Samuel stands on the other side. For a second, he takes us both in. No doubt what he sees, tears in Liz’s eyes, hair disheveled, clothes mussed up. His face reflects disapproval. “Ms. Watson, are you okay?”
“Yes,” she says in a shaky voice. “Please, Samuel, take me home.”
It’s a measure of the man he doesn’t wait for my consent, but simply takes her by the arm and leads her away.
Just as well, I’ve gotten the information I need. She won’t agree to my proposal. Not until I solve this riddle. I fish out my mobile from my jacket, and dial my pilot. “Get the plane ready. We’re leaving tonight. At seven if you can manage it.”
I need to get back to London and find out what evil scheme my mother hatched, vile enough to stop Liz from marrying me.
Chapter 5
______________
Gabriel
AFTER RETURNING TO ENGLAND, I bid my time for an opportunity to talk to my mother’s maid. If anyone knows the witch’s plot my mother devised three months ago, it would be Tilly. A week later, my patience is rewarded when my mother travels to London to visit her spa and hairstylist, leaving Tilly with a few hours’ free time.
I seize the opportunity and invite her to tea. Even though I have every right to hold our discussion in my parents’ town mansion, I choose my penthouse in The Brighton, since I don’t wish for news of our meeting to trickle back to the Countess.
When the concierge announces Tilly’s arrival, I ride down on my private elevator to the lobby to greet her. “Good afternoon, Tilly.”
She bobs a curtsey. “My lord.” Time has taken a toll on her. Hair, which glowed bright gold once upon a time, is grey now, and the lines on her face bear witness to the misery she’s endured at my mother’s hands. Not to mention she’s so thin a puff of wind could blow her away. By the way she’s clutching her handbag, nerves have gotten the better of her as well. Shame, for I do not intend to harm her. If anything, I aim to make her life easier to bear.
On our ride up, we make small talk about the weather. “I’m sorry I asked you to travel on such a cold and rainy day. I thought it best if we conduct our conversation in private.”
“Yes, my lord.” Her blue-eyed gaze flickers uncertainty from a worried face. At sixty-five years of age, she’s faithfully served my mother for forty years. Never once taking a vacation, she’s performed her duties quietly, efficiently, without fuzz.
When the elevator doors open, her gaze bounces around my living room before she steps out. “We the only ones here, my lord?”
The third ‘my lord.’ Tradition demands the honorific, since I’m the heir to an earl, but I hate being addressed as such. I take her elbow and guide her toward the burgundy leather sofa, next to which a spread fit for a queen resides on the crystal coffee table. “You don’t have to be so formal, Tilly. I remember when you used to call me Master Gabe.”
A reluctant chuckle escapes from her. “I haven’t called you that since you were eight.”
“Well, if that’s too familiar, Mr. Storm will do.”
Her head bobs. “Yes, Sir.”
“Tea?” I’ve ordered a special spread, complete with Tilly’s favorites—pekoe tea and orange scones—served on heirloom china.
“Thank you kindly.” Even though she’s lived in England for four decades, a Texas twang still resonates in her voice.
I wait until she’s sipped the tea and eaten half a scone before I circle around to the object of her visit. “How are you, Tilly?”
“Fair to middlin’. This old body ain’t what it used to be.”
I pour my own cup and balance it on my knee, the good one. “You’ve been with my mother close to forty years, haven’t you?”
“Yes, Sir. Since she was a young lady.” Having polished off the first pastry, she helps herself to another.
“Do you ever miss your home?”
“No. Not really. My family lived in a one-room shack with only dirt for a floor.”
I’d hope a visit to her family would prove a treat, but no help there, so I move on to option B. “Have you ever thought of retiring?”
She shrugs. “Where would I go?”
I offer her my most charming smile, the one that used to win her over during my wayward youth. “Why, anywhere you wished. You’d be your own mistress. Set your own clock. No more waking up before dawn to perform onerous chores. You would answer to no one. And have enough money to live comfortably the rest of your days.”
She squints her eyes at me. Her third pastry lands, untouched, back on the plate. “That . . . would be right nice.”
Good. She’s beginning to see the possibilities. “If you could choose a place, anywhere on earth, where would you go?”
For a few moments, wheels grind in her head. “A place where my bones could soak up the sun. Near a beach so I could hear the ocean race to the shore, especially at night. And lots of colors and scents.”
“The Caribbean has many such places,” I say softly, hoping not to overplay my hand.
She rests the cup of tea on the coffee table, right next to the pastry plate. “You didn’t invite old Tilly only for tea and scones, Master Gabe. You have sumthing on your mind?”
Uneducated she might be, but she’s never been stupid. “Yes, I do. The Countess. Do you recall Ms. Watson, Tilly?”
“Yes, Sir. The young lady who came to the castle.”
“That’s right. Do you know if my mother discussed anything in particular with her?”
There’s only a moment’s hesitation before she answers. “Yes, Sir. She did.”
Finally, we’re getting somewhere.
“Your mother. She had a mighty hankerin’ about Lady Melisssande.”
Lady Melissande, the duke’s daughter my mother had chosen for my wife. After my accident, my mother insisted I was engaged to her. Something I couldn’t refute since I couldn’t remember the turn of events. But when I approached Lady Melissande, she denied I’d ever proposed.
“She wanted the duke’s daughter to marry you and give her grandbabies. ‘My blood will mingle with that of a king. How about that, Tilly?’ she’d say. Can you imagine?”
Yes, I can. The Duke of Marchstone is a direct descendant of William IV. On the wrong side of the blanket, but what did that matter to someone like my mother?
“But Ms. Watson was standing in her way. She took a powerful dislike to her. Probably because you liked her so much.”
Even Tilly had caught on to my fascination with Liz? I brush a hand across my brow. How could I have been so careless? “How so?”
“Anyone could see by the way you looked at her. Like she was the sun, the moon, and stars all rolled into one. I hadn’t seen you that happy for a long time.”
Happiness. That emotion has eluded me most of my life. Wish I could remember. “Was I?”
“Yes, Sir. And Miss Margaret? Well, she was plumb scared you’d marry her instead of Lady Melissande.”
Miss Margaret. Nobody called my mother by her first name except Tilly. Doubt anybody even remembered it since she demanded everyone call her by her title—Lady Winterleagh—or my lady. But Tilley had known her since she’d been plain old Margaret Simmons, the poor little rich American girl who’d inherited millions from her American ancestor. Hungry to marry into the British aristocracy, she’d gone on the prowl for a peer who’d want her money badly enough to give her the title she coveted so fiercely. And she’d found one in my father—the Earl of Winterleagh.
“So she planned and plotted. The night she held the dinner party to celebrate the closing of the deal, she snuck into the powder room to talk to Ms. Watson.”
“Do you know what my mother said to her?”
“Yes, Sir. I do.” She gulps, twists her gnarled hands on her lap. “You have to understand Master Gabe, I wouldn’t have told her if I thought she’d use it against you.”
Bloody hell. “Told her what?”
“I was confused, didn’t know what to do, so I told her what I’d seen.”
&nb
sp; I reach over and cover her troubled hands with my own. “Tell me what you saw, Tilly.”
“Your father, pushing Mr. Snipes down the stairs.”
Mr. Snipes, the tutor who’d beaten me at my mother’s command from the time I was five, whose death had been ruled accidental eighteen years ago.
“That night I took his dinner up to him, even though that wasn’t something I normally did, but the kitchen maid had come down with a tooth ache, and she asked me to cover for her. When I got near the nursery, I heard yelling and screaming. Lord Winterleagh was furious about the tutor damaging your hand.”
Damaging my hand. The son of a bitch broke every finger in my left hand one Christmas after I told my mother I planned to become a concert pianist and tour the continent when I reached the age of majority. I was fourteen at the time. She’d demanded I study business so I could manage Storm Industries, the company she’d run into the ground. When I balked at following the path she’d set out for me, she ordered the tutor to injure me so I could no longer play. Something the sadistic bastard enjoyed doing to me.
