by J. R. Ward
"My pleasure, sir. Will you be requiring--"
"No, that's it."
The man seemed surprised as Lane pushed past him and headed in the direction of the staff part of the house. But, of course, the Englishman didn't question him. Which, considering the mood he was in? Not only was that proper butler etiquette, but it would fall under a self-preservation rubric as well.
Two minutes in the house. Two damn minutes.
And he was already nuclear.
FOUR
Lane marched his way into the massive professional kitchen and was immediately taken aback by both the olfactory "noise" and the auditory silence. Even though there were a good dozen chefs bent over the stainless-steel counters and the Viking stoves, none of the white coats were speaking as they labored. A few of them did look up, however, recognized him and stopped whatever they were doing, he ignored their OMG! reaction. He was used to that double take by now, his reputation having preceded him across the nation for years.
Thank you, Vanity Fair, for that expose on his family a decade ago. And the three follow-ups since. And the speculations in the tabloids. And don't get him started on the Internet.
Once that lowest-common-denominator, media-packaged celebrity status sucker-fished you?
No getting it off.
As he went over to a door marked PRIVATE, he found himself retucking his shirt, pulling up his slacks, smoothing his hair. Now he wished he'd taken time to shower, shave, change.
And he really wished that meeting with Lizzie had gone better. Like he needed another thing on his mind?
His knock was quiet, respectful. The response he got was not:
"What are you knocking for," barked the Southern female voice.
Lane frowned as he pushed open the door. And then he stopped dead.
Miss Aurora was at her stove, the hot-oil smell and snare-drum crackle of chicken frying in a pan rising into the air in front of her, her weave done in a short bob of super-tight black curls, her housecoat the same one he'd seen her in when he'd left to go up north.
All he could do was blink, and wonder whether someone had played a sick joke on him.
"Well, don't just stand there," she snapped at him. "Wash y'all hands and get out the trays. I'm five minutes out."
Right, he'd expected to find her laying in bed with a sheet up to her chest and a fading light in her eyes as her beloved Jesus came for her.
"Lane, snap out of it. I'm not dead yet."
He rubbed the bridge of his nose as a wave of exhaustion sandbagged him. "Yes, ma'am."
As he closed them in together, he searched for signs of physical weakness in those strong shoulders and those set legs of hers. There was none. There was absolutely nothing about the sixty-five-year-old woman to suggest that she had ended up in the emergency room that morning.
Okay, so it was a toss-up, he decided as he eyeballed the rest of the food she'd prepared for him. A toss-up between him being relieved . . . and him feeling furious that he'd wasted the time coming down here.
One thing he was clear on? There was no leaving before he ate--partially because she would hog tie him to a chair and force feed him if she had to, but mostly because the instant he caught that scent, his stomach had gone hollow-pit hungry on him.
"Are you okay?" he had to ask.
The glare she sent him suggested if he wanted to continue that line of questioning, she'd be more than happy to spank him until he shut his piehole.
Roger that, ma'am, he thought.
Crossing the shallow space, he found that the TV trays the two of them had always eaten off of were exactly where he'd seen them last--over in the corner, propped up between the entertainment console and the bookcase that was set at an angle. The pair of Barcaloungers were the same, too, each one in front of a tall window, crocheted doilies draped over the tops where the backs of heads went.
Pictures of children were everywhere and in all kinds of frames, and amid the beautiful, dark faces, there were pale ones, too: There was him at his kindergarten graduation; his brother Max scoring a goal in lacrosse; his sister, Gin, dressed up as a milk maid in a school play; his other brother, Edward, in a tie and jacket for his senior picture at U.Va.
"Good Lord, you are too thin, boy," Miss Aurora muttered as she went to stir a pot that he knew was filled with green beans cooked with cubes of ham. "Don't they have food up there in New York?"
"Not like this, ma'am."
The sound she made in the back of her throat was like a Chevy backfiring. "Get the plates."
"Yes, ma'am."
