Master of Love

by Catherine LaRoche

  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.

  “Thank goodness you’re here!” she exclaimed, stepping back down and taking hold of his arm. “I must speak with you, please.” She’d become near frantic with worry.

  He gave her an inscrutable look and inclined his head. “As you wish.” He offered his arm to lead her into the St. James’s Square central garden, deserted as late spring’s dusk gathered purple shadows under the limes and laburnums of the park. She waited as he used his key on the wrought iron gate and they began a circuit along the gravel paths around the greensward. Then she screwed up her courage.

  “I am going to ask you something and on the strength of whatever”—she circled her free hand helplessly in the air—“there is between us, I beg you to answer me with the truth. Can you do that?”

  “The truth, Callista, is a slippery beast,” he said darkly. “Are you sure you want to wrestle it down?”

  She sighed heavily. A potential murder plot was not her only problem. She knew he was pushing for some resolution of the fire that snapped between them whenever they were together. But she had to keep him alive first, if they were ever to have a chance of sorting that out.

  She dove in. “Are you the author of the anonymous essays that have appeared over the last few issues of Philosophers’ Quarterly?”

  A long moment of silence passed; the ducks in the central basin quacked as they squabbled over their dinner of pond weeds. “If I give you the truth, will you finally trust me?”

  Her gut wrenched. “I do trust you, Dominick.”

  “No, you don’t.” He flattened his lips into a tight line, although not even his displeasure could hide their dimpled curves. “You dismiss me as a shallow fool.”

  “I don’t—truly I don’t! I never would have”—she swallowed hard, remembering—“done all I did with you, if I thought such.”

  He stopped on the path and turned her to face him, hands tight around her upper arms. “If I entrust you with my story, will you give me a chance to win your heart?”

  To win her heart, so he could trample it? To live in dread of the day he’d take his next mistress? To save his life, if it were indeed in jeopardy, she had to agree. But if he confirmed her suspicions, she’d have to betray his confidence to keep him safe. She screwed her eyes shut at the conundrum before opening them on a long shuddering breath. “Yes. Tell me the whole truth. If you want me after that, I won’t shut you out.”

  He laughed hars
hly. “If? God, Callista, all I do, night and day, is want you.” He grabbed her by the arms and squeezed hard. “I want you, body and soul—do you understand?” His eyes flared hot. “Be warned, I’ll hold you to that promise.”

  “I hope you will, Dominick,” she whispered, moved to near tears. “But first, please, tell me.”

  “The truth”—he dropped his hands and turned away—“is I’m not sure what’s true anymore, except I’m a fraud and have been all my life.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked, truly bewildered. “How can that be?”

  He hissed out a breath and then, as if some damn burst, said all in a rush, “I’m no smooth society lover; it’s all a mask. That’s not me at all. I’d spend all my days in the library, if I could. I want to read and write as a philosopher and a scholar.”

  She let his words echo in the quiet of the gathering dusk and then asked gently, “So the essays are yours? You are Amator Philosophiae, the Lover of Philosophy?”

  “Yes,” he answered heavily. He began to walk again, heading toward the central statue of William III, looking grander atop his horse than he ever had in real life. She tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and stayed close to his side.

  “I use that pseudonym for all my essays,” he said. “There’s no way to connect me to them. I even write anonymously to the journal editor when arranging their publication.”

  “None but Mr. Thompson, and now I, know this?”

  “As far as I know—why do you ask?”

  She avoided that question for now. “Do you intend never to go public?”

  He shook his head. “Not at this point. I doubt anyone would believe me. I don’t want my connection made known; it would only seem ridiculous.”

  “But why do you say that?” she asked. “Your father was a philosopher; why couldn’t you carry on the family tradition?”

  He smiled down ruefully at her. “It can’t be done, apparently, if one looks as I do.”

  She looked up at him, her brow still furrowed, and waited for him to explain. He sighed and led them over to the small open building that held the garden seat. Its heavy pediment and ionic columns sheltered an empty stone bench, cast in deep shadow. He pulled her down onto it and sat, playing with her gloved fingers as he looked out across the darkening park.

  “Mother always said I looked perfect even as a baby, not red and wrinkly like other newborns, but plump and smooth. Apparently, I had ‘satiny pinkish skin and the most adorable cap of silky blond curls.’ ” He twirled a finger mockingly in the hair escaping from his hat. “By the age of five, this adorableness already struck me as an impediment: ladies pinched my cheek, boys teased, Father curled his lip. So when I was twelve, I announced my desire to be a philosopher, like my father.”

  “What did he say?”

  Dominick lowered his voice deeper into imperious sarcasm: “ ‘Sow your wild oats, boy, then get ready to manage the estates. You’ll never be a philosopher.’ ” He blew out a humorless laugh. “For years, he did his best to discourage my every attempt and made sure my tutors at home and at college did the same. Eventually, I learned to hide my love of books as deep as I could.”

  She squeezed his hand, aching for the boy he had been. “I’m sorry, Dominick.”

  He shrugged. “There seemed only one path open, so instead of philosophy I ended up studying the one role everyone expected of me.”

  “What happened?”

  He dropped her fingers. “I became what I am. Not a Master of Love”—he scoffed at that label—“for what do I know of love? But a master, I suppose, of this ridiculous façade of flirtation and seduction. By the time Father died and I came into the title, people had long grown accustomed to calling me Lord Adonis. My mother took on a string of lovers and, frankly, encouraged me to do the same. Everyone always seemed to think because she and I favor each other in looks, we’re alike in temperament and interests as well. That’s when that Master of Love idiocy started up—God, I still want to cringe every time I hear it.”

  “So you play a role, pretending to be someone you aren’t, in order to protect yourself and carve out a space in which you can write?”

  “More or less.” He shifted away from her on the bench. “Pitiful, isn’t it?”

  The lifetime of pain in his flat tone wrung her heart, but there was another question she forced herself to ask. “What about all your lovers over the years? Marie tells me your name has been linked with dozens of ladies.”

  “It’s all rumor and innuendo, no more.” He lifted one broad shoulder carelessly. “I charm, I flirt, I never take it beyond that.”

  “Never?” she had to ask.

  He moved back toward her and looked into her eyes. “I had a mistress for many years. One—only ever one. A year and a half ago, with my blessing, she went home to marry her sweetheart. My bed has been empty since then, Callista.”

  She blinked, digesting this news. “And Lady Barrington?”

  “It suited both our purposes to allow people to think what they would. She’s been a friend and my hostess; that’s all.” He slid closer and gathered both her hands in his to press a kiss against her knuckles. “It’s the truth, Callista, I swear.”

  She hesitated, looking down at their joined hands, and then raised her chin to meet his gaze. “I believe you, Dominick. Thank you for trusting me. Your essays are wondrously fine; you must know that. I admire both them and you as their author tremendously. May I think over all you’ve told me whilst you’re in Edinburgh? Perhaps we could talk again upon your return?”

  He searched her face. She trembled with the secrets she kept from him but held her eyes steady. Let him see what he would.

  He was apparently satisfied, for he nodded once. “I’ll be back Sunday next. We’ll talk then.”

  She stretched up and pressed a quick kiss to the perfectly chiseled plane of his cheek. When he raised his arms to deepen the embrace, her breath caught on a sob; she didn’t expect he’d ever let her touch him again.

  “Promise me you’ll be careful, Dominick”—she twisted away and rose, slipping from his grip—“and have a safe trip.”

  She waved off his escort, fighting tears, and headed quickