The Lady's Tutor (43 page)

Icy fear
coursed through her body.

Legally,
Edward could do anything he wanted with her. He could drag her out of this
house and force her into a carriage. He could take her back to his town house.
Or he could take her to an asylum.
And no one could stop him.

Muhamed’s
black eyes glittered.

How
convenient that Edward called when Ramiel was not there to greet him. Had he
posted spies to watch the Georgian house and report to him the moment Ramiel
left? Or was one of Ramiel’s servants the spy?

Clearly
Muhamed did not approve of her liaison with
El Ibn.
He could be working
with Edward—the servant to get her out of Ramiel’s home, her husband to get her
out of his life.

She reined
in a surge of pure panic. Ramiel had said he would protect her. Muhamed would
not harm her for fear of him.
She was safe.

Elizabeth
straightened her shoulders. “Tell Mr. Petre that I am not at home.”

Muhamed’s
face settled into an expressionless mask; he bowed. “Very well. The carriage
and the basket of food are ready. We will leave at your convenience.”

Elizabeth
stared after the sweep of his cotton robe in amazement. How simple it had been.

So why did
her legs tremble underneath the weight of her clothes?

She
retrieved her reticule from Ramiel’s bedchamber, gaze skimming over the
mahogany nightstand and the tin stamped with Queen Victoria’s portrait, over
the massive bed that had rocked and rolled underneath them. It settled on the
stark white face reflected in the mirror above the dresser.

She
still did not like being afraid.

At the top
of the curved staircase she paused.

What if
Edward refused to leave Ramiel’s home without first seeing her? What if Muhamed
had deliberately failed to relay the message that she was not there?

But no one
waited for her at the foot of the stairs. She almost laughed aloud in relief.

A hamper
sat on a table in the foyer. The left lid was open, as if awaiting her
inspection.

Curious,
she peeked inside . . . and was greeted with the mouthwatering aroma of honey.
Various biscuits and pastries were neatly arranged in linen napkins. Etienne
truly had created a masterpiece picnic. Unable to resist, Elizabeth plucked a
small slice of cake out of the basket.
Basboosa,
he had called it.

Syrup
clung to her fingers. Dark, finely ground-up nuts garnished the top.

Phillip
and Richard would love it.

Smiling,
she daintily bit off the end of the cake. It was overwhelmingly sweet.

She
glanced at the remaining sliver of pastry in her hand and then at the neatly
arranged wedges nestling in the square of linen. Her sons would not fancy
finding a half-eaten piece of cake in their basket. Wrinkling her nose, she
popped the rest of the pastry into her mouth.

Underneath
the syrupy sweetness and crunchy nuts was pepper. The cake burned a trail all
the way down her throat into her stomach.

Turning,
she bumped headlong into a black wool robe; it had muscles underneath it. She
stepped back. “I beg your pardon. I was just—is the carriage outside?”

Muhamed
inclined his head. Her cloak was draped over his arm; he carried her hat and
gloves in his right hand. “It is here, Mrs. Petre.”

Elizabeth
could sense his hostility, even though he did not reveal it by so much as a
flicker of an eyelid. It was not her desire to create disharmony in Ramiel’s
household. Nor did she wish to create friction between the two men.

She
swallowed her pride. “Thank you for sending my husband away, Muhamed.”

“I am to
obey your orders.”

She
swallowed harder. “I am sorry that I employed the means I did to gain entry
into Lord Safyre’s home. I placed you in an untenable situation. Please accept
my apologies.”

Emotion
flickered in Muhamed’s inscrutable black eyes and was instantly veiled. “It is
the will of Allah.”

Gingerly,
she took the black silk bonnet from him, perched it on her head, and tied the
black ribbons underneath her chin. “Nevertheless, I would have you know that I
meant you no harm.” She accepted the black leather gloves and resolutely
stuffed her hands inside them. “Any more than I would harm Lord Safyre.”

Muhamed
stoically held up Elizabeth’s cloak. She turned around and allowed him to place
it about her shoulders.

The pepper
had irritated her mouth—even though it flooded with saliva, she felt parched
with thirst. She thought about asking for a glass of water, then reconsidered.
The public facilities on the train left much to be desired.

