“What?” Elise and Anne exclaimed at once.

Ian nodded. “Actually, the police recovered Stern’s body from a creek several days ago. He’d been shot. His body had gone unclaimed, and they hadn’t been able to identify him until now. Once Markov had Brodsik’s passport, he was able to follow his trail into the country. Stern and he were on the same plane, both using aliases of course. After that, they were able to identify Brodsik’s true name from fingerprints from the international crime files. They were able to identify Stern given Brodsik and Stern’s history together.”

“Who killed Stern?” Gerard asked.

“Markov suspects Brodsik did away with him. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s seen partners squabble over plans . . . or become unwilling to share when the ultimate prize grows closer. But they’re still trying to confirm that with their investigation. As to why Brodsik might have murdered his own partner, I have no idea. I imagine they’ll know more once they can determine where the two men were staying and trace their movements since they arrived late on Christmas Eve.”

“They came to England on Christmas Eve?” Lucien asked.

“Yes,” Ian said grimly. “The same day as Francesca.”

“And no one else accompanied them?” Gerard asked.

“No. Just Stern and Brodsik,” Ian replied.

“So that’s it, isn’t it?” Francesca asked. She swallowed thickly. Her mouth had gone very dry. “Both men are dead. The threat is done.”

“It would seem so,” James said slowly.

Ian frowned. “I wish I could be so convinced,” he said before he sat and pulled Francesca back into his arms.

* * *

Neither of them attempted to disguise to the others that they were going up to bed together that night, leaving the sitting room hand in hand after saying their good-nights. Francesca was still feeling especially shaky and Ian seemed to sense it, holding her against him when they went to bed, neither of them speaking, just breathing each other’s scent, prizing each other’s presence. She awoke at dawn to the sensation of his lips firm and warm on her throat and breast, his hunger unshielded . . . raw. Their lovemaking was fierce and sweet, both of them desperate to jump into the bright blaze of passion and life, wild to escape the lingering menace of death and the shadows that always seemed to encroach on their happiness.

Francesca’s eyes blinked open heavily as she had the incendiary thought as she lay in Ian’s arms after they made love. Why were her thoughts so morbid and depressing? It took her a moment to understand her dark mood.

And so that really is the reason you came back. The only reason. Because you believed I was in danger.

I came back because I was worried about you, yes.

Fear gripped at her heart and throat. Once Ian was convinced that the threat against her had passed, would he leave again? She wanted to beg him for reassurance that he wouldn’t depart again on his search, but pride stilled her voice. So did helplessness, as she recalled all too well that she didn’t have the power to bring him peace when it came to his past. If he insisted upon putting himself back on that path, he’d have to travel alone.

* * *

They gathered in the hall later that morning to say good-bye to Lucien and Elise, waiting for Peter to come around with the car. Elise and Lucien’s departure only seemed to amplify Ian’s black mood, signifying the culmination of something he didn’t want to end. When he recognized his thoughts, he determinedly asked Lucien for a word before he left. He drew him into the alcove behind the stairs.

“Do you still plan to meet me at Aurore?” Ian asked his brother in a hushed tone.

Lucien’s stoic expression barely stirred. “You still plan to go? Even after everything with Francesca?”

Ian realized Lucien was being delicate. He wasn’t just referring to Brodsik and Stern’s intent to harm or kidnap Francesca. He was talking about the fact that Francesca and he were clearly lovers again.

“Yes. I have to go back. I have to know as much about Trevor Gaines as I can.”

Lucien didn’t reply for a moment. Finally, he exhaled. “Yes. All right. I’m not sure it’s for the best where you’re concerned, but I won’t leave you alone to deal with this. And it’s not as if I’m not curious as well. Just contact me when you’re ready, and I’ll come.”

Lucien started to depart.

“Wait. There’s one other thing. It’s about your mother,” Ian said when Lucien paused. Lucien’s eyes closed briefly.

“What is it?” Ian asked, noticing Lucien’s reaction.

Lucien opened his eyes with a resigned air. “It’s nothing. I was just waiting for you to ask ever since you arrived at Belford Hall. I was shocked when you didn’t ask me straightaway.”

