Ramiel was still asleep; his breathing was a soft rasp in the murky silence. Smiling anew, she wondered if he ever snored. Her smile turned into a frown. Did she snore?
Gently closing the bedroom door behind her, Elizabeth realized that she was ravenous. Other than a light repast that had been washed down with champagne that first night she had spent with Ramiel, she had not had much to eat in over two days.
She gingerly descended the curved mahogany staircase with its bright Oriental runner. Dancing slippers were not meant to be worn without stockings. Nor was a bustle meant to lie next to bare skin. Any more than were a heavily lined bodice and skirt. The sensitive flesh between her legs throbbed in agreement.
Stepping onto the landing, she turned in the direction of the breakfast room. A swirl of white robes stepped out from behind a man-sized vase.
Curtailing a scream, she focused on enigmatic black eyes. “Sabah el kheer, Muhamed. I would like breakfast, please.”
The servant stood his ground. “Where is El Ibn?”
“Asleep.” Elizabeth mutinously lifted her chin. “I do not wish him to be disturbed. He had a tiring night.”
She closed her eyes as the full import of her words registered inside her brain. El Ibn had had a tiring night because he had brought her to orgasm over a dozen times to ease the burning of the poison. A side effect that Muhamed must know about.
“Come.” Muhamed’s voice was as emotionless as it had been yesterday. “I will serve you.”
Elizabeth opened her eyes and stared at the folds of the white robe about his unlined neck. “I also seem to be without undergarments. Perhaps they have been laundered. If you would be so good as to . . . check upon them.”
“Very well. Follow me to the breakfast room.”
She did not have the courage to look up and see if Muhamed was as discomfited as she was. The breakfast room shone with sunlight, sparkling glass, and polished wood. Bacon, eggs, kippers, roast beef, grilled mushrooms, fried tomatoes, sliced fruit, and freshly baked rolls scented the air. Elizabeth allowed Muhamed to seat her at the round table so that she looked out the windows onto a garden green with exotically shaped shrubbery.
“What would you have, Mrs. Petre?”
She resigned herself to the fact that her appetite now, as it had been the previous night, was one of pure gluttony. “Everything, please.”
Avidly listening to the clang of dishes and utensils behind her, she poured herself a cup of coffee. No sooner did she raise it to her lips than two heaping plates of food were deposited in front of her.
“I trust that will keep you occupied while I see to your undergarments.”
Elizabeth fought back a fresh wave of crimson embarrassment. “Yes, thank you.”
He swirled to go, creating a brisk breeze.
“Muhamed.”
“Yes?”
The coffee was pitch black. A coffee ground floated on the surface. Like ground-up beetle. She set the cup down. “Thank you for saving my life yesterday.”
“Some would claim that it was I who administered the poison.”
A chill swept down her spine.
Yes, she had suspected that he might be spying for Edward. Nor did she doubt now that he had the knowledge and/or the opportunity to have administered the cantharidin. Yet—
“If you had poisoned the picnic, I do not think you would have saved me. Nor do I think you would harm innocent children.”
But she spoke to empty air.
By the time the Arab that was no Arab returned, she had finished one plate of food and started on the other.
“You do not drink the coffee.”
“No.” She put down her fork and knife. “It is . . . black.”
Nausea rose in her throat. The ground-up beetles had been crunchy, like nuts.
The rustle of robes behind her alerted her of the servant’s proximity. Suddenly, a dark hand appeared in front of her face. Muhamed poured cream into the coffee.
“Drink. You need fluids.”
Like master, like servant, she thought resentfully. Ramiel had sounded just like Muhamed when he told her to drink the glass of water last night.
Remembering the outcome of her rebellion, she drank.
Muhamed refilled her cup with coffee and cream. “Your underclothes are in the library. You may finish dressing there when you complete your breakfast.”
“Thank you.” Elizabeth toyed with the handle of the cup. It was azure blue, edged in silver. “Please order a carriage to be brought around within the hour.”