“Mr. Snipes laughed at him. Told him he knew who wore the trousers in the family and it wasn’t the earl. Next thing I know there was a scuffle, and your father dragged Mr. Snipes to the top of the stairs and threw him down. Mr. Snipes didn’t move after that. Even though it was colder than a witch’s tit, your father climbed to the castle roof and got himself good and drunk. He never saw me, hiding as I was in the shadows.”
For a long time, I’d suspected my father killed my tutor, but hadn’t confirmed it until now. Such a revelation could destroy my family name. And it wouldn’t do any good to bring my father to justice. Several months back, he’d suffered a stroke. Although he’d been making progress, he’d recently taken a turn for the worse. The doctors confirmed a second stroke, one which left him paralyzed and barely coherent. So this crime would need to remain secret. “So after you witnessed this, what did you do?”
“I crawled down the stairs, trying hard not to look at the body. It was crooked like with the head bent at a strangle angle.” She shivered. “So I went to Miss Margaret and asked her what I should do.”
“And what did she say/”
“She ordered me to say nothing. If anybody asked, I was to say I was with her. But nobody ever asked.”
“And the next day they found Mr. Snipes.”
“Yes. They ruled it an accident. He’d been drinking you see. I think your father got him drunk on purpose.”
Yes, my father would have thought that far ahead.
“Lady Winterleagh used the story to blackmail Ms. Watson.” She whimpers and her hands flutter. No doubt with genuine sorrow. But she’s not to blame. My mother’s actions can not be laid on Tilly’s fragile shoulders.
“How?”
“She demanded Ms. Watson break up with you, in exchange for your mother’s silence about the murder.”
I hiss out a breath. Questions whirl in my mind. Did Liz break up with me as my mother demanded? Was that what drove me to drink and crash my Jag against a tree? I can’t reconcile such actions with the self I remembered. The one who’d never once cared about a woman.
And my mother. She hated my father, but to the level of destroying the family name, ruining Storm Industries? Yes, she would. Power is everything to the Countess. Something precipitated her action, though. Had I challenged her authority by going against her wish for me to marry Lady Melissande? I can’t remember. There is more to this story, but for now I need to deal with Tilly’s revelations.
“You must not breathe a word of this to anyone.”
“No, Sir. I haven’t, except for Miss Margaret. Not to anyone.”
That was saying something since the tutor died eighteen years ago. I lay my hands over hers once more. “You’ve been a good and faithful servant to my mother. And I want you to be happy. So I’m going to reward you with your very own beach cottage in the Caribbean and put enough money in a bank account for you to live comfortably the rest of your life. Is your passport in order?”
As I spoke, her eyes widened until they became huge pools of wonder. She swallows before she responds. “Yes, Sir. Has to be since your mother travels now and then.”
“Good. In a week’s time, you will leave here, and never return. You’ll be safe, I promise. She’ll never find out your whereabouts. Do you understand what I’m asking you to do?” I can’t come right out and ask her to remain silent about the tutor’s murder, but I pray she understands.
She nods and for the first time a smile surfaces on her face, a creaky one like it hasn’t been used for a while. “Yes, Master Gabe. You don’t have to worry.” Her hands turn and she grips mine. “I always loved you and Lady Bri, and that scalawag, Master Royce. Sweet Edward as well. Like you was my own babies. I’d die before I hurt any of you. I’m just plumb sorry I couldn’t stop her from hurting you. She has a bee in her bonnet about you.”
“She wanted Edward to be the heir.” My brother, killed five years ago.
“Yes. But she couldn’t get that so she set out to hurt you as much as she could. In the end, she hurt herself most of all.”
“Why do you say that?”
“She doesn’t have anyone who loves her. And after I’m gone, she’ll be all alone.”
Exactly what I wish.
“Watch her carefully, Master Gabe. Rattlesnakes strike out when they’re cornered.”
A rattlesnake. Such a perfect description of my mother.
Once Tilly leaves, I call Jake and give him orders to put round the clock surveillance on my mother.