“I am
sorry that you have to accompany me, Muhamed. If you would rather not. . .”

Muhamed
silently opened the door.

A carriage
drawn by two perfectly matched grays stood in the sunshine. Hot steam rose from
the horses’ bodies.

Elizabeth
stepped forward.

She was
simultaneously aware of two things. Muhamed closed the hamper and picked it up
by the wicker handles. At the same time, a red hot ball of fire exploded in her
womb.

Elizabeth
gasped, staggered at the force of a physical desire that had no origin.

“Are you
all right, Mrs. Petre?”

Muhamed’s
voice was loud, as if he shouted in her ear. She straightened with effort,
shamed and humiliated at what was happening to her body. It was filled with
mindless, animal lust, gushing moist desire, muscles contracting, convulsing.

Nymphomania.

Ramiel had
not denied it yesterday when he had been buried so deep inside of her that he
could not possibly go any deeper yet she had wanted him to.

“I am
fine, thank you, Muhamed.”

Her voice
was too loud, abrasive. The traffic ambling along the street rose to a roar in
her ears. The vibrations of the churning wheels and pounding hooves raced along
her nerves straight to the flesh between her thighs.

Determinedly,
she descended a step. If she could only reach the coach and her two sons . . .

Her
silk-clad thighs rubbed together. The sensation was electric.

She
dropped her reticule.

Elizabeth
could feel the coachman and Muhamed staring at her. And she knew that she was
losing her mind, because a man’s eyes did not generate heat, yet she was
burning up underneath their stares.

A
fragmented shout pierced the air. “Mrs. . . . watch . . . steps!”

Her legs
collapsed underneath her. Strong arms wrapped around her just as she should
have tumbled out into open space.

She
endured the touch with effort, every nerve inside her body alive and aware. Of
a man’s hold ... a man’s scent. She recoiled in horror at the realization that
she wanted more than a servant’s arms wrapped about her waist, she wanted—

Elizabeth
wrenched out of Muhamed’s arms. “Don’t touch me,” she whispered, or perhaps she
screamed it. Eyes were everywhere—Muhamed’s, the coachman’s, servants that
suddenly crowded the small stoop.

Edward’s
spy. One of them could be Edward’s spy and he would report this incident and
her husband and her parents and her children would know the truth at last, that
she was a
nymphomaniac.

“Wot’s t’
matter wi’ ‘er?” “She’s gone stark, staring bonkers.” “Should we ring up the
doctor, Mr. Muhamed?”

Muhamed’s
eyes snapped with black fire. Throwing open the hamper, he grabbed a wedge of
cake—Etienne had said
basboosa
was made of semolina and soaked in syrup;
he had not mentioned that it had nuts and pepper, so she really did not know
what she had eaten, Elizabeth suddenly, feverishly thought. The Arab that was
no Arab sniffed the cake. Like a dog.
El kebachu
Animals.
They were
all animals.

And she
was one of them.

A gob of
spittle and cake hurtled past her—Muhamed must have tasted it. He didn’t like
it either.

“Allah
akbar!
Get the countess!”

Didn’t
like cake. Didn’t like women who satisfied their desires with a man who was not
their husband.

Elizabeth
turned, fleeing, burning, falling—

I won’t
let you fall,
taalibba.

She stared
dully at the sidewalk, inches instead of feet away from her face, then she
stared at the dark hands that reached for her.

“In the
name of Allah! Hurry up, you fools! Help me!”

Elizabeth
felt laughter welling up inside her body. Ramiel had shouted
Allah
when
he had climaxed. Immediately, her laughter was swallowed by a great black wall
of blazing desire.

How hot a
man’s seed was, shooting inside a woman’s body.
She needed that heat.
She
needed Ramiel.

She needed
him so badly that she was going to die.

Ramiel stared at
the two men who sat in the corner of the darkened pub. One kept his head down,
craggy features shadowed by the brim of a dusty felt hat with a low crown and
wide brim. A
groundsman,
the bartender had said. The other man wore a tired derby, his lined,
disgruntled face evident for all to see: He was a man who had cleaned up after
too many boys.

Ramiel
tossed the bartender a florin. Scooping up two pints of ale, he approached the
men in the corner. “I understand the two of you work at the school.”

“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.”