“You will not leave the house until El Ibn rises.”
The butler’s response was not unexpected.
“Very well,” she lied. Pushing back the second plate of food, she tossed her linen napkin onto the table. “I cannot eat any more. Thank you for serving me. Breakfast was quite delicious.”
Elizabeth allowed Muhamed to pull back her chair and escort her to the library. Silk and fine lawn underclothing were neatly draped over the large mahogany desk where Ramiel had conducted the five lessons. But not the sixth.
She cupped her stomach through the heavy skirt, remembering . . . everything. He had felt her womb contract, both inside and outside.
Gold glinted from the wall of books; everywhere she looked there was the beauty of Arabia. The credenza inlaid with mother-of-pearl. The silk screens on the walls. The floor-to-ceiling bay windows with the yellow silk drapes and the curved brass curtain rod.
Edward’s den where her father had threatened to kill her was dark and ascetic. It possessed no beauty or memories of pleasure.
Quickly, efficiently, Elizabeth pulled on the transparent drawers and lawn petticoats. She was not about to undress to slide into a chemise; she crumpled up the thin silk shift and shoved it into a bottom desk drawer.
An odd surge of tenderness overcame her at sight of a leather ledger. It reminded her that Ramiel, for all of his exotic looks and background, was no different from any other Englishman. He ate. He slept. He was responsible for the normal day-to-day tasks involved in overseeing a household and managing his finances.
His chair was all wood with a back that tilted and coasters that sprang into action when she sat down—she grabbed the edge of the desk to prevent herself from shooting into the wall. Hurriedly, she pulled on black silk stockings.
Muhamed waited for her outside the library door.
Her plan was not going to work if the servant dogged her every move.
“This is a large house, Muhamed. I did not fully explore it yesterday.”
Elizabeth swept by Muhamed. Muhamed followed.
She abruptly stopped, back turned to the servant. “Muhamed. I am not a child that you need fear will pilfer in drawers. There is no need to oversee my every move.”
“I will not fail El Ibn again.”
“You did not fail him yesterday. Rather than blame yourself for what happened, you should be grateful. If I had not ingested the poison, then my two sons would have. And they would not have had you to save them. Because of that incident, I know what to expect of my husband. I will not let him harm me or my children. Please accord me the courtesy of being private with my thoughts.”
“As you will.”
Elizabeth breathed a sigh of relief. Keeping a lookout for Muhamed, she idly explored the third floor of guest bedchambers. When she was certain that he no longer followed her, she sneaked down the servants’ stairs.
He did not jump out from behind a vase. Nor, when she opened the coat closet by the foyer, did he jump out of that. Snatching up her cloak, bonnet, and gloves, she escaped the house. Apprehension gnawed at her stomach. She felt like she betrayed Ramiel by sneaking out of his home. Yet she felt compelled to protect herself and her sons.
She walked blocks and blocks. Dancing slippers were not meant to be so abused. They pinched her toes in retaliation. Her first instinct, when she spotted a hack, was to turn around and run back to Ramiel. He was no doubt still sleeping. She could slip into bed and snuggle up against
the warmth of his body. When he woke up, they could engage in the seventh lesson.
She did not want to return to the place where one man had threatened to kill her and another man had attempted to carry out the threat.
Taking a deep breath, she straightened her shoulders. She was not a coward. Raising her hand, she stepped to the curb.
The hack pulled over. “Where to, ma’am?”
Elizabeth gave the cabbie the address to Edward’s town house.
The drive was far too short. By the time the hack jerked to a halt, her body was wreathed in sweat. Without a corset or even a chemise to absorb the moisture, it trickled down between her breasts.
Stepping out, she paid the cabbie the fare—and indulged in an attack of cravenness.
“Please wait. I will need transportation back. If for whatever reason I do not return within thirty minutes, I want you to go to Lord Safyre and tell him where I am.” She gave him Ramiel’s address and a florin. “Will you do that?”
