by J. R. Ward
Edward looked over at his brother. "What about yesterday?"
Lane laughed in a hard burst. "Sometimes not having cable television is a good thing, no? Anyway, it doesn't matter. It really doesn't."
They sat in silence for the longest time, and later, Edward would realize it was because he was waiting for some kind of an emotional reaction of his own. Sorrow. Hell, maybe joy.
There was nothing. Just a resonate numbness.
"I've got to find Max," Lane said. "Law enforcement is going to keep a lid on this until we're ready to make a statement, but that respite won't last forever."
"I don't know where he is," Edward murmured.
"I'll keep trying the number I had from two years ago. I sent him an e-mail, too, at his last known. I think he might be really far off the grid."
More quiet.
"Is Gin all right?" Edward asked.
Lane shook his head. Then swung his eyes over. "Are any of us?"
Sadly, Edward thought . . . the answer to that is no.
FORTY-EIGHT
The next morning, as Lizzie went up the back stairs with a bouquet in her hands, she gave herself a pep talk.
It was all well and good to hide in the greenhouses, but come on. She had thirteen days left of employment at Easterly and she was not going out on a shirker note. She always did the flowers for the bedrooms. She had her schedule, and she was going to goddamn well do her job.
Up on the second floor, she squared her shoulders and went down to the best guest room. Mr. Harris had told her they had an unexpected houseguest--and also that there was no need to refresh flowers in Chantal's room anymore.
Good to know, Mr. Harris. Thanks so much.
At least that was one person off her Don't Need To Run Into list.
Too bad the number-one spot was still under Easterly's roof.
"Thirteen days," she said under her breath. "Just thirteen days."
At the broad door, she knocked and waited. After a moment, a male voice said, "Come in."
Pushing the panels wide, she saw a man sitting at Lane's grandfather's desk across the way, his back bent into a comma as he scrummed down over a laptop. Next to him, a printer was spitting out pages marked with columns, and at his feet, wadded-up balls of yellow legal paper dotted the floor.
He didn't look up.
"I'm just here with some flowers," she said.
"Uh-huh."
Beside him, on the window shelf, was a tray of empty breakfast dishes. As she put the vase down on an antique bureau, she offered, "May I take that down for you?"
"What?" he muttered while still focused on the screen.
"The tray?"
"Sure. Thanks."
He had to be here to look at those files, she thought. The ones Rosalinda left behind.
Not her business, she reminded herself.
Going around the desk, she saw two expensive suitcases, one of which was open and rifled through--and yet she had the impression the man hadn't changed since whenever he'd arrived. His white shirt was wrinkled everywhere, and so were his pants.
Also not her business.
Picking up the tray, she--
"Oh my God."
As he spoke up, she almost didn't glance over at him, figuring he'd found something in whatever he was going through. But then she realized he was staring at her.
"What?" she asked.
"You're Lizzie. Right?"
Recoiling, she glanced around. But come on, like there was someone standing behind her?
"Ah, yes."
"Lane's Lizzie. The horticulturist."
"No," she said. "No, not his."
The man stretched his arms over his head, and as all kinds of cracking happened, she noticed that he was very good-looking, with dark hair and dark eyes that might have been brown, might have been blue.
The accent was very definitely New York.
"Wow," he murmured. "I thought you were made-up."
"If you'll excuse me, I have some work to do."
"And now I understand why he didn't go after anyone else for two years."
Don't ask, Lizzie told herself. Don't--
"I'm sorry?" she heard herself say.
Crap.
"For two years, nada. I mean, look, we went to college together, so I saw firsthand how he earned his reputation. But for the last two years, he didn't go near a woman. I thought he was gay. I even asked if he was gay." The man put his palms out to her. "Not that there's anything wrong with that."
Wasn't that a line from Seinfeld? she thought.
"I, ah . . ."
