The Tutor (House of Lords)

by Brooke, Meg

  Cynthia entered the study on silent feet and crouched behind the desk. She pulled out the top left drawer and laid it carefully on the carpet. Below the space where the drawer had been there was a smooth, flat panel that stretched back the whole length of the desk, and on the frame were six metal tumblers.

  It had taken Cynthia two books on locksmithing and the better part of six months to figure out the combination in moments snatched when the house was empty. Now she studied the tumblers, memorizing the numbers that had been left facing up—he always changed them, and she was sure he remembered which digits had been showing when he left. Only when she had the numbers to which she would have to return the tumblers committed to memory did she turn them one by one until she had the combination. Then she pressed her palm down atop all the dials at the same time. There was a pop, and the flat panel lifted, revealing a shallow space beneath. There were only two things in the little safe: a thin, battered folio made of brown leather, and a smaller diary.

  Cynthia lifted the folio out, untied the leather straps, and opened it on her lap, staring down at the pages she had long ago memorized.

  These were her father’s notes on the great experiment. The small diary was a fake, a substitute for the diary that had belonged to Jonah Martin, which she had carefully recreated over the course of a year before giving the original to Clarissa, Jonah’s adopted daughter, the other subject of the great experiment.

  This folio, however, was too unique for her to forge. There were drawings and sketches that had her father’s individual flourish. There was sideways writing that danced up the margins of the pages. And, stamped at the bottom corner of each page, there was an embossed seal that had been made with a tool Cynthia had still not been able to find. There was no chance of removing the folio long enough to create a convincing facsimile, and anyway she did not possess the skill necessary to do it.

  Instead, she snuck into her father’s study every once in a while and paged through the folio to remind herself of her resolve. She had never needed that reminder more than she did now.

  Kneeling there on the carpet, she turned the pages slowly, allowing the words to wash over her. Subject is a female infant; pale skin, reddish hair, green eyes. I must make a note to have her de-loused, she read on the first page. A few pages later there were notes about her first steps, her first words, all in clinical, detached detail. He had documented every book she read, every lesson she learned, every mistake she made. He had measured her growth but had never reacted to it until a single note, just after her tenth birthday. She is becoming attractive. I will have to explore the possibilities this development offers.

  Shortly after that entry, Roger Endersby and Jonah Martin had had a colossal argument, which had ended with Martin deciding to discontinue the experiment. He had refused to do as Cynthia’s father wanted, to train his daughter to be a weapon for conquering London society and the political sphere. In the pages that documented the months after the break, her father railed against Martin, calling him a fool and a waste of time and effort, lamenting the loss of political capital that might be gained through Clarissa Martin. In later years, Roger Endersby had done everything he could to undercut his onetime friend’s political career, though he had failed miserably. With his daughter at his side, Jonah Martin had become one of the most respected members of the House of Commons. She had worked by his side until the day of his death two years ago. And because he had taught her to pursue what made her happy, rather than what made her powerful, his daughter had found a life that contented her, that satisfied her.

  For Cynthia, the consequences of the great experiment had been far different. If the folio revealed one thing, it was that her father considered her to be his property, to do with as he pleased. He might have set out to raise a liberated, enlightened woman, but what he had really wanted was a slave, trained animal that walked and talked and did exactly as he wished. When Cynthia had created the fake diary, she had read Martin’s agonized thoughts about the great mistake he believed he had made. He had said, It is no different, really, to say that one owns one’s children than to say one owns one’s slaves. Clarissa will be free—truly free. I will not govern the course of her life, and neither will any other man.

  Cynthia had wept when she read those words. Her father had envied Martin, had been jealous of his political career, something which he might never have because he had stepped on too many toes at Oxford, and so he had decided to make her the perfect tool to take him to the apex of power he sought. Cynthia had vowed to ensure that he never got that power.

  If Charles were any other man, it might have been different. But he was a duke. If she married him, she would be giving her father exactly what he wanted. If she allowed herself to love him, she would be risking her own heart to satisfy the man she hated more than any other creature on earth.

  She could not lose sight of that truth, she told herself. She could not forget that to love was to lose the last piece of her dignity she had left.

  Charles stumbled out of bed early enough to go for a ride on Rotten Row before going to Spitzer’s. The chill morning air cleared the bleariness from his mind as he trotted towards Hyde Park. As he passed through Knightsbridge, someone called his name. He turned and saw Leo riding towards him and slowed his horse so the other man could catch up. “Heading for Rotten Row?” Leo asked.

  Charles nodded. “And then to Spitzer’s. Care to join me?”

  Leo laughed. “At Spitzer’s? The last time I had a lesson there I was sore for a week. No, I’m for a ride and then back to Sidney House.”

  “All right,” Charles agreed.

  They rode for a while in silence, but as they neared Hyde Park, Leo said, “About last night, Charles—”

  “Don’t trouble yourself, Leo. We both made asses of ourselves, I think. Let’s leave it in the past.”

  “Agreed. But I wanted to say that I—what I wanted you to know was that, when I went to see Miss Endersby, I proposed to her.”

  “You what?”

