Master of Love (26 page)

Cursing again, he dragged her into an alcove. “Maybe something special has happened,” he ground out. “Maybe the lady is supposed to acknowledge that.”

“You toy with me.” Her voice shook.

His eyes darkened to black, and a muscle ticked dangerously along his jaw. “For a supposedly intelligent woman, you can be quite an idiot.”

“What does that mean?”

“Figure it out,” he spat. “Now, come on”—he grabbed her hand with none of his typical finesse and tugged hard—“there are some people I'm taking you to meet.”

The “people,” it turned out, were her own—her distant cousins, the sixth Duke and Duchess of Galbridge. This present duke was the elderly son of the cousin who'd inherited the title from Callista's great-grandfather when Mildred was still in the nursery. It was a distant connection, to be sure, and this had apparently allowed His Grace to feel justified in declining to give material assistance when Mildred had written to request support after Baron Higginbotham's death. The duke had sent his compliments to his cousins and his invitation to dine, should the Misses Higginbotham decide on a Season. As they had barely money to cover their bills of household sustenance, a debutante coming-out was out of the question, as the duke surely knew.

Callista had greeted the duke and duchess briefly in the receiving line, quite certain they recalled nothing of her remote connection to them. This time, when Rexton marched her up to their table in the supper room, they were all smiles. To her surprise, ten minutes of the warmest and most polite conversation flowed from Their Graces, with requests for her to pay a call on the duchess at Galbridge House. When she and Rexton took their leave to put together their own supper plates from the delectably laden sideboards, she felt like kicking him, both because she was now even more in his debt and because nothing seemed beyond the dratted man.

“What did you do to effect that magic?” she grumbled, taking a slice of smoked salmon in cucumber sauce. “The duchess is a little advanced in years to be the object of your usual seduction.”

“Sarcasm does not become you, young lady, nor does ingratitude,” he said. “Let's just say the duchess has a certain granddaughter recently on the marriage market whose consequence needs a little polishing. A charming enough girl, with an excellent dowry, but apparently a tad plain of face. Lord Adonis is going to find her near irresistible at several upcoming balls.” He picked out some ginger-candied cherries to add to their plates.

“Your reputation is tamed indeed, if grandmamas are setting you loose on debutantes to stir up a jealous frenzy among the suitors.”

“Aye, I've fallen very low,” he replied dourly, steering them toward an unoccupied table. “I can't even win a smile from you.”

She sighed deeply as she sat down. “Thank you for arranging that rapprochement.” Her ungracious tone grated on her own ears, but it was all she could muster.

“You're welcome,” he said, pushing in her chair and taking his own seat. “So—truce?”

She suppressed the most absurd desire to stick out her tongue and forced herself instead to hold out her hand. As he shook it, his gaze dropped to her ball gown; the wide skirts swirled with the amber
peau de soie
Marie had recommended in the fashion atelier. The gown had caused Callista the same case of nerves Beatrice's dress gave her. Both young women, however, had received so many compliments, they'd decided even before the dancing began to concede Marie's brilliance as a dressmaker.

“You're showing quite a bit of flesh there.” He shifted in his seat and gritted his teeth.

“How nice of you to notice.” She smiled serenely, fluffing the ivory lace on her deep, off-the-shoulder neckline. “Like the gown, do you? Marie says this style will be all the rage by next season.”

“Lord help us men.”

“You'll survive.” She leaned over to pat his hand, biting the inside of her cheek to hide a smile as his gaze was drawn inexorably down into her cleavage. Of a sudden, her mood was much improved. Marie and Lady Rexton were right! There was a power here, and a rather fun game, once you got the hang of it.

After supper, they were returning to the ballroom when a bold impulse seized her. She knew DeBray Hall well, as she, Beatrice, and the other girls had played in its chambers often while their mothers planned the charity projects of the Society of Love. One of their favorite rooms was Lady Rockfort's small personal reading library, past the ballroom in an adjacent wing of the huge mansion. “My lord”—she pulled him to a stop—“DeBray Hall boasts a lovely private library. Would you allow me to show it to you?”

He stood, eyes hooded. “I think you know there is little I wouldn't allow you, Callista.”

The room proved exactly as she remembered: a perfect jewel, papered in flocked sapphire velvet and filled with shelves of novels. She clicked shut the lock, led him silently over to a shelf, and pushed his back against it—only a little harder than she ought.

He didn't seem to mind. One brow rose up, and he smiled. “Dare I hope?”

She gave in to her impulse.