He discovered his hands were shaking as he took two out of the cupboard and they rattled together. Unlike the woman who had birthed him, who was no doubt upstairs "resting" in a medicated haze of I'm-not-an-addict-because-my-doctor-gave-me-the-pills, Miss Aurora had always seemed both ageless and strong as a superhero. The idea that the cancer was back?
Hell, he couldn't fathom her having had it in the first place. But he wasn't fooling himself. That had to be the reason for the collapse.
After he'd gotten the silver and napkins on the trays and poured them both a sweet tea, he went over and sat on the chair on the right.
"You shouldn't be cooking," he said as she started to plate up.
"And you should'na been gone so long. What's wrong with you."
Definitely not on her deathbed, he thought.
"What did the doctor say?" he asked.
"Nothing worth hearing in my opinion." She brought over all kinds of heaped-to-Heaven. "Now be quiet and eat."
"Yes, ma'am."
Oh, sweet Jesus, he thought as he stared down at his plate. Fried okra. Chitterlings. Potato cakes. Beans in that pork boil. And the fried chicken.
As his stomach let out a roar of starvation, she laughed.
But he didn't, and abruptly, he had to clear his throat. This was home. This food, prepared by this specific woman, was home--he'd had exactly what was on this plate all of his life, especially back in the years before his mother had retreated from everything and she and his father had been out five nights a week socializing. Sick or well, happy or sad, hot or cold, he and his brothers and sister had sat in the kitchen with Miss Aurora and behaved themselves or risked getting swatted on the back of the head.
There were never any troublemakers in Miss Aurora's kitchen.
"G'on now," she said softly. "Don't wait to where it gets cold."
Talk about digging in, and he moaned as the first taste flooded his mouth. "Oh, Miss Aurora."
"You need to come on home, boy." She shook her head as she sat down with her own plate. "That northern stuff is not for you. Don't know how you stand the weather--much less those people."
"So you going to tell me what happened?" he asked, nodding at the cotton ball and surgical tape in the crook of her elbow.
"I don't need that car you bought me. That's what happened."
He wiped his mouth. "What car?"
Those black eyes narrowed. "Don't you try to play, boy."
"Miss Aurora, you were driving a piece of--ah, junk. I can't have y'all like that."
He could hear the Southern creeping back into his voice. Didn't take long, did it.
"My Malibu is perfectly fine--"
Now he held her stare. "It was a cheap car to begin with and had a hundred thousand miles on it."
"Don't see why--"
"Miss Aurora, I'm not having you in that junker no more. Sorry."
She glared at him hard enough to burn a hole in his forehead, but when he didn't budge, she dropped her eyes. And that was the nature of their relationship. Two hard heads, neither of whom was willing to give an inch about anything--except to the other one.
"I don't need a Mercedes," she muttered.
"Four-wheel drive, ma'am."
"I don't like the color. It's unholy."
"Bull. It's U of C red and you love it."
As she grumped again, he knew the truth. She adored the new car. Her sister, Miss Patience, had called him up and
told him that Miss Aurora had been driving the E350 4MATIC all around town. Of course, Miss Aurora never dialed him to thank him, and he'd been expecting this protest: She'd always been too proud to accept anything for free.
But Miss Aurora also didn't want to upset him--and knew he was right.
"So what happened this morning with you." Not a question on his part. He was done with that.
"I just got a little light-headed."
"They said you passed out."
"I'm fine."
"They said the cancer's back."
"Who is they."
"Miss Aurora--"
"My Lord and Savior has healed me before and He will again." She put one palm to Heaven and closed her eyes. Then looked over at him. "I'm going to be fine. Have I ever lied to you, boy?"
"No, ma'am."
"Now eat."
That command pretty much shut him up for twenty minutes.
Lane was halfway done with his second plate when he had to ask. "You see him lately?"
No reason to specify who the "he" was: Edward was the "he" everyone spoke of in hushed tones.
Miss Aurora's face tightened. "No."
There was another long period of silence.
"Y'all gonna go see him while you're here?" she asked.
"No."
"Somebody's gotta."
"Won't make any difference. Besides, I should get back to New York. I really came here only to check if you were okay--"
"You're gonna go see him. Before you go back north."
Lane shut his eyes. After a moment, he said, "Yes, ma'am."
"Good boy."
After a serving of thirds, Lane cleared their plates, and had to ignore the fact that Miss Aurora appeared not to have eaten anything at all. The conversation then turned to her nieces and nephews, her sisters and brothers, of which there were eleven, and the fact that her father, Tom, had finally died at the age of eighty-six.
She was called Aurora Toms because she was one of Tom's kids. Word had it in addition to the twelve he'd had with his wife, there were countless others outside the marriage. Lane had met the man at Miss Aurora's church from time to time, and he'd been a larger-than-life character, as Deep South as Mississippi, as charismatic as a preacher, as handsome as sin.
Not that he was being arrogant, but Lane knew he had always been her favorite, and he figured that father of hers was the reason she indulged him so much: Like her dad, he'd also been called too handsome for his own good all his life, and he'd sure done his share of womanizing. Back in his twenties? Lane had been right there with good ol' Mr. Toms.
Lizzie had cured him of all that. Kind of in the way an embankment would stop a speeding car.
"You go up and greet your momma before you leave, too," Miss Aurora announced after he'd washed and put away their dishes and silverware.
He left the frying pan and the pots on her stove. He knew better than to touch them.
Pivoting around, he folded the dish towel and leaned back against the stainless-steel sink.
She put her palm out from her Barcalounger. "Y'all need to save it--"
"Miss Aurora--"
"Do not tell me you flew over a thousand miles just to look me over like I'm some kind of invalid. That don't make no sense."
"Your food is worth the trip."
"That is true. Now go see your momma."
I already have, he thought as he stared across at her. "Miss Aurora, are you going to get help for the Derby?"
"What do you think all those fools out in my big kitchen are for?"
"It's a lot to manage, and don't tell me you aren't ordering them around."
That infamous glare shot his way, but that was all he got and it scared him. Normally, she'd be up from her chair and muscling him out her door. Instead, she stayed sitting. "I'ma be fine, boy."
"You better be. Without you, I got no one to keep me straight."
She said something under her breath and stared off over his shoulder--while he just waited in the quiet.
Eventually, she waved for him to come over, and he did right away, striding across the linoleum and getting down on his knees by her chair. One of her hands, her beautiful, strong, dark hands, reached out and ran through his hair.
"You need to get this cut."
"Yes, ma'am."
She touched his face. "You're too handsome for your own good."
"Like I said, you gotta stick around and keep me right."
Miss Aurora nodded. "Count on it." There was a long pause. "Thank you for my new car."
He pressed a kiss to her palm. "You're welcome."
"And I need you to remember something." Her eyes, those ebony eyes he'd stared into as a child, a teenager, a young man . . . a grown man, roamed around his face, like she was taking note of the changes that gathering age was bringing to the features she had watched for over thirty years. "I got you and I got God. I'm wealthier beyond means--we clear, boy? I don't need no Mercedes. I don't need a fancy house or fancy clothes. There is no hole in me that needs filling--you hear me?"
"Yes, ma'am." He closed his eyes, thinking she was the single most noble woman he'd ever met.
Well, she and Lizzie, that was.
"I hear you, ma'am," he said hoarsely.
*
About an hour after the lemonade-Lane run-in, Lizzie left the conservatory with two large arrangements. Mrs. Bradford had always insisted that fresh flowers be in the main public rooms and all of the occupied bedrooms--and that standard had been preserved even as she had retreated to her suite about three years ago and essentially stayed there. Lizzie liked to think if she continued the practice, maybe Little V.E., as the family called her, would once again come down and be the lady of the house.
