The Story of Son(4)

Claire notarized the signature, Fletcher signed as witness, and then the documents went back into the briefcase.

Miss Leeds coughed a little. “Thank you for driving all this way. I know it was an inconvenience, but I do so appreciate it.”

Claire looked at the woman lying in the sea of frothy white lace.

This is a deathbed, she thought. And the Grim Reaper is standing close by. Tapping his foot and checking his watch.

It was hard not to feel like a heel. Man, she was a certified, cast-iron, career bitch, worrying about a couple of lost hours when it seemed as if Miss Leeds had so few of them left.

“It was my pleasure.”

“Now the tea,” Miss Leeds said.

Fletcher wheeled a brass cart over to the chair and poured what smelled like Earl Grey into a porcelain cup.

“Sugar, madam?” he asked.

“Yes, thanks.” She hated tea, but the sugar hit would make swallowing it palatable. When Fletcher presented the stuff to her, she noticed there was only one cup. “You aren’t having anything, Miss Leeds?”

“None for me, I’m afraid. Doctor’s orders.”

Claire took a sip. “What kind of Earl Grey is this? It tastes different than I’ve had before.”

“Do you like it?”

“Actually, I do.”

When she finished the cup, Miss Leeds closed her eyes with something that seemed oddly like relief and Fletcher took away the empty cup.

“Well, I think I’d better go, Miss Leeds.”

“My son is going to like you,” the old woman whispered. “He’s waiting for you.”

Claire blinked and called on all her tact. “I’m afraid I have to head back to the city. Perhaps I can meet him some other time?”

“He needs to meet you now.”

Claire blinked again and heard her father’s refrain in her head: The client is always right. “If it’s important to you, I could . . .” Claire swallowed. “I, ah . . . I could . . .”

Miss Leeds smiled a little. “It will not be so bad for you. He is like his father. A lovely beast.”

Claire rubbed her eyes. There were two Miss Leeds in the bed. Actually, there were two beds. So did that make four Miss Leeds? Or eight?

Miss Leeds looked at Claire with disarming clarity and a detachment that was discomforting. “You mustn’t be afraid of him. He can be quite gentle if he’s in the mood. I wouldn’t try to run, though. He shall only catch you, after all.”

“What—” Claire’s mouth felt dry and fuzzy, and when she heard a noise to the left, it was as if the sound came from a vast distance.

Fletcher was taking the silver tray off the brass cart and putting it on a bureau. When he came back to the cart, he extended a hidden panel out at the foot of it so the thing became like a stretcher.

Claire felt her bones loosen, then collapse altogether. As she slid into the side of the chair, Fletcher picked her up and carried her to the cart, just as easily as he had brought over the heavy chair.

He was laying her flat when her vision started to slip. Desperately, she tried to hold on to consciousness as she was wheeled down the hall into an old-fashioned brass and glass elevator. The last thing she saw before she passed out was the butler pressing the button marked “B” for basement.

The lift lurched and she sank with it, falling into oblivion.





2


Claire rolled over in her bed, feeling velvet under her hands and smooth Egyptian cotton against her cheek. She moved her head up and down on the soft pillow, aware that her temples were pounding and she was vaguely nauseated.

What a strange dream . . . Miss Leeds and that butler. The tea. The cart. The elevator.

God, her head hurt, but what was that wonderful smell? Dark spices . . . like a fine men’s cologne, only one that she’d never smelled before. As she breathed in deep, her body warmed in response and she ran her palm over the velvet duvet. It felt like skin—

Wait a minute. She didn’t have velvet on her bed.

She opened her eyes . . . and stared into a candle. Which was on a nightstand that was not her own.

Panic roared in her chest, but lethargy prevailed in her body. She struggled to get her head up, and when she finally lifted it, her vision swam. Not that it really mattered. She couldn’t see beyond the shallow pool of light that fell on the bed.

Vast, inky darkness surrounded her.

She heard an eerie shifting sound. Metal on metal. Moving around. Coming toward her.

She looked to the noise, her mouth opening, a scream rising in her throat only to get tangled on the back of her tongue.

There was a massive black shape at the foot of the bed. A huge . . . man.

Terror made her break out in a sweat and the shot of adrenaline cleared her head. She reached around for anything she could use as a weapon. The candle, with its heavy silver holder, was the only thing. She grabbed for it—

A hand clamped on her wrist.

Mindlessly, she tried to scramble back, her feet wadding up the velvet duvet, her body thrashing. It made no difference. The hold was iron.

And yet uninjuring.

A voice came through the dense darkness. “Please . . . I shall not hurt you.”

The words were spoken on a long breath of sadness, and for a moment, Claire stopped fighting. Such sorrow. Such pervading loneliness. Such a beautiful male voice.