Ian’s pulse began to throb at his throat, although he remained outwardly calm. “I felt guilty about asking. I know you’ve just recently met Fatima,” he said, referring to Lucien’s mother. “I realize how discovering she’s alive and forming a relationship must be very sacred for you.”

Lucien met his stare. “You want to speak with her, don’t you? Ask her about your mother? About Trevor Gaines?”

“Yes,” Ian said honestly. “I do. I won’t without your permission, though. You wouldn’t have spoken to my mother about her past—about a vulnerable time in her life—without my permission, and I wouldn’t speak to your mother without your agreement.”

Lucien looked away. “What you have to understand,” he said quietly. “Is that my mother’s religion is highly prohibitive at the concept of a woman taking a lover outside of marriage, let alone having a child out of wedlock. Her family is a rarity for continuing to accept her even when she told them the truth about me. It wasn’t an easy thing for her to open up and talk about my origins. Her shame is palpable. It’s very difficult to witness her guilt.”

Ian’s heart paused in his chest. “You mean you’ve already spoken with her?” he rasped. “About Trevor Gaines? About my mother?”

Lucien looked at him with the gray eyes he’d inherited from Trevor Gaines, yet the degree of compassion he saw in his gaze was nothing that Gaines could have ever begun to pass on to his child.

“Yes,” Lucien said.

“What did she say? Did Gaines force her into being with him?”

“No,” Lucien replied starkly. “My mother is under the impression that everything Gaines did in regard to moving Helen and her to France was for her—Fatima. She was duped into believing he loved her while they were still in Britain. She’d caught his eye while he’d been visiting Helen, and then he accidentally ran into her while she was marketing in the town. He wooed her carefully. My mother was charmed by him—a handsome, accomplished, wealthy man. Their love affair was carried out clandestinely and lasted several months before he disappeared from her life.”

Ian absorbed all of this, picturing the scene of seduction in the tiny town in Essex, Gaines wooing both women at once, the mad gentlewoman and her servant. But not just wooing. Gathering information about them of an intimate nature, their likes and dislikes, gauging their vulnerabilities, ascertaining their cycles. By now, Ian understood that Gaines’s fascination with mechanical things, especially clockworks, bizarrely paralleled this obsession he had with women’s reproductive cycles. He must have realized early on that the cycles of women who lived together often synchronized. Ian had a sick feeling it excited him, being in the know of such feminine intimacies, using that knowledge for his perverse aims.

“Did Fatima realize that Gaines was seeing my mother during the same time period?”

“No. As a matter of fact, Fatima had the distinct impression that Helen didn’t care for Gaines. She assumed it was because of her increasing illness. Helen could be very withdrawn at times.” Lucien’s stare turned fierce. “And I don’t want my mother to know until I have the chance to tell her. At this point, my mother is under the impression she was taken advantage of by a philanderer. If anyone has to reveal to her that Gaines was much, much worse than that, it will be me.”

“Fine,” Ian said distractedly, fixated as he was on what Lucien had said earlier. “But what did your mother say about my mother? Lucien?” he prompted roughly. Lucien still hesitated, but then seemed to come to a decision when he met Ian’s gaze.

“My mother said that when they went to France, your mother decompensated considerably,” he said quietly. “Helen used to be functional enough that my mother could leave her alone for an hour or two at a time. Your mother could see to her own basic needs, and she didn’t pose a threat to herself. One morning, my mother returned from a shopping errand in the town where you grew up in France, only to find Helen missing. She searched, growing increasingly frantic. She eventually found your mother in the backyard in what sounds like a near-catatonic state, curled up in a ball, unresponsive. Helen was unable to speak, walk, or recognize familiar faces. My mother called the local doctor and the police. They undertook an investigation. It was determined Helen had recently had sexual intercourse, and there were some bruises on her body. But they were hesitant to call what had occurred rape. Helen was unable to testify as to what had happened, and she’d been occasionally witnessed in . . . erratic behavior by the townspeople since arriving. She might have gotten the bruises from falls, or even taken part in consensual rough sex—”

“How is a psychotic woman able to give informed consent?” Ian interrupted furiously.

“I’m just telling you the police’s thinking,” Lucien said, his gray eyes making Ian clamp his mouth shut. “No charge was ever officially made.”