie, I heard." "Illegitimate, you know."

"Yes, but his father's an earl, he'll get all that money."

"
Shh
."

All eyes were glued, openly or covertly, on the rich earl's illegitimate son as Stephen steered him toward the widow. There were low introductions which, try as one might, no one was able to overhear. Soon after, the two men helped Mrs. Balfour to her feet and supported her out of the room. As she passed by Mrs. Pollinax, the latter seemed to wink. But that was impossible; she must have had something in her eye. The widow disappeared, and the whispering turned into a discreet din.

In the library door, Brodie leaned over and spoke low and confidentially into Stephen's ear. "I'd like to speak to my brother's wife alone for a few moments, if you don't mind."

"Oh, of course." Stephen looked faintly surprised; but he made a short, dignified bow and turned away. The door closed behind him with a solemn
click
.

Brodie turned toward Anna. The sight of her sobered him, tempered the euphoria he'd been straining to conceal for the last few minutes. Small and sad-looking, she was shrouded in black, the thick lace veil completely hiding her face. But in one quick, graceful movement she peeled the veil off, and he had a hasty glimpse of her face, laughing and joyful,  before she tumbled into his arms.

"I missed you, I missed you so much! I thought you would never come. Where did Dietz hide you? How is your shoulder, how is your father? Why did it take you so long? Are you all right, are you healed? It's been weeks!"

"Days," he corrected, laughing, kissing and kissing her. He held her so tightly, she knew the answer to one question at least he was healed. "My father is well," he told her. "He'll come tomorrow, for the funeral. He wants to have Nick's body moved to Denbighshire, near his home."

"You told him everything, then?"

"Everything." They held each other gently, letting melancholy slip through them, thinking of the old man's grief. "He wants to go to London afterward," Brodie said after a moment. "He wants me to go with him."

"To London? Why?"

"To see his lawyers. Annie, he wants to adopt me."

"Oh, John. I'm so glad." She cried against his shirt; he almost joined her.

There was a discreet knock at the door. "I'm sorry, Anna, but several of the guests are leaving," Stephen called quietly. "Would you and Mr. Brodie care to say goodbye to them?"

"Would we?" she whispered.

"I'd much rather stay here and console the widow." In the blink of an eye, he had three buttons undone in the front of her somber mourning gown.

"None of that," she admonished severely, removing his hand, which was at work on the fourth. "I'm in mourning for a year."

Brodie laughed out loud, a great, hearty guffaw. They clapped their hands to their mouths at the same moment, shushing each other, giggling. He pulled her into a close embrace so they could hear each other when they whispered.

"A year, John, it's obligatory. Aunt Charlotte would swoon if I shortened the mourning period."

"Better break out the smelling salts," he advised, nibbling at her lips. "I can't wait a year for this widow." She tasted so good; she was like a banquet after a forty-day fast. "Anyway, Aunt Charlotte may come out of her swoon sooner than you think when she finds out that your new suitor is about to become a marquis, and will one day be an earl."

"A marquis? Good heavens." She turned her head to the side, as if regarding him in a new light. "Yes," she agreed, "I should think that in itself might shave off six months or so from Aunt Charlotte's year."

Brodie growled, backing her up against the door. "I can't wait six months." He slipped both hands inside her bodice, and her head fell back. He put his lips in the soft hollow of her throat. Her pulse was racing.

She tried not to make a sound, but he was doing something with his thumbs, or perhaps it was his palms, that made it almost impossible. She loved the smell of his hair, the feel of the hard length of him pressing against her. "How long can you wait?" she gasped, eyes tightly closed, into the air over his shoulder.

"I can't wait another second." He slid his thigh between hers almost roughly and took her in a deep, wilting kiss.

"Anna?" Stephen sounded impatient. "Are you coming?"

Brodie thought he heard her say, under her breath, "Almost." He pulled back in amazement. She looked as surprised as he. "Annie, you made a joke," he exclaimed. "A
dirty
joke."

She broke into a delighted grin. "I did, didn't I?"

"Anna?"

"We're coming, Stephen!" She stood back and rebuttoned her dress, began to pin her veil on again. "We'll discuss this subject at another time, Mr. Brodie," she said briskly, albeit breathlessly.

"Oh, we will, Mrs. Balfour," he agreed, straightening his tie, tugging at his waistcoat. "Are you ready?"

"I certainly am." She shot him a wicked glance, full of meaning. He shook his head in wonder.

They cleared their throats, stiffened their shoulders. Tried to compose their faces. Brodie opened the door; she preceded him. With slow, solemn decorum they proceeded toward the foyer, where a knot of well-wishers waited to say goodbye. Anyone walking behind them for the first six paces, though, would have been shocked to see the future Earl of Battiscombe's palm resting, in a comfortable way, on the Widow Balfour's shapely behind.