Her Own Rules/Dangerous to Know (37 page)

C
HAPTER
F
IFTEEN

“T
here was another woman,” I said, staring across the dinner table at Catherine.

She stared back at me and then said, with a light, amused smile, “I'm sure there were lots of women before me, Jack. Quite aside from your two wives. I wouldn't expect it to be otherwise. You're a very attractive man.”

“No. No. I'm talking about Sebastian. There was another woman in his life. Just before he died. A new woman,” I explained. “I knew nothing about her. No one did. But he told Viv. The day they had lunch. That fateful week he killed himself. He told Viv he was planning to marry her.”

“Who was she?” asked Catherine, looking at me alertly.

I shrugged. “No idea. Viv never asked her name. He never gave it. Just said she was a doctor. Viv mentioned it this morning. On the phone. Not before. Don't know why she didn't. I forgot to tell you.”

“Presumably he was happy then. How odd that he took his life when he did.”

“That's what Viv thinks.”

“On the other hand, the nameless woman could have terminated their relationship,” Catherine remarked.

I smiled at her. “That's what
I
think.”

“What did Vivienne say?”

“That he wouldn't have taken such a drastic step over a failed love affair.”

Catherine seemed to mull this over before saying, “Well, I tend to agree with Vivienne.”

“But you didn't know him,” I protested.

“No, not personally, and you haven't told me much about him. Only odd snippets. But I was quite aware of him long before I met you, Jack,” she pointed out. “All the money he gave away to charity. Those huge donations to Bosnia last year.
Everyone
was aware of him. And naturally I'd read a lot about him. A great deal of space was devoted to him in the press.” She paused to take a sip of her red wine. “He had half a dozen wives, didn't he?”

“Five.”

“Same thing, more or less. He was rich, handsome, famous, so he had a lot going for him. He was sophisticated, I assume? Worldly?”

“Very.”

Catherine nodded her head. “I think Vivienne's right. He wouldn't kill himself over a woman. He was too experienced. Anyway, I'm quite sure he could have had any woman he wanted.”

“True. Women were mesmerized by him. He and I didn't get on. I've told you that. But I've got to give the devil his due. He was a magnet to women. They fell over themselves. To meet him. Fell at his feet. He didn't encourage that. He was very off-hand with women. But he had
it.
Presence. Charisma. Glamour. Sex appeal. And a fatal charm. Look, he was lethal. As a man. And unpredictable. Even a little crazy, in some ways.”

“Mad, bad, and dangerous to know,” Catherine mused.

“That about sums it up. You've got a good turn of phrase, sweetheart.”

“Oh, it's not
my
phrase, Jack. Another woman said it long before I was born. In the early part of the nineteenth century, to be exact.”

“Who?”

“Lady Caroline Lamb. She wrote it in her diary, the first time she met Lord Byron, the poet. What she meant, of course, was that Byron was
emotionally
dangerous. He was already something of a legend in London. Great fame had come to him early, after
Childe Harold
was published in 1812. Women schemed to meet him, squabbled over him. Although he was more chased than the chaser. Later Lady Caroline Lamb completed the phrase when she added, ‘That beautiful pale face is my fate.' When she met Byron he had acquired a reputation in the London social world. A reputation for being dangerous and irresistible. Legend and rumor played a big part in all of this, of course. They can be very potent stimulants.”

“Mad, bad, and dangerous to know,” I repeated. “Yes, that fits Sebastian to a T.”

“And no one knew about Sebastian's most recent conquest?” Catherine asked.

“I don't think so. I didn't. Neither did Luciana. She would've told me. Curious that he kept it a secret.”

Catherine merely nodded, said nothing.

There was a little silence between us.

Eventually I said, “Do you believe in good genes and bad genes?”

“I'm not sure.” Catherine raised a brow. “What are you getting at?”

“Could the compulsion to commit suicide be
genetic?”

“I just don't know. Why do you ask?”

“Sebastian's half sister Glenda killed herself years ago. His half brother Malcolm did the same, in my opinion. He was in a boating accident on Lake Como. Supposedly an accident. It wasn't, I'm sure. Aunt Fiona, Sebastian's other half sister, became a drug addict. Disappeared. Years ago. She could be alive. Most probably dead though.
Bad genes?”

“I simply can't answer that, Jack. But how awful, how terribly tragic.”

“Yeah. I'm the last. The last of the Mohicans.”

Her brow lifted again. Her expression was quizzical.

I grinned. “I'm the last male of the dynasty. Unless I spawn an offspring. Which is unlikely. And Luciana won't ever have kids.”