“Why?”
“I’m sending Tilly away, and her departure will make my mother very dangerous.”
I wait while the wheels grind in his head. “There’s more to this than a servant leaving.”
“Yes. But I can’t share what prompts me to take such action, not with you, not with anyone. Suffice it to say, once my mother finds out her maid’s gone, she will strike at Liz Watson and that I won’t have.” He knows my past history, so I don’t have to tell him what a sadistic bitch my mother is.
But still, he pauses. Jake’s no pushover. He never does things just on my orders, not unless I provide him with a logical reason for acting on them. But once he agrees to execute a plan, he’ll carry it out with military precision. Which is why I need his approval on this.
“I’ll go along with your plan, mainly because Ms. Watson’s safety hangs in the balance. But your mother will notice the change to her security team, Storm. She’s no fool.”
“I don’t care. Just make sure she doesn’t do anything, including going to the loo, without you knowing about it. And I don’t want her anywhere near a phone.”
“That will be difficult, but not impossible. How do you want to handle it?”
“Be creative. Cut the cable into the castle if you have to. She doesn’t have a mobile, so you won’t have to worry about that.”
“How long do you mean to keep this up?”
“As long as it takes for Liz to marry me.”
He laughs as if he finds the notion of any woman turning me down amusing. “I gather she hasn’t said yes.”
“Not yet, but she will.” No matter what it takes.
Chapter 6
______________
Elizabeth
IN EARLY OCTOBER, a certified envelope arrives at the office from a law firm in town. Not an unusual thing. I'm often sent documents by law firms working on a case. But when I tear open the envelope, the letter inside is from Gabriel's lawyer. He's made arrangements for a Washington, D.C. doctor to draw blood to establish the paternity of the baby.
My breath whooshes out. How dare he have his attorney send this without the courtesy of a phone call to let me know it's coming? Besides, I never agreed to this. My hand itches to toss the letter into the trash and ignore the request. But what good would that do? I’ll still have to do it. If I don't comply, Gabriel will out our relationship to my boss.
But does it really matt
er if Mr. Carrey discovers the truth now or later? He's going to find out once Gabriel claims the child as his own. Yeah, it does. If the news does not leak out until after the baby is born, it'll give me time to find another job. Because I'll more than likely lose mine at Smith Cannon when management figures out I had sex with Gabriel while the negotiations for the SouthWind deal were taking place.
But would another law firm look the other way about such a breach of ethics? Not likely. Who am I kidding? I'm screwed either way, unless I practice law somewhere they've never heard of Gabriel Storm. Timbuktu, maybe? I drop my head into my hands and let out a mirthless laugh.
"What's so funny?" A male voice asks.
I jerk up my head to find Brian Sullivan, a senior associate at my law firm, at my door.
I paste on a bright smile. "A product review about a banana slicer. I'll send you the link."
"Oh. You want to do lunch?" He comes by two, three times a week and asks me to lunch, dinner, drinks. I'm pregnant, hello? Can't exactly drink alcohol. I turn him down most of the time, not that it stops him from asking.
"Sorry, I can't. Need to read forty pages before my Con Law class tonight."
"Constitutional Law is a bear. But you should have done your reading Saturday or Sunday. Busy weekend?"
The question irks me. He's got no business prying into my private life. We're co-workers nothing more. It's my own fault he's become over familiar. Two months ago, during a weak moment, I accepted his offer of friendship, and now he acts like we're more than office acquaintances, which we're not. There are only two people I trust in my life—Casey and CeCe. But Brian's a senior associate and about to make partner so I can't afford to tick him off.
"Yeah, kind of. Do you have an assignment for me?"
"No, not a thing." Even though he knows I'm capable of analyzing complex financial data, he hasn't given me a meaningful task in I don't know how long, All he seems to care about is engaging in a social agenda with me, something I have no interest in pursuing, not with him, not with anyone. I have enough on my plate, thank you very much.
Storm Ravaged (Storm Damages 2) (Storm Legacy) Page 4