  “Proposed,” Leo said, not meeting his eyes. “I was worried that you wouldn’t, Charles. I was being noble, I’m afraid.”

  “What did she say?”

  “No, obviously. You did ask her, didn’t you, Charles?”

  Charles nodded. “She refused me as well.”

  “I assumed as much, otherwise you would have been wed already, I think.”

  “I’ll be procuring a special license the moment she accepts me,” Charles said.

  “What does your mother say?” Leo asked, the mischievous glint Charles knew of old twinkling in his eye.

  “She doesn’t know,” Charles replied. “At least, I haven’t told her. Gillian can’t keep a secret, so if she’s written to Mother then it’s entirely possibly she’s storming down from Suffolk as we speak.”

  Chuckling, Leo asked, “Are you going to Lady Bathurst’s ball tonight?”

  Charles shrugged. “I’d have to ask Imogen. I would imagine so.”

  “Good. There are a few members I’d like you to meet there, after you’ve danced with your sister and Miss Endersby, of course.”

  “I’ll dance with your sisters, too, if you like.”

  Leo smiled. “Of course. But don’t forget, now you’re a member of Parliament, there’s more to balls than dancing and flirting with pretty young women.”

  “Indeed,” Charles said.

  He didn’t ride home from Spitzer’s until after one, and when he arrived it was to discover that Imogen and Gillian were at the modiste for the afternoon. Good. It meant that he wouldn’t have to dissect Cynthia’s every move the previous evening with them, or listen to a preview of that evening’s ball. It also opened up the possibility of giving Cynthia a tour of Danforth House—or, more specifically, the ducal bedchamber.

  But when she arrived, he took one look at her face and realized that the pleasurable afternoon he had planned would be more difficult to bring about than he had thought. She swept into the library, the other Cynthia’s
face greeting him with a perfectly composed smile. “I’ve brought the last two years’ Hansards,” she said, dropping the two huge volumes she carried on the table. “Shall we begin with 1832?”

  “It’s a pleasure to see you, too,” Charles said, crossing the room and pressing a quick kiss to the corner of her mouth. He put one hand on her waist and said softly, “Did you enjoy yourself last night?”

  She frowned. “Perhaps we shouldn’t talk about last night,” she said. “At least, not here.” She looked around the dark-paneled library with its walls of books.

  “You’re right,” he said. Then, before he could think about whether it was a good idea or not, he scooped up the books, grabbed her wrist, and pulled her out of the library and down the hall to the grand ducal bedchamber. When he had closed the doors and locked them he said, “Is this a more appropriate venue for such a discussion?”

  She glared at him. “You know that’s not what I meant,” she said.

  He dropped the books on the floor and crossed the room, taking her roughly by the waist and kissing her hard, leaving her no room to retreat. Instead, she stiffened in his arms, firm and unyielding. He released her, fists clenching. “Who are you?” he demanded. “Where is my Cynthia?”

  “Your Cynthia?” she cried. “I wasn’t aware that you owned any part of me, Your Grace.”

  He flinched at that. “We’re back to ‘Your Grace’, are we?”

  “Given the circumstances, I think it would be best,” she said.

  “And what circumstances are those? Will they change when the other Cynthia, the one I love, comes back?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t understand what you mean.” Her voice was beginning to tremble.

  He began to pace. “It seems as though I’m courting two different women. There’s the Cynthia from last night, the sweet, open, perfect woman I love, the woman who took pity on that poor child in Pall Mall, and then there’s this Cynthia, the one who hides behind a mask and never puts a toe out of line. I don’t particularly like this Cynthia. I’d like the other one back, if you please.”

  “And if she never comes back?” Cynthia asked softly.

  He stopped pacing and stared at her. Then he began walking towards her, very slowly. “Then I may have to take matters into my own hands,” he said. He put his hands on her waist and pulled her towards him. His lips brushed against her forehead.

  “I feel as though I’m going mad,” she whispered. “It’s like the father in Tristram Shandy, winding his clock.” Her hands were shaking as she gripped his lapels. “Every time I think I’ve conquered, that I can go out into society and just be me, the fear takes over. The society belle—that’s what I call her—is the only way I can do it, the only way I can pass among them.”

  “You don’t need her,” he said. He spread his palms against her back and rubbed in slow circles. She leaned her head against his shoulder. “You are perfect just the way you are. This Cynthia, the vulnerable, real woman, is the one I love.”

  Against his chest, she said, “That’s the third time you’ve said that.”

  “I’ll say it again,” he said, no longer afraid to reveal his feelings. “I love you. I think I’ve loved you since the moment you called me stupid.”

  She turned her face up to his. “Thank you, Charles,” she said. Then she went up on her toes and kissed him. Her fingers left his lapels and slid up into his hair, and her tongue slid against his lips. He opened his mouth to her, and his hands drifted lower, cupping her and lifting her against the hardness of his erection. She moaned against his mouth. He reached back up and began undoing her laces. When he had them loose he shrugged out of his coat. Then he helped her slip out of her gown. She did not wear a corset, and he could see the dark circles of her nipples through her chemise. He reached for the tie of her petticoats but before he could undo it she dropped to her knees and pulled off first one of his boots and then the other, and then reached for the buttons of his trousers. The sight of her kneeling before him with her petticoats spread around her made him even harder. When she had pulled off his trousers and his smalls and studied the length of him, pursing her lips a little, her delicate fingers gliding up the outsides of his thighs. It was agony. The she lifted one finger and slid it along his length. “Cynthia,” he groaned, “what do you mean to do?”