After a moment of looking thoughtful, Catherine asked, “Don't you find that sad, Jack?”

“What?”

“That you're the last of a great American family.”

“Not particularly. And I don't think any of them were that great. Least of all Cyrus and Sebastian.”

“Why do you hate
them
so much?”

“Do I?”

“That's the way it's sounded to me, whenever you've spoken about them these few months I've known you.”

“Sebastian was never a father to me. He was incapable of it. Incapable of loving me. Or anyone else,” I replied and realized my voice sounded shrill.

“Vivienne says he loved
her”

“She
likes to think that! But he
didn't
He was nice to her. Nicer than he was to the other wives. But he didn't love her. He couldn't. It wasn't in him. Oh, yeah, he gave lip service to it. But it
was
only that. Trust me.”

“Why couldn't Sebastian love anybody?”

“How the hell do I know” I swigged some of my wine, lolled back in the chair. “Something missing in his genes?”

She ignored my question, asked one of her own instead. “What sort of childhood did your father have?”

“God only knows. Awful, I suspect. His mother died giving birth to him. Cyrus brought him up. With a nanny. Then Cyrus remarried. He once told me his nanny
and
his stepmother were hard women.”

“It could be disassociation,” Catherine muttered, almost to herself.

“What does that mean?” I leaned over the table, my interest quickening.

“It's a psychiatric term. Let me try and put it very simply, as best I can, the way it was once described to me. When a child receives no love, no nurturing at birth and in the very first years of life, that child usually grows up removed from association with others. Thus, the child cannot love because it has not been loved. It doesn't know
how
to love anyone. You'd have to talk to a psychiatrist to get a proper medical explanation of it in detail. But in my opinion, disassociation could very well be the explanation for your father's behavior, his inability to love, if this was the case.”

“It was. Take my word for it,” I said.

C
HAPTER
S
IXTEEN

C
atherine and I lay together in my great four-poster bed, sipping cognac.

I was enjoying the closeness, the intimacy. Earlier, I had turned off the lamps. The only light came from the fire burning in the hearth. It filled the room with a warm glow. The intermittent crackling of the logs was the only sound. Except for the faint ticking of the clock on the mantel. It was peaceful here.

I was relaxed. At ease with myself. I frequently was when I was alone with Catherine. I was glad I had found her. Glad she was here at the château.

She had lived with another man once. Years ago. She'd told me all about him. It hadn't worked out. Not in the end. When we met in Paris there was no one of importance in her life. That was lucky for me. We were well suited. I liked her braininess. The way her mind worked intrigued me. I couldn't stand dumb women. I'd known a few of those. Too many.

I closed my eyes. Drifting. Thinking. Mostly about Catherine. There was never any pressure with her. Or from her. She allowed me to be me. To be Jack. To her I was her friend. Her lover. I was not the son of the famous Sebastian Locke. I was not John Lyon Locke, the last of the line in a great American family, head of Locke Industries and the Locke Foundation. She did not know that side of me. Nor did she care about it.

Catherine often heard me on the phone with the president of Locke Industries. And with those others who ran the company for me. As they had done for my father. Sometimes I spoke to my assistants at the foundation in front of her. But she paid scant attention to my phone calls. Neither was she curious about my other business interests.

Fortunately she loved the château and the winery. This pleased me. I had started to share my thoughts with her about the wine business. She always listened attentively. She understood my love of the land. My land, my vineyards.

Another aspect of her character was her lack of interest in my wealth. Catherine seemed to be as disdainful of money as Sebastian had been. Material things did not matter to her. This did not trouble me. I only wished she would let me spoil her. Give her gifts occasionally But she found it hard to accept things from me. Unless it was a book. Or something else that was inexpensive.

She interrupted my thoughts of her when she said softly, touching my shoulder, “Jack, are you asleep?”

“No. Only dozing. Well, half-dozing.”

“I've just thought of something.”

“What?”

“Did the mysterious woman in your father's life show up at his funeral?”

“No.”

“I wonder why not? Don't you think that's peculiar?”

“Not really” I answered. “The funeral was small. A family affair. In Cornwall, Connecticut. It was strictly private. Verboten to anybody not close. Or closely connected to him.”

“I see. I'll tell you something, though. If I were in love with a man and engaged to be married to him, and if that man died unexpectedly, I'd be in touch with his family immediately,” she exclaimed. “Even if I hadn't met them, even if they didn't know about my existence. I would want to be with them, to share my grief. And I would certainly want to be at his funeral.” Catherine paused, bit her lip. “It's strange, Jack, it really is when you think about it. I mean, that she hasn't been in touch with you or Luciana, if only to express her sympathy, give you her condolences.”

