The Lady's Tutor (44 page)

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 artificial 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, Etienne?” 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 htm.

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 lbn.
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
lbn;
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.”