The black wool of his elegant evening trousers pulled smooth across his groin. What would happen were she to cup him—here, like that—and massage her hand in a smooth circle?

His gaze snapped to hers. “Callista!” Openmouthed shock, followed by a groan of bliss.

She smiled with the ancient self-satisfaction of a woman's power.
So that's what would happen.

She worked the buttons on the fall of his trousers to open the front panel and slip her hand inside his linen smalls. Nothing small here—he already strained thick and heavy against her palm. How intriguing—so soft, and yet so hard. She knew what she was after but was unsure of the mechanics to accomplish the task. He'd used his hand on her, to give her pleasure in his library; surely the reverse would work as well? Once she got started, it didn't seem that complicated. A few panted words on his part—“Yes, like that” and “Harder, beauty”—helped her set up a rhythm that soon had him thrusting against her grip. Her other hand reached lower, to fondle the sacklike part of him, as such attention seemed to heighten his gasps of pleasure. She really did need vocabulary for all this; a book of instruction would indeed be helpful.

She hadn't known she could act so daringly, but with Dominick, it felt safe and right and actually rather wonderful.
She
felt wonderful, this new self of hers, boldly taking to wing as if freed from a cage. The melting heat at her core from last time started to return, but when he tried to touch her, she batted away his hands. “No. Not this time.”

“Do you understand what will happen?” He fished desperately in his pocket to pull out a crisp handkerchief. “Here, use this. Oh, God, Callista, you're killing me.” He threw back his head. “Please, more, beauty—finish me.”

The desire and need in his tone thrilled her. What power she played with—hers, his—all in her hands! And then he grasped the bookshelf behind his hips, pistoned into her, and groaned heavily as his muscled frame stretched taut. Thick fluid spurted out from the tip of his shaft—ah, that was what the handkerchief was for. She gripped him tight until the last trembles stopped.

The tension drained from his body. He opened one eye to look down at her. “I see now what makes the Society of Love Ball so popular.”

Later, back in the ballroom—clothing straightened, buttons done up, nothing settled, but a last kiss exchanged—Lady Rexton came by to collect Callista and take her to meet some friends. The lady glowed like a flame in Marie's crimson silk confection. Two of her young bucks had gotten into a shoving match over her earlier, and she'd quit the dance floor for the night.

“Wherever did you get that amazing gown, Celeste?” asked a lady with a lorgnette and droopy sausage curls as Callista and Lady Rexton passed her on their way to the card tables.

“Oh, you wouldn't like the shop, Hannah. It's terribly expensive and very French and
nouveau
in its styles.”

“Why didn't you give her Marie's name, ma'am?” Callista whispered, following in Lady Rexton's wake. “She could have become a new customer!”

“That woman's a cow,” Lady Rexton snorted, tossing a hand dismissively. “She's not worthy of a Beauvallon creation. Pray attend me well, Callista”—the lady smiled smugly—“and I'll show you how to launch a fashion house.”

Chapter 17

A
fter the smash success of the Society of Love Ball—all subscription tickets sold and over three thousand pounds raised for charity—things quieted back down for Callista.

The truce with Dominick held, although she refused any further intimacy and all discussions of their future with an obstinacy that clearly infuriated him. His every smoldering glance reminded her of their unfinished business. He reinstituted their luncheons, but on a new plan under which he had Graves serve in the library, at a table for two set in front of the windows overlooking the square. There, they talked endlessly about books and events in the news and Sir George's burgeoning romance with Lady Mildred and how his mother was progressing with Marie on the new wardrobe. Dominick flirted with Callista as much as her blushes and protests would allow.

On other days, he included her in his large luncheon gatherings with the scholars from the Philosophical Society and the tutors from Trinity College at Cambridge. His protégé Mr. Thompson and the philosophy tutors were all down on recess from the Easter term and in residence at Rexton House, preparing to head up to Edinburgh with their patron for the long-awaited conference starting the following Monday. As the recent mania for investor speculation had now crisscrossed the countryside with a network of rail lines, the party made plans to travel by train up to the Scottish capital. It would be a long day's journey from Euston Station on the new London and North Western Railway, with a connection on the Caledonian into Edinburgh, but still, they decided, much faster than the roads.