“She hasn't,” I said. “But she could have been at the memorial service for all I know. Hundreds of people were. It was held at the Church of St. John the Divine in Manhattan. Since a public announcement had been made, the world at large knew about it. And came.”

Catherine sighed. “And because you never met her, you wouldn't have known whether she was present or not.”

“Precisely.”

“Do you mind if I ask you something else? Something a little more personal?”

“Shoot.”

“Had your father changed his will?”

“No. Why?”

“I just wondered. Often people who are about to commit suicide put their affairs in order.”

“His affairs
were
in order, Catherine. Already had been for years. He was made that way. Mr. Efficiency. That was Sebastian.”

“No legacy left to a woman you'd never heard of?”

“No. His will was made three years ago. Nothing was changed in it. If there
had
been a legacy to a person I didn't know, I'd have made it my business to find out about her.”

“Yes, of course you would, darling. I'm beginning to realize these are stupid questions. I can be such an imbecile at times. Oh dear.”

She fell silent.

So did I.

She moved her head and the firelight danced in her long hair, turned it into a shimmering cascade of flame around her pale face. She moved again, turned her head the other way, exposed a long white neck. Catherine had a swanlike neck, as Antoinette Delaney had had.

In a rush of words, I said, “You've often reminded me of someone, of my Special Lady, but never more so than you do tonight, Catherine. It's uncanny.”

“Your Special Lady? Who's that?” This was asked softly, but I noticed that her face had tightened.

“Her name was Antoinette Delaney. She was Vivienne's mother. I loved her from the first moment she came into my life. When I was six. She was like a mother to me. Kind, warm, adoring.”

“And I remind you of her?” she asked, sounding slightly incredulous. “Am I motherly?”

I laughed. “She was very beautiful. Like you. You have her coloring. The same red hair, white skin, green eyes. She was as tall as you are. As willowy and graceful.”

Catherine smiled.

I said, “I've not told you this before . . . but my own mother died when I was two. Of bone-marrow cancer. Sebastian married Christa about two years later. They had Luciana together. But Christa was an alcoholic. Sebastian put her in a clinic. To dry out. She never came back to live with us. He didn't want her around us. Or anywhere near him. I think he despised her.”

“So Antoinette was a friend of your father's? Or was she his lover?”

“Yes, his mistress. We were together for six years. All of us. In Connecticut and here at the château. They were wonderful years. Whatever I am today, she helped to make me. Any good there is in me comes from her. From her influence. And her love.”

“That's such a lovely thing to say. So touching. And she must have been quite unique. No wonder you call her your Special Lady. But why was she only with you for six years?”

“She died.”

“Oh Jack, I'm sorry. How tragic. She can't have been very old. What did she die of?”

“She had an accident. At least everyone said it was an accident. She fell down the basement steps at Sebastian's farm. She died instantly. She broke her neck.”

“Why do you say,
everyone said it was an accident
in that peculiar tone of voice, as if you don't think it was?” Catherine's eyes fastened on mine.

I didn't respond. I looked away.

“Do you think she was murdered?”

“I've never known what to think,” I said at last, turning to her. “It seems odd that she was going into the basement. In the early hours of the morning. And if she was pushed, who could've done it? Who would've wanted to anyway? Sebastian was in Manhattan. On business. Aldred was at the farm. He was my father's major domo. We were there. Luciana and me. And her nanny. And the housekeeper. Sebastian arrived at about seven. From New York. He said he'd come up early to go riding with Antoinette. But I've often wondered about that.”

“Are you suggesting that Sebastian pushed her?”

“I don't know.” I'd never confided this to anyone else before. I took a deep breath. Then I plunged. “He might have,” I muttered.

“But why?”

“I don't know.”

Catherine shook her head slowly. “Shades of Amy Robsart.”

“Who's Amy Robsart?” I asked.

“She was married to Lord Robert Dudley, and on September the eighth in the year 1560 her body was found at the foot of the staircase in Cumnor Hall, where she was then living. Her death caused a terrible flurry at the time, became something of a cause célèbre, and in fact, it rocked the whole of England. You see, Robert Dudley was the closest friend of Queen Elizabeth the First. They were actually childhood friends. He was her dearest and most beloved companion. Never far from her sight. After she became Queen of England she bestowed many honors on him. He had a very high rank at court, and he was her Master of the Horse—”

“And rumored to be the Queen's lover. If I remember my British history correctly,” I volunteered.