The cabbie tipped his hat; he was old enough not to ask questions when it meant money. “Aye, ma’am.”
Hands shaking—her whole body shook—she walked up to the doorstep and rang the bell—a recent installment—a modern button to replace an archaic knocker.
No one answered her summons.
The servants had a half-day off on Friday, starting at noon. It was not noon. Someone should be about.
Elizabeth impulsively reached into her reticule. The key to the town house was there, as it always was. Her fingers, she noted grimly, trembled. It required both hands to fit the key into the lock.
Cracking open the door, she poked her head inside. “Beadles?”
Beadles echoed hollowly behind the door.
Taking a deep breath, she pushed the door all the way open and stepped inside. The foyer was ominously dark after the bright sunshine.
Every nerve in her body warned her to run. At the same time, common sense derided her cowardliness.
Beadles might spy on her, but he would not harm her. She needed to see Emma. The abigail knew who had blown out the gas lamp. Quite possibly she also knew the identity of Edward’s mistress. Edward, if at home, need never know that she visited. She would take Emma driving or walking while they talked.
Shrill laughter trilled down the stairs.
A woman’s laughter.
It did not belong to any of the female servants. Had Edward, now that he did not have a wife in residence, brought his mistress home?
Clutching the key in one hand and her reticule in the other, she gently closed the front door and traversed the steps, veering just in time to avoid the loose board. She pressed her ear to the door of her husband’s bedroom—there was no sound inside, but she could feel—an energy, a presence—something.
Heartbeat drumming inside her ears, she eased open the door. There was her husband—he was dressed in trousers and a waistcoat. He stood facing his bed with his head twisted down and to the side in what looked like a kiss.
Feeling giddy with victory, Elizabeth pushed the door all the way open.
A woman dressed in a corset and drawers stood in profile; her hands were hooked around Edward’s neck, holding his head down to hers in what was most definitely a kiss. She had mannishly short, graying auburn hair. Her legs, surprisingly muscular, were free of hair, as had been the countess’s. Elizabeth stared at the woman’s flat stomach below the corset for several moments before she comprehended what she was seeing.
A penis jutted out of the woman’s drawers.
Elizabeth’s gaze shot up to the face of the man who greedily kissed her husband.
The bedchamber suddenly tilted, righted itself. It could not be.
But it was.
“Oh, my God!”
Her husband and her father jumped apart. Andrew’s hazel eyes that matched Elizabeth’s widened in horror; Edward’s brown eyes were round with surprise. A third man—no, he was only a boy, a nineteen-year-old golden-haired boy who had yet to grow hair on his chest—kneeled on the bed between them. He was naked. His lips were slack and his cornflower-blue eyes dazed.
Elizabeth had seen the boy at the charity ball, dressed in formal black and white evening wear. He had looked older with his clothes on.
Unable to stop herself, she stared at the swollen red penis that protruded from Edward’s gaping black trousers. It was shiny wet. From the boy’s saliva.
No wonder Edward had said she had udder breasts and flabby hips. It was hard to compete with a boy, she thought incongruously. It was hard to compete with a father.
Suddenly, the men’s shocked immobility erupted into a flurry of activity. Andrew wrenched the comforter off the bed. Edward caught the golden-haired boy just as he catapulted to the floor and stood him upright. He was neither as tall as the Chancellor of the Exchequer nor as short as the prime minister. His penis was flaccid, unlike that of his mentors.
Clutching the comforter against his exposed body, Andrew’s face contorted in the same rage-filled mask that he had worn when he threatened to kill her. “Get out of here, Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth stared at the prim white corset peeping above the forest-green comforter. In her mind’s eye she could still see his dark penis jutting out from between the seamless vent in the women’s drawers.
This was the man who had stood up at the charity ball and boasted of his two grandsons—future prime ministers. He had proudly announced his political plans for his son-in-law. A son-in-law who was his lover.