Dominick continued to write in the library every morning, whether the welcome address he was scheduled to deliver in Edinburgh or some other text, Callista knew not. She decided not to press him on it, their peace being so fragile; no more than he was she ready for any sort of full openness. Every day, she labored hard on the library organization and, late into every night, on her growing book commissions. Sufficient fees were now coming in that, for the first time in a year, she was able to get current on all the household accounts. It caused her even more work and sleepless anxiety, but she also went ahead with a large loan from the favorable bank offer and then used it to purchase, after careful examination, the estate rare-book collection featuring the incunabula. She consulted her father's old lawyer, Mr. Timmins, regarding the terms of both contracts and was reassured by his agreement that they were wise business decisions almost certain to benefit her family.

Dominick agreed to allow the three dozen incunabula to be delivered to his library, where they could be appropriately housed until she secured buyers. The tutors spent a whole luncheon quizzing her about the incoming Gutenberg Bible and the other almost four-hundred-year-old German, Italian, French, and Hebrew books. She promised them a viewing once the texts arrived and laughingly recounted her surprise at even finding a Latin one by an Italian monk entitled
De venenis,
or
On Venoms,
about all known poisons—including a recipe for an undetectable potion guaranteed to kill one's enemies!

Several days before the party was due to board the train for Scotland, Callista sat at her worktable in the library after luncheon. She was copying out the stack of identification cards for the German philosophy section—one per book, annotated carefully with author, title, and publication information—and filing them alphabetically by author in a narrow set of drawers the woodworkers had crafted to her specifications. Mr. Thompson entered to seek out Dominick, who was working at his big desk on the other side of the room. Callista didn't look up, as the two of them consulted together often. Her count of volumes cataloged and shelved had just topped six thousand—past the halfway mark!—and she was beginning to feel reasonably confident she might accomplish what had at first seemed an impossibly monumental task.

So engrossed in her work was she that Dominick and Mr. Thompson's low conversation didn't register at first; they seemed to have sunk deep into discussion.

“I've almost completed the next essay,” Dominick was saying to the young man, “and wanted to thank you for your comments on my draft; they were most helpful.”

“May I see the finished essay, my lord?”

Dominick hesitated briefly before shuffling a sheaf of pages into a leather portfolio and handing it over. “This is my only copy,” he warned Thompson. “I've ripped up the previous drafts.”

“I promise to guard it most preciously and bring it back two days hence, before we leave for Edinburgh. Would that suit? I'm learning much from the subtlety of your arguments, my lord, and from the elegance of your writing.”

His patron waved off the praise. “It's a poor enough piece, but you're welcome to have a look.”

“Will this essay appear as did the previous ones?”

“Yes, I'll wait until after the conference to finish the conclusion, as I want to hear Jamieson speak on the matter. If you'd like to see the final bit I can give it to you after the closing banquet. I've arranged for it to come out in the next issue of—”

At that he stopped, as if suddenly recalling Callista's presence. She kept her head down over her writing but saw him glance toward her out of the corner of her eye.

“I'm sure I don't need to remind you, Thompson, of the need for discretion,” he said, continuing in an even lower voice.

Overhearing their conversation, she couldn't keep a suspicion from entering her mind. Dominick was obviously hiding something. Like a bolt of lightning, a connection clicked: could
he
be the anonymous writer Amator Philosophiae, or the “Lover of Philosophy,” all the scholars were talking about? Could he be that author of the series of essays on the nature of love appearing in
Philosophers' Quarterly
over the last two years?

Were the Lover of Philosophy and the Master of Love one and the same?

The thought was startling. But she remembered all the times she'd seen him at his writing. When she'd inquired on what he was working, he'd always protested—a bit too much, perhaps—that it was nothing at all. He presented himself as a shallow and brainless rogue to society, yet he wasn't that. Not to her; not anymore. There had to be some explanation.

This possibility made both more sense and more confusion of the situation. Knowing how sharp-minded he truly was, she could well imagine him as the essays' author but had no idea why he'd hide that authorship. The essays were widely admired. Why wouldn't he want to claim that title of Amator Philosophiae as his own and carry on the legacy of his father?

With a last glance at her and some muttered words with Mr. Thompson, Dominick left for his afternoon appointment. She'd learned by now these previously mysterious daily absences were time he spent with his nephews—another puzzle, why a supposedly libertine lover would have, and hide, such a major family involvement. But before she could cipher out the significance of her suspicions, her newly acquired incunabula arrived, each in its own velvet-lined metal box, and she was distracted by her excitement in receiving them.

The next day, however, her suspicions came roaring back—spiked up to a sharp edge of panic. She had reluctantly put aside the rare old texts and spent the morning with Billy in Dominick's study, installing the first set of his office books along the east wall. The carpenters had yet to build the north bookcases, but Callista was eager to remove from the library as many volumes as she could on estate management, farm science, mining, and the new railroads, to give herself much-needed workspace.