Catherine nodded. “That's right. Amy's death was a mystery, and some people tried to implicate Robert Dudley. Even the Queen was under suspicion briefly. But since he was at court with Queen Elizabeth he couldn't have pushed her himself.”

“But he might have hired someone to push her . . . is that what you're getting at?”

“More or less. Certainly the stakes were high enough.”

“In what sense?”

“With his wife's death, Robert Dudley was a free man . . . free to marry Queen Elizabeth.”

“Would that have been possible?”

“Constitutionally, yes. And she did love him. Just as he loved her. But Elizabeth Tudor didn't want to marry anyone. Not really She didn't want to share her power. In any case, I don't think he was involved or implicated in his wife's death. Neither was the Queen. She was far too smart to be a party to that kind of thing. As you know, I earned a doctorate in English history. What you don't know is that I specialized in the Tudor period. It's my forte. And in my opinion, Amy Robsart Dudley killed herself. I've actually written about this.”

“And she did it because of her husband's involvement with the Queen?”

“No. Amy was known to have cancer of the breast. She was ill, and she may have grown despondent. Anyway, that's my considered opinion. She did herself in by throwing herself down the stairs.”

“Antoinette wasn't ill,” I remarked, thinking out loud. “The autopsy would have brought that to light. If she had been. So I suppose her death
was
an accident.”

“I think it must have been. I didn't know your father, but I doubt very much that he would commit such a crime. Or hire someone to do it for him. Why would he? What motive did he have? He wasn't married to Antoinette. If he'd wanted to break up with her, he could have done so easily enough. He could have left her. It's as simple as that. He didn't have to resort to murder.”

“I guess you're right.”

Catherine moved closer to me, put her arms around me, and held me tightly. “Don't let something like this haunt you, as I believe it has been doing for years and years.”

“Off and on,” I admitted.

After a moment Catherine got out of bed and went into the bathroom.

I lay there thinking about my father. I wished she had not brought him up. Certainly not tonight. Not now. The discussion had been going on half the day. Ever since Vivienne's phone call this morning.

I groaned under my breath. I was sick of it all. And I was relieved Vivienne was going to New York later this week. When she was pounding someone else about Sebastian Locke she was leaving me alone. Vivienne maddened me at times.

Catherine came back, gliding across the floor. She got into bed, curling up against me, kissing me lightly on the cheek.

“You don't want this, do you, darling?” she asked as she took the brandy balloon out of my hands and put it on her bedside table.

“Well,” I began, but she stopped the flow of words with her lips.

She began to kiss me, lightly at first, but then the kisses became hot, fervent, passionate. Her tongue grazed mine as she slid it into my mouth. I kissed her hard, wrapping my arms around her body, pulling her on top of me as I did.

We stayed locked together for several moments. Then I broke away, cupped a hand under one of her breasts, and brought my mouth down to the nipple. I heard the soft groan in the back of her throat as I kissed her breast.

Eventually Catherine pulled away and trailed her mouth across my chest and onto my stomach. Then she slithered down in the bed. She crouched over me, touching me everywhere. Caressing the most vulnerable parts of me. I heard my own groans as she began to make love to me. She was a versatile lover. The most imaginative I'd known. Mindless fucking was not her style. Thankfully.

Her long hair trailed across my thighs and her mouth was suddenly on me, encircling me. I closed my eyes. Her warmth and softness enveloped me. Usually I became a potent lover within seconds, whenever she did this. Tonight nothing happened. I remained flaccid.

The foreplay was going on far too long. I soon began to realize that. She was growing tired. Suddenly, mortified and angry with myself, I stopped her ministrations. Gently I pushed her away.

Catherine was startled. She gaped at me.

“Be back in a minute,” I muttered and stumbled into the bathroom.

I locked the door and leaned against it.

I was breathing hard. That awful, familiar sick feeling was engulfing me. I knew it well. For a moment I thought I was going to vomit. Bring back the brandy. I felt nauseated, dizzy. I steadied myself. The feeling finally passed as I stood there in the darkened bathroom, gripping the door jamb.

I was impotent.
Again.
So far, until tonight, it had only happened twice with Catherine. At the beginning of our relationship. But not since. I had begun to believe that my problem had been cured. Apparendy not. “Merde,” I whispered. I snapped my eyes shut. “Merde,” I said again.

Eventually the panic subsided. I grew calmer inside. Switching on the light, I crossed the room. I splashed cold water on my face, dried it, stood staring at myself in the mirror.