"So at least now I get it." The man smiled in a totally non-creepy way. "But he says you're leaving? It's none of my business, but why? He's a good man. Not perfect, but good. Wouldn't suggest you play poker against the guy, though. Not unless you have money to lose."
Lizzie frowned. "I, ah . . ."
"I didn't even know he was married, by the way. He never talked about her, I certainly never met her--and now, come to find out, it was about you all along. Well, anyway, back to work."
Like the guy hadn't just dropped a bomb in the middle of the room.
As Lizzie's heart started to pump at double speed, she said, "I'm sorry. Did you say . . . you never knew he was married?"
The guy looked back over at her. "No, he never brought up the woman. Not once in the two years he was sleeping on my couch. I didn't find out until he called me a couple of days ago."
"But you must have met her, right? When she visited him."
"Visited him? Honey, he never had any visitors--and I would know because he never left my place. We'd play poker all night, and I'd go to work, only to come back and find him on my sofa in exactly the same position I'd left him in. He didn't see anyone. Didn't accept phone calls. Never came back down here. Never traveled. Just locked himself in my apartment and drank. I figured his next stop was a dialysis unit."
"Oh."
The guy cocked an eyebrow as if he wanted to know if she needed any more information.
"Thank you," she said.
"Thank you for the flowers. I've never had a woman bring some to me before."
And then he was back to work, frowning at that screen.
Lizzie walked out of the room in a daze and had to remind herself to kick the door shut in her wake.
After standing there for a moment, she swiveled her head and looked down the hall to Mr. Baldwine's room.
No visitors. No phone calls. Two years up in New York on some old friend's couch.
And Chantal was supposedly pregnant.
With Lane's baby.
Lizzie wasn't consciously aware of deciding to move. But before she knew it, she had put the tray of dishes down on the runner outside of the guest room and was tiptoeing over the carpet. When she got to Mr. Baldwine's room, she put her ear to the panels.
Then she knocked quietly.
When there was no answer, she slipped inside and shut herself in.
There was something eerie about the room. Then again, she was essentially trespassing, as she had no valid reason for being in there.
Well, no valid reason tied to her job.
Glancing around to make sure she hadn't missed someone else in the bathroom beyond, she quickened over to the large bed that was made up with military precision.
Lowering herself down to her knees, she craned under the side table, under the bed frame itself.
The wisp of silk was still there, on the floor.
Lizzie stretched out her arm--
Knock, knock, knock. "Towel service, Mr. Baldwine."
With a frantic lunge, Lizzie threw herself under the bed skirt, just tucking her legs in as the maid opened the door and walked into the room.
A soft whistling and softer footsteps on the thick rug tracked the woman's progress as she went into the bathroom.
Please, don't clean, Lizzie thought as she lay still in the darkness. Just drop those towels and keep going.
Drop the towels.
K
eep going.
God, her heart was pounding so hard it was a wonder the maid didn't hear the damn thing.
Moments later, a miracle happened and those footfalls backtracked and the door was re-shut.
Lizzie sagged and closed her eyes. Right, okay, she was taking cat burglar off her list of possible next careers after she left Easterly.
Locking a hold on the lingerie, she stuffed the thing into the waistband of her khakis and covered it up by untucking her polo shirt. Then she shuffled out from under, got to her feet, and brushed herself off.
Back at the door, she heard . . .
Shoot, the vacuum cleaner running right outside in the hall.
*
Down in Miss Aurora's quarters, Lane was struggling to get through his bacon and eggs.
"You don't have to finish that," she said next to him.
"Didn't think I'd ever hear that coming from you."
"The rules are suspended for today."
Sitting back in the Barcalounger, he glanced over at her little galley kitchen. All the dishes were done, everything drying in the rack. The sponge was in the dish. The dish towel was folded neatly over the oven's long handle.
"Do you think Reverend Nyce will do the service?" he asked. "At Charlemont Baptist?"
Miss Aurora looked at him sharply. "Really?"
