Robin Schone

by The Lady's Tutor

  “We work at th’ school.” The man wearing the derby looked up and scowled. “What o’ it?”

  Ramiel sat down at the small wooden table. “I have a job for you.”

  “Now, see ’ere, I don’t mind makin’ an extra shillin’, but I ain’t gonna pimp fur no man.”

  A hardness settled inside Ramiel’s chest. “I assure you, my tastes run otherwise.” He scooted the two pints of ale across the rough, beer-stained table. “I merely wish you to keep an eye out for two young men. And to share any information you have about a certain fellowship.”

  “We be simple men—we don’t know nothin’ ye be wantin’ t’ know.”

  Ramiel smiled cynically as the man wearing the derby grabbed the ale. Ramiel reached inside his coat for a bag of coins, laid two half sovereigns onto the table before him. “Is either of you familiar with two students named Richard and Phillip Petre?”

  “Aye.” The groundsman wearing the wide-brimmed hat spoke up now. He raised his head; his rheumy eyes were shrewd. “Master Richard, he be studyin’ engineerin’, he says. Helped me build a walkin’ bridge, he did. He be a good boy, not like those others that pull up me flowers an’ shrubs for a lark.”

  Elizabeth had good reason to be proud of her elder son.

  “Master Phillip, aye, I knows ’im,” the man wearing the derby grunted. “ ’E poured me bucket o’ scrub water on th’ dormitory floor t’ ’elp me ‘swab th’ deck.’ ”

  Ramiel bit back a grin. And she had aptly called her youngest son a rascal.

  “I wouldn’ want nothin’ bad to happen to Master Richard,” the groundsman warned in a low voice.

  “Neither do I,” Ramiel rejoined evenly. “I want you to keep an eye on the two boys. Each morning and each evening a man will meet you in front of the chapel. He will wear a bollinger hat with an orange band. You will report to him.”

  “What’s in it fer us?” the cleaning man asked.

  “A half sovereign now, for each of you, and a crown apiece at the end of each week.”

  “Aye.” The groundsman again. “But what should we be reportin’?”

  Ramiel silently studied the two men, trying to determine how much they knew and how best to get them to talk. “The fellowship of Uranians,” he said bluntly.

  The groundsman lowered his head like a turtle pulling back in its shell.

  Bitter satisfaction coursed through Ramiel.

  So the fellowship still existed. And it still solicited young boys.

  “Don’t know what yur talkin’ about.” The man wearing the derby gulped warm ale, wiped his mouth with an unsteady hand.

  “Obviously, you do, or there would have been no reason for you to say you would not pimp for a man.”

  “Don’t know nothin’,” he repeated stubbornly.

  Shrugging, Ramiel reached for the two coins.

  “There be a don,” the groundsman muttered.

  Ramiel paused. “A don?”

  The groundsman slowly raised his head to half mast. “A teacher. I seen respectable-lookin’ gents, like you, meet the don in the gazebo some nights. The don takes ’em young boys. After that I see the gentlemen drivin’ up in their fancy carriages an’ takin’ the boys drivin’.”

  Ramiel held the groundsman’s gaze. “Have you ever seen Richard or Phillip Petre go to this gazebo with the don?”

  “Aye.” The answer grumbled reluctantly out of his throat. “Once. Saw Master Richard ‘bout a month ago. He ain’t come round t’ help me since.”

  Ramiel had expected the groundsman’s answer because of Elizabeth’s description of Richard’s recent “illness”; it did not make the truth any more palatable. “Did you see who the gent was that this don took Richard to meet?”

  “Didn’t see his face, no.”

  “Who is the don?”

  “Teaches Greek. Master Winthrop, he is.”

  Ramiel stood.

  “So what’re we s’pposed t’ say t’ this ’ere man wi’ th’ or’nge band on ’is ’at?” the man wearing the derby asked, eager for more money.

  “The names of ‘the gents.’ ” Ramiel’s voice sent a chill over the cleaning man.

  “Ain’t right, what’s goin’ on,” the groundsman said.

  “No.” Ramiel wondered what this would do to Elizabeth should she ever find out. “No, it’s not.”