  “Don’t ask questions,” she said, “just feel.”

  Then her tongue followed the path her finger had traced from the base of his shaft to the tip. When she took him in her mouth he almost collapsed from the pleasure coursing through his whole body. She sucked gently and then moved her mouth up and down, making him shudder with delight. “Oh, God,” he muttered.

  She withdrew. “Doesn’t it feel good?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said, “but if you don’t stop now we’ll never make it to the bed, and I have been wanting to take you in it for days.”

  “Well, then,” she said, and she stood, her fingers finding the buttons of his waistcoat and then his cravat. He leaned down and slid one strap of her chemise from her shoulder, kissing the smooth skin there as he did. Then the other strap fell, and he untied her petticoats as she pushed his shirt from his shoulders. When they were both naked he put his hands on her waist and lifted her, helping her wrap her legs around him, and ravaged her mouth as he carried her to the bed. They fell together onto the coverlet. He lifted one of her legs and braced it on his shoulder as he thrust into her. She gasped. “I didn’t know you could—oh, Charles, that feels so—”

  “Good,” he finished for her. Then he buried himself inside her, and she matched his rhythm, rocking beneath him. She bit her lip. “It’s all right,” he said, “you can scream if you like.”

  She did. She called out his name and put her hands on his chest. He felt her climax and then he joined her, pumping into her until he was completely spent. Then he collapsed on top of her.

  After a moment he withdrew and lay beside her, propping himself up on one elbow, the other hand splayed across her stomach. “I think,” he whispered, pressing his lips to her shoulder, “you are at your most beautiful at this very moment.”

  “Mmm,” she said. “We never looked at those Hansards.”

  With a groan he forced himself up out of bed. The books were still waiting where he had dropped them by the door. He scooped them up and brought them over to the bed.

  She laughed and opened the first, spreading it across the sheets. “All right,” she said, “Let’s begin with the king’s speech.”

  SIXTEEN

  He had said he loved her. Three times. Cynthia mulled over that fact in the carriage on the way home, not forgetting, of course, that she hadn’t said it back.

  Did she love him?

  Perhaps she did. She had only ever loved one person in her life, and though she was very attached to Clarissa, she was certain that falling in love was quite a different thing from the sisterly affection they shared.

  But she would not know if she loved him, or if he truly loved her, until she had told him the truth about herself. She had meant to this afternoon, had gone to Danforth House grimly determined to reveal her secret and accept the consequences. But he had seen through her again, had recognized the mask she wore and stripped it away. There was no hiding from him.

  It was Lady Bathurst’s ball that evening. Afterwards, she would ask him to come to her again and she would tell him. Then their liaison would be over. But she would always have her memories of the pleasure they had shared. She was not a bit sorry that she had given herself to him.

  But it would make it harder to watch him walk away from her tonight.

  The carriage arrived at Cavendish Square. Cynthia allowed the footman to hand her out, glancing down the street as she did so. The man was there again, this time walking down the street from the corner as though heading for an appointment. He pulled out his pocket-watch as he neared her and then crossed the street as if he was in haste. But as he did, Cynthia caught a glimpse of his left ear with its missing lobe.
>
  It was him.

  “Oh, Miss,” a voice said. Cynthia turned, forgetting about the man, and saw Annabeth, the little girl from Pall Mall, hiding next to the stairs leading up to the front door.

  “Annabeth!” Cynthia cried. The girl was every bit as grimy and poorly clothed as she had been the day before, but she appeared a little more confident when she saw Cynthia.

  “I’ve been watching him, Miss, watching you. I got here an hour ago and he’s been here the last ten minutes or so,” Annabeth said, nodding in the direction the man had gone. “Don’t like that one. He’s shifty.”

  Cynthia was no longer worried about the man. When she had pressed her card into Annabeth’s hand she had never imagined that the child would seek her out, though she had hoped for it, of course. “Come into the house,” she said now. “Come and have something to eat.”

  Annabeth looked horrified. “Oh, no, Miss, I couldn’t. I just came to…I came because I didn’t say thank you, yesterday. For everything.”

  Cynthia smiled. “You’re very welcome, Annabeth.”

  “No one’s ever tried to help me before, not without trying to make me go to the workhouse,” the girl went on.

  “Are you sure you won’t come in?” She couldn’t very well force the child into the house, she knew. But the girl looked so desperately hungry. “I’ll tell you what. Come around to the back door. I’ll have Cook put together a bundle for you.”

  Annabeth grinned. She had white, even teeth. She had not always been poor, Cynthia thought, or at least not quite as desperately poor as she appeared now. Perhaps if she could gain the child’s trust she could get her to share her story. But it would do no good to frighten her or try to force her to do something she didn’t want to do.

  The idea of a bundle of food seemed to be too much to refuse, however. Annabeth smiled. “All right, Miss,” she said.