"That's my church. Edward's and Gin's and Max's, too." He looked at her. "You were the only one who ever took us to worship."
"I think he would be honored."
"Good. I'll call him."
As they fell silent, Lane stared straight ahead, seeing nothing, focusing on nothing. There wasn't anything in his brain, either. He was numb from the floor up, an empty vessel reacting to the world around him rather than actually living in it.
"I'm not going to give you my blessing."
He shook himself and glanced back across at her. "I'm sorry?"
"I'm not going to tell you it's okay to leave."
Lane frowned and opened his mouth. Then shut things up.
Funny, he hadn't been aware of speaking that out loud, but then she knew him better than anybody. "Things didn't work with Lizzie. Again. Father's dead. Edward's moved out. Mother is--well, you know. Gin's going to marry that idiot and probably take Amelia with her. This whole era, it's over, Miss Aurora. And what's more, I don't know that the future holds any of us on this land anymore. Easterly . . ." He moved his hand around, thinking of the estate and all the people and buildings on it. "Easterly's part of the past, and you know, I can't live in that. It's poisonous. This family, this house, the way of life--it's just poisonous."
Miss Aurora shook her head. "You're looking at it the wrong way."
"I'm really not."
Miss Aurora sat forward in her chair and reached for his hands. "This is . . . your time, Lane. God has provided you with a sacred duty to keep this family together. You are the only one who can do it. This is all falling into place because it is your destiny to bind the blood once again. It happens every couple of generations. It's happening now. This is your time."
Lane stared down at their fingers, the white and dark intertwined. "It was supposed to be Edward, you know."
"No, or he wouldn't be where he is right now." Miss Aurora's voice gathered strength. "I raised you better than to be a coward, Lane. I raised you better than to leave your duty at the exit door. If you want to honor me when I'm gone, you will do it by taking this family and moving them forward--together. I did my sacred job with you--and you, son of my heart, are going to do it with them."
Lane closed his eyes and felt a sudden weight settle all over his body, as if Easterly's walls and roof had caved in and landed on him.
"You will do this, Lane, for me. Because if you don't, everything I put into you means nothing. If you don't, I have failed in my job."
Inside, he was screaming.
Inside, he was already on a plane, going anywhere away from Charlemont.
"God does not give us more than we can handle," she said grimly.
But what if God doesn't really know us, Lane thought to himself. Or worse . . . what if God was just plain wrong?
"I don't know, Miss Aurora."
"Well, I do. And you are not going to let me down, son. You simply are not."
FORTY-NINE
The true definition of eternity, Lizzie decided, was when you were stuck somewhere you shouldn't be.
With a camisole that wasn't your own, shoved down your damn shorts.
When the sounds of people in the hall finally quieted, she waited another five or ten minutes before she poked her head out.
Lunchtime, she thought. Thank God.
Jumping into the middle of the hallway, she let the door close behind her and stayed where she was, listening.
Next stop was going down past Gin's room and knocking on Chantal's door.
No answer. Then again, the woman had left, right?
Sneaking inside, she shut herself in--
"Oh, God," she muttered, fanning in front of her nose.
The stench of fancy perfume was enough to make her eyes water, but she had bigger fish to fry, as they say. Hightailing it into Chantal's walk-in closet, she faced off at a wardrobe big enough to rival an entire Nordstrom's women's department. Or Saks. Or whatever high-end place folks like Chantal got their clothes from.
Jeez, was she actually going to do this?
It was probably a really dumb idea, she decided as she began rifling through the hanging sections, breezing past all manner of silk and satin and lace. Then came the suits, the jackets, the dresses, the gowns.
"Where is your lingerie, Chantal . . ."
Of course. The dresser.
In the middle of the room, like an island of organization, there was a built-in stretch of double-faced drawers, and she started pulling them open at random.
Okay, this is stupid, she thought. Did she really think she was going to find the bottoms--
She was third drawer from the bottom of the left side on the north-facing part when she found what she was looking for.