After instructing the lad to finish shelving the books, she returned to the library, where she was greatly startled to see Mr. Thompson standing over one of her incunabula, copying notes from the antique text onto foolscap beside him.

“Mr. Thompson?” she said, astonished and a little disturbed to see the young instructor handling the precious text without her permission.

He glanced up with such a guilty and furtive look, she almost felt needful of consoling him. “I did promise the gentlemen of Trinity a viewing tomorrow before your departure for Edinburgh. I take it your curiosity got the better of you?” she inquired mildly, walking toward him. With a further start, she saw the book he had open was Sante Arduino's
De venenis
—
On Venoms
!

“Y-yes, yes,” he stammered. “My apologies, Miss Higginbotham.” He slammed shut the hand-tooled leather cover, far too roughly for her liking, and shoved his notes into the pocket of his frock coat. But not before she saw what he'd had time to copy out.

It was the recipe she'd mentioned to the tutors for a poison to kill one's enemies!

Even worse were the words she thought she'd caught scrawled at the bottom of the sheet.

Sherry, drawing room
.

Surely she hadn't . . . it couldn't be possible . . . had she seen those words?

Too stunned to know what to say, some instinct had her school her face into bland politeness. “I'd be happy to show you and your colleagues the rest of the incunabula tomorrow. There's a wonderful edition of Thomas Aquinas's
Summa Theologiae
I suspect you'll find quite fascinating.”

“That would be lovely, miss.” He bowed and began to scurry from the library, stumbling over his feet and his words. “Again, my apologies, thanks, must be off, good day.”

She sank heavily into a chair. It was some minutes before she could bring herself to reopen the book and find the page from which Thompson had been copying. There it was: a preface justified the need to sometimes use an undetectable poison against one's enemies; warnings were included to exercise great care with the potion, as it was near colorless and very strong; its effects were described as taking hold quickly from a mild dyspepsia to a growing delirium, then brain fever, apoplexy, and death; a recommendation was made to disguise the drug in the victim's wine. The recipe, proportions, and method of preparation were all listed, with ingredients that could be acquired from well-stocked apothecary and chemist shops: belladonna; aconite, or monkshood;
Taxus baccata
seeds from the yew tree; and arsenic prepared in the Arab style as odorless and transparent.

Her heart beat a hard staccato as she sat lost in thought for long minutes. Could Thompson be planning to poison someone? Who? And why? What could motivate the mild young scholar to contemplate murder? His career was progressing well. He had the confidence of his patron, as Dominick obviously entrusted the young man with his writing. To Callista's knowledge, Dominick had shared that work with no one else. Thompson also had good hopes, she understood, to gain a prestigious fellowship at the start of the next academic year, one that carried a guaranteed position as tutor to the undergraduates, an annual stipend for life, and free rights to take rooms at the college and dine at its high table.

She tapped her fingers slowly against the incunabulum's metal box. Of course, there was always the possibility he
wouldn't
be elected fellow at Trinity.

That
gave her pause. The man would be set up for life, with employment, a good income, and status—if he made fellow. If he failed, the best he could hope for was to become a private tutor for gentlemen's sons, moving from household to household, always at the whim of his employers. She remembered Dominick's telling her Thompson had no family of his own, no inheritance coming his way. Much was riding on whether he earned this permanent fellowship at the university. From what Callista had gathered, his work was considered good. But as she sifted back over the bits and pieces she'd heard in conversation, she realized there had been hints he was perhaps not quite good enough.

A horrid thought occurred as pieces of the puzzle shifted into place.

If Dominick were indeed Amator Philosophiae, then Thompson had in his possession the only copy, almost finished, of the next essay in the series. Were Dominick to unexpectedly die, there would be no one to gainsay Thompson were he to submit that essay under his own name and claim authorship of the entire series. Given the popularity and critical success of the essays, doing so would surely guarantee Thompson's election as fellow and secure his lifetime tenure at the college. The motivation was a serious one for an otherwise impoverished young scholar insecure about his chances of success.

And now Thompson was copying out recipes for deadly poison.

It took her until the end of the next day, but she finally ran Dominick to ground on the steps of the mansion. He'd been out or unavailable since she'd overheard him discuss his essay with Thompson—avoiding her, she suspected. She'd pestered Graves for news of his return but had almost given up hope of seeing him before he left for Edinburgh. Finally, just as she was about to climb into the carriage, Dominick walked up to the house alone, with a slow pace and bent head.