Easterly had a good fifty rooms, but many of them were staff offices, staff quarters and bathrooms, or places like the kitchen, wine cellar, media rooms, or empty guest rooms that didn't require flowering. The first-floor bouquets were in good shape--she'd already done a run-through and pulled out the occasional withering rose here or there the night before. These new ones were for the second-story foyer and Big Mr. Baldwine's room. Mrs. Bradford's vase wasn't due to be refreshed before tomorrow, as were Chantal's and . . .
Would Lane be staying in his wife's room?
Probably, and didn't that make her want to vomit.
Heading up the back staffing stairs, the two sterling silver fluted vases strained her hands and wrists and tightened up her biceps, but she toughed it out. The burn wasn't going to last long, and taking a time out somewhere along the way just prolonged things.
The main hallway upstairs was long as a racecourse, bifurcated by an upper level sitting area, and the conduit to a total of twenty-one suites and bedrooms that opened off on either side. Big Mr. Baldwine's quarters were next to his wife's, with both sets of rooms overlooking the garden and the river. There was a connector that linked their dressing rooms, but she knew it was never used.
From what she understood, once the children had been born that part of the relationship had not been "resumed," to use the old-fashioned verbiage.
When she'd first started working at Easterly, she'd been confused by the names--and had slipped up and called Mrs. Bradford by her legal name of Mrs. Baldwine. No go. She'd been firmly corrected by the head of staff: The lady of the Bradford house was going to be a "Mrs." and a "Bradford" no matter what the last name of her husband might have been.
Confusing. Until she'd realized that that husband-and-wife team had no more overlapping lives than their separate sleeping accommodations. So it was Mr. Baldwine in the suite with the navy blue accents and the heavier mahogany antiques and Mrs. Bradford in the ivory, cream, taupe, and blush suite with the Louis XIV furniture and the canopy bed.
Actually, maybe the pair of them did have something in common: He hid in his office in the business center, she in her bedroom.
Crazy.
Lizzie proceeded down to the curving formal stairs and swapped out the bouquet on the coffee ta
ble in that sitting area. Then she went over and stopped at Mr. Baldwine's suite. Knocking twice on the broad panels, she waited even though there was no way he was on the other side. Every morning, he left for his business center next door on the property and he did not return until the seven o'clock dinner hour.
Putting the old foyer bouquet on the floor, she cranked the ornate doorknob, pushed inside, and strode over to an antique bureau that belonged in a museum. There wasn't anything hugely wrong with the flowers already in place, but nothing was allowed to fade at Easterly. Here, in the cocoon of wealth, entropy was not permitted to exist.
As she switched the vases, she heard voices in the garden and went to the windows. Over a dozen men had arrived and were carting in the huge white canvas rolls and long aluminum poles that, with enough manpower and some hydraulics, were going to be The Derby Brunch's eighty-by-forty-foot tent.
Great. Chantal was probably calling up Mr. Harris right now and complaining that the no-fly zone had been violated: If a member of the family or a guest were using the pool, the pool house, or any of the terraces, all work had to cease in the garden and all workmen had to beat feet out of the area until their royal highnesses were finished with their enjoyment.
The good news? Greta was out there already, corralling the men. The bad news? The German was probably telling them to set it all up right next to where Chantal was sitting.
Deliberately.
Fearing that confrontation, Lizzie wheeled--
She froze as a flash of color caught her eye. "What the . . . ?"
Leaning down, she wasn't sure what she was looking at. Like everything at Easterly, William Baldwine's room was spotless, all objects and belongings where they should be, the masculine accoutrements of a powerful businessman in drawers, tucked away in shelves, waiting for him in that walk-in wardrobe.
So what was a piece of peach silk doing between the back of the headboard and the wall?
Well, she could guess.
And the lingerie sure hadn't been taken off Virginia Elizabeth Bradford Baldwine.
Lizzie couldn't wait to get out of the room, going across to the door fast, opening it--
"Oh, I'm sooooooo happy to see youuuuuuuu!"
The Southern drawl was like fingers on a blackboard, but worse was looking down to the right and seeing Chantal Baldwine throw her arms around Lane's neck and hang off his body.