Sort of.
In the midst of a line-up of carefully folded and tissue-paper-separated slips and matching panties, she found . . . a purple camisole that was identical to the one she had taken from behind William Baldwine's bed.
Just to make sure she wasn't seeing things, she took the peach one out and put them both side by side on the thick white carpeting. Same size, same maker--La Perla?--same everything except for the color.
Lizzie sat back on her butt and stared at the two.
And that was when she saw the stain on the rug.
Over in the far end of the room, there was a make-up vanity that was lined up in a windowed alcove that overlooked the gardens. It was the perfect place to do your makeup--or have it done--in natural light.
And under the ivory legs, in the corner, there was an unsightly yellow stain in a circle.
It was the kind of thing you'd find in a house with dogs.
Except Easterly had no dogs.
Crab walking over, she wedged herself under a second piece of furniture and patted at the discoloration. It was dry. But as she brought her fingertips to her nose--yup, that was the source of the perfume smell in the air.
Frowning, Lizzie rose up onto her knees. "Oh . . . God."
The glass-covered surface of the vanity had a crack down the center. And the mirror was smashed in a starburst pattern.
With blood in the center.
Time to get out of here, she thought to herself.
Going back to the lingerie she'd laid out, she returned the purple one to where it had been. And then on a lark, she used the peach silk to clean her fingerprints off the drawer pulls.
All of them.
The last thing she needed was for the police to come in here and find out she'd been sniffing around, so to speak--
Lizzie froze at the sound of a man's voice. Except it wasn't in the wardrobe with her. It was next door--Gin's room, she realized.
&nbs
p; Two people were talking. Loudly.
Going over, she put her ear to the wall beside a painting of a French woman who was mostly nude.
"I don't care," came Gin's voice with greater clarity. "It's just at the courthouse."
"Your father is dead."
Lizzie recoiled, bringing her hand to her mouth. What?
Richard Pford continued, "We will wait to be married until after the funeral."
"I'm not mourning him."
"Of course not. That would require having a heart, and we both know that the absence of one is an anatomical anomaly of yours."
Lizzie backed off. Stumbled. Fell into the dresser.
After a moment, she continued with the wipe down and then went back to the door into the hall. Her heart was beating so loudly, she couldn't hear well enough and decided, screw it. If she got caught, what were they going to do to her?
She could just tell anyone she was checking for flowers.
But no one was out there.
Blindly heading for the staff stairs, her mind was racing, her thoughts slamming into one another, splintering, falling to pieces.
At the core, though, she came to one, inescapable conclusion.
She had made a terrible mistake.
The kind for which forgiveness was going to be next to impossible.
Down on the first floor, she stopped dead in her tracks. And realized that, of all the places to stall out, she had picked Rosalinda's office.
William Baldwine was dead, too.
How? she wondered. What had happened to him?
In a series of flashes, she saw Lane standing in the greenhouse, his face shut down, his voice flat as asphalt. Then she heard his friend telling her that, contrary to happily banging Chantal on the side, Lane had seen no one, done nothing.
And then the bomb burst in that mirror upstairs. And the lingerie.
Her last image was of Chantal out by the pool that morning when the woman had insisted on a refresher on her lemonade.
At the time, the fact that she had been wearing a silk wrap hadn't seemed especially significant. But now . . .
She'd been pregnant and just starting to show. Which was why she had asked for a virgin--no alcohol.
Chantal had been sleeping with William Baldwine. Cheating on the son with the father. And she had become pregnant.
She must have told William, Lizzie thought. After the Derby.
And the man had lost it. And hit her up in that dressing room.
Then he had kicked her out of the house. Or something like that.
Shaking her head, Lizzie put her hands to her hot face and tried to breathe.
Her one and only thought was that she had to make it right with Lane. She had condemned him based on her own fear of being hurt again . . .