  Outside the small pub, Ramiel gulped air free of London fog. Perhaps he would catch the “don” taking lunch as he had the two laborers.

  But he didn’t. The don, said the dean’s stooped-over secretary, was away until next week.

  Ramiel wanted to ask the secretary if Elizabeth Petre had yet called on her two sons but did not. He did not want her to find out about his visit. Indeed, by entering the main hall he risked bumping into her himself.

  Pulling his hat low over his ears and his scarf high around his chin, he exited the hall and entered the hack that waited outside.

  Richard was only fifteen. Another mark against Edward Petre.

  He fought the urge to go back to the school and take them all away, Elizabeth and her two sons. Instead, he boarded the train and closed his eyes and shut out the pain that he knew Richard must be going through.

  Ugly, Elizabeth had said of Petre’s attempt to kill her. He hoped that she never found out just exactly how ugly Edward Petre really was.

  It was too late to protect her elder son, but perhaps, when the time came, he could help him accept the deed and get on with his life. Just then he had to concentrate on how best to stop Edward Petre.

  The London station was smelly, loud, and hectic. He wondered what Elizabeth would think of the desert, of the clean white sand and the endless blue sky.

  Madame Tusseau was not happy when he walked into her shop and charmed more clothing for Elizabeth out of her. Anticipation filled him, walking up to the door of his Georgian home with his arms full of boxes.

  He wished he could have spent more time with Elizabeth that morning. She had been decidedly miffed when he had not pursued the subject of her bath.

  Ramiel imagined her skin, hot and sweaty with the smell of her passion commingling with the sweet aroma of orange blossoms.

  Without warning, the front door of the Georgian house swung open.

  An invisible fist slammed into Ramiel’s chest. Muhamed was supposed to be with Elizabeth, visiting her sons at Eton, not here. He would be here only if—

  “Where is Elizabeth?” he asked hoarsely.

  The Cornishman’s face was stoic. “The husband called.”

  Fear twisted in Ramiel’s stomach. “You did not admit him.”

  “I did.”

  Ramiel took the two stoop steps in one leap. Several boxes tumbled to the concrete. “Where is she?”

  Muhamed stared over Ramiel’s shoulder. “She is with the countess. In your bedchamber.”

  Relief knifed through Ramiel. She had not gone back to her husband. He moved to step around the Cornishman.

  Muhamed blocked his way. “The will of Allah will prevail, El Ibn. A life for a life. So it is written. I offer you my life for that of Mrs. Petre.”

  Elizabeth . . . dead.

  The remaining boxes in Ramiel’s arms went flying. His hand snaked out and grasped the neck of the Cornishman’s robe. “Explain.”

  Muhamed did not struggle to free himself. “I imperiled Mrs. Petre’s life; you may do as you will with mine.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Muhamed’s black eyes unflinchingly met Ramiel’s turquoise gaze. “She was poisoned.”

  Poisoned rolled over Ramiel in cold waves of horror. Shoving Muhamed back, he raced for the stairs, took them three at a time. When he reached his bedroom door, he flung it open. The door banged against the wall, almost slammed shut in his face. Only a lightning-quick boot stuck in the doorway prevented it.

  The countess had pulled up the crimson velvet armchair to the side of the four-poster. Dim light penetrated the closed drapes; her blond hair was silvery in the artif
icial twilight. At his entrance, her spine jerked upright. Relief spread over her features at sight of Ramiel.

  She raised a thin, elegant hand to her lips. “Shhh.”

  Ramiel ate up the distance between the door and his bed. His heart skipped a beat at the sight of Elizabeth. Her skin was whiter than the pillow; red and gold highlights flickered in her dark auburn hair, as if it had consumed the life that should animate her body. Dark shadows lined her closed eyes.

  “Do not fret, ibnee. She will be fine now.”

  “How?” His return whisper was harsh; it grated in his chest. Unwittingly, he reached out, smoothed a strand of damp hair off Elizabeth’s forehead. Her skin was cold and clammy.

  “Let us go where we will not disturb her.”

  “No.” Anger and fear warred inside his chest. He had promised Elizabeth that she would be safe with him, and he had failed her. “I will not leave her again.”

  Perching on the edge of the bed, he reached for her hand.

  “Don’t touch her.”

  Ramiel froze. Slowly, without moving his body, he turned his head toward the countess.

  “I gave her a sedative. Her skin is still too sensitive,” the countess explained. “If you wake her, you will cause her pain.”

  Ramiel’s hand stayed frozen in the air above Elizabeth’s fingers that lay curled upward on the coverlet. “What do you mean, her skin is still too sensitive?”

  “She was poisoned, Ramiel.”

  “What kind of poison makes touch painful?”

  The countess did not retreat at the dangerous softness of his voice. “Have you been away from the harem so long that you have forgotten?”

  Cantharidin, known popularly as Spanish fly, was a common aphrodisiac used in harems, though normally it was mixed with other ingredients so that it inflamed rather than killed.

  “Impossible.” he said flatly.

  “I assure you it is not.”

  “How?”

  “Basboosa. It was heavily sprinkled with cantharidin. Muhamed gave her an emetic to rid her stomach of it. If he had not acted so quickly, she would have died.”

  If Muhamed had not admitted Edward Petre into his home, she would not have been poisoned.

  “Edward Petre would know nothing of cantharidin poisoning.”

  “Are you so certain that it was her husband?”

  “Are you suggesting it was my chef, Étienne?” he rejoined sharply.

  “Are you certain that the poison was meant for Elizabeth?” the countess calmly countered.

  The basket of treats. The cake had been for Elizabeth’s sons.

  No one had known of her intention to visit her sons save for him and his staff. Ramiel had placed a spy in Petre’s household; had Petre placed one in Ramiel’s?

  Muhamed. The Cornishman knew that once ingested, there was no antidote for Spanish fly. The only solution for an overdose was to immediately administer an emetic. He also knew that often even that was not effective. Cantharidin killed as well as excited. The dosage that caused desire was not that different from the one that caused death.

  “I do not believe any of my servants are guilty, but I assure you, if one is, I will soon know,” he grimly promised.

  Gently, so as not to rock the bed, he stood up.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To find a traitor.”

  “You said you would not leave Elizabeth.”

  He could not keep the bitterness out of his voice. “You protected her better than I did.”

  “I will not be able to help her when she awakens, Ramiel.”

  Ramiel paused.

  The effects of Spanish fly lingered in the body. Although the worst of Elizabeth’s ordeal would be over when she awakened, her need would still be great.

  Against his will he felt his groin tighten. And despised himself for his weakness. Yet when Elizabeth awakened, she would need his sexuality. She would need him.

  He would not fail her again.

  Catherine watched Ramiel as he looked down at Elizabeth. His features, so like his father’s, were a blend of harshness and tenderness.

  Bittersweet regret tightened her chest. For the love that she had known. For what could have been and for what would never be now.

  “Ramiel.”

  The turquoise eyes that met hers were so bright her heart constricted.

  “Be gentle.” A whimsical smile curved her lips. “But not too gentle.”

  She softly closed the bedroom door behind her.

  It seemed like only yesterday when Ramiel had worn shortcoats and had seduced every maid in sight with his turquoise eyes, blond hair, and dark skin. They had fought to feed him his bottle and change his nappies.

  The pain in her chest sharpened.

  Had she stayed in Arabia, Ramiel would have been the darling of the harem. And she would have been . . . the sheikh’s favorite. Ramiel’s mother. Her brain would have turned to desert sand surrounded by empty chatter and the daily fear that another woman would gain the sheikh’s favor. A woman with dark hair instead of fair. A woman whose skin matched the dusky hue of an Arab-born woman. A woman who could submit in a man’s world and be content with barred windows and muslin veils.

  A woman who would accept physical pleasure beyond her wildest dreams and not confuse love with sexual gratification.

  “Madam.”

  Catherine’s heart jumped inside her chest. A turbaned ghost stepped out of the shadows, a figment of the past that she had rejected.

  Anger replaced regret. She had given up the beauty of Arabia rather than be swallowed up by it, whereas the Cornishman before her wallowed in the traditions that had been responsible for destroying his very life.

  “Did you poison the basboosa, Connor?”

  He remained stoic. “You know that I did not.”

  “I find that the older I get, the less certain I become about anything. You claimed that Elizabeth Petre was a scheming whore who intended to ruin my son. You asked me to interfere with the lives of two people who desperately need to find love.”

  The Cornishman flinched, as if she had delivered a physical blow. Suddenly, it all became clear to Catherine.

  “You are jealous,” she said softly.

  “I am protecting him, as is my duty.”

  “My son does not need your protection, Connor. Nor is it any longer your duty to do so. You are a free man yet you remain with my son. Why is that?”

  “The sheikh bade me guard El Ibn. I will not shirk my duty.”

  “Ramiel loves you but he also loves Elizabeth. Do not turn his love for you into hatred.”

  “He is El Ibn; only an infidel puts faith in the love of a woman.”

  Catherine frowned. “You do not believe that, Connor.”

  “I must believe it. I must do my duty.” The Cornishman’s voice throbbed with pain. “If I do not, there is no reason for a eunuch to live.”

  Forty years suddenly dissolved, and Connor was once again a thirteen-year-old boy whose tears soaked the sand that he was buried in so that he would not bleed to death after being castrated.

  Catherine had been seventeen years old. She had survived rape and bondage. When the sobbing youth had begged her to kill him, she had not understood what had been done to him. In her ignorance she had failed him, but now she did understand, and now, perhaps, she could make amends.

  “You are a handsome man, Connor.”

  “I am a useless man.”

  “Whose face is still youthful and whose muscles are taut,” she said sharply. “Were you truly a eunuch, you would now possess breasts and your stomach and hips would be mounds of flab. But they are not.”

  “They cut off my stones,” he gritted with uncharacteristic crudeness. “They took away my ability to create life.”

  “And so Ramiel is more of a son than a charge.”

  The Cornishman remained silent.

  “Have you ever been with a woman, Connor?”

  A brief smile lit Catherine’s face at the Co
rnishman’s expression of shocked outrage.

  “I am a eunuch.”

  “But you have your manhood.” If the light were brighter, she would swear that he blushed.

  “I do not need a straw to urinate with,” he said stiffly.

  “Eunuchs who have been shaved off as cleanly as a girl baby take wives.”

  “They laugh at them in the harems.”

  “But at least they gain a measure of happiness. You were a young man when they removed your testicles, Connor. If you had been a youth who had yet to grow body hair, I could understand this—this martyrdom. It affects children differently than it does young men. Women in the harem value eunuchs such as you because they can grow erect and give them pleasure without impregnating them. Have you never wanted a woman? Have you never, ever wanted to find love in a woman’s body?”

  “You should not discuss such things with me.” The Cornishman’s voice gritted with anger. “You are the sheikh’s woman.”

  No, never again, no matter how much she might wish it.

  “No, Connor, I am my own woman. And I will not stand by and watch you alienate my son and the woman of his choice.”

  “I would never harm El Ibn.”

  “Yet you possess knowledge of cantharidins.”

  “If I had wanted to kill Elizabeth Petre, I would not have poisoned the food in the hamper. That was for her children. I would not harm her children.”

  “Not even to save them from a fate worse than death?”

  Connor’s black eyes did not blink. “Not even for that.”

  “Did Edward Petre truly call today?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was he alone?”

  “No.”

  “Who was with him?”

  “I do not know.”

  Catherine’s delicately arched eyebrows snapped together. “Connor, please do not lie to me.”

  “I do not lie, madam. It was a woman. She was heavily veiled. She did not speak. I do not know who she was. I am not even certain if it was a female.”

  Chapter 23

  Elizabeth woke up with a gasp. The very darkness surrounding her throbbed. For a second she did not understand the pure, uncontrollable need that played on the surface of her skin like St. Elmo’s fire. And then she remembered. The pain that was more than pain. The heat that did not cease. Muhamed, pouring a syrup down her throat. The countess, pouring water down her throat.