Something flitted through her brain, something so obscure and so fantastic that she could not immediately bring it forward into consciousness. Edward’s speech that night . . . Something about wives and sons . . . And now I would like to thank the two women in my life. One gave me my wife and the other gave me two sons, whom I will train to follow in my footsteps as Andrew Walters has trained me to follow in his.
Suddenly, all the clues that Ramiel had told her she would see when she was ready for the truth fell into place and the puzzle was complete, but she was not ready for this. Her gaze snapped up to Edward’s eyes.
“Richard,” she whispered.
“I am afraid that our son to date shows no talent for power, Elizabeth. Whereas Matt, here . . .” Brown eyes glittering with malice, Edward deliberately pulled the golden-haired boy against his side and wrapped a bandaged hand around his waist so that it rested on his flat stomach only inches away from a golden thatch of pubic hair. “Matt shows great aptitude. Perhaps Richard will fill a less important position in politics. There are other P.M.’s who are looking into his future career.”
Edward had sounded like that when he had rejected her sexual overtures. Smug. Omnipotent. Heedless of anyone’s life but his own.
All rationale splintered. She had lived with this man for sixteen years, a helpmate if not a wife. She had managed his household, campaigned for him, sacrificed her needs for his. And he had done this to her son.
“You despicable bastard!” she screamed, body hurtling forward, propelled by the maternal instinct to hurt him as he had hurt her son.
Hard, unyielding arms wrapped about her, held her immobile. The three men were in front of her, she thought irrationally; how could they be holding her from behind?
Raw heat, familiar heat, seeped through her cloak.
Oh, no, no, no. Not him, please, don’t let it be him.
You know who his mistress is, don’t you?
Siba, Elizabeth . . .
The pressure inside Ramiel’s chest owed nothing to the press of Elizabeth’s body. He had not wanted her to know. Not like this. Allah. God. Her father was dressed like a woman and her husband’s prick hung out of his pants, while a boy not much older than her son stood naked between them.
“Let me go. You are a bastard. Let me go this instant!”
Ramiel ignored her struggles more successfully than he ignored her barbed words. Yes, he was a bastard. In every sense of the word. “The divorce, Petre. Quietly. Quickly. Or you will never be prime minister.
That I guarantee you.”
“The price is her silence, Safyre.”
“So be it.”
“Never!” Elizabeth’s body strained to get away from him. “He abused my son!”
Ramiel lowered his head and nuzzled the scratchy wool of her bonnet aside to whisper against her cheek. “Think of Richard, Elizabeth. Come with me now and no one will ever hurt your son again. You cannot prove anything. If you fight them, Petre will have you committed and both of your sons will be his.”
Elizabeth did not struggle when he backed her out of the room, turned her around, and walked her down the hall, down the steps, and out into sunshine. Ramiel’s carriage waited in front of the town house. Muhamed sat in the driver’s box, looking neither left nor right.
“You knew.” Elizabeth’s voice was brittle. “All along when I asked you who my husband’s mistress was, you knew.”
Ramiel neither agreed nor disagreed. He had not known everything “all along.” But he had known about her husband and her father when she last asked him.
“You should have waited until I woke up,” he said impassively.
“Would you have told me?”
“You will never know now, will you?”
Nor would Ramiel.
Would he have told her? Or would he have tried to cling to her innocence for a little while longer?
“Where is my hack?”
“A half sovereign is a bigger bribe than a florin.”
She flinched at this final betrayal. Only it was not the final one, he thought bleakly.
He opened the carriage door.
Her bottom lip quivered. “I want my hack.”
“You wanted the truth; you shall have it. All of it. Get in.”
Elizabeth had no choice but to step inside the carriage. She sat in the far corner, as far away from him as she could get. Ramiel bowed his head to enter behind her. At the same time, he saw her reach for the door handle on the opposite side.
With lightning-quick reflexes—the same reflexes that had allowed him to slam the desk drawer on Petre’s hand the night before—he threw himself forward and grabbed her wrist. “I told you I would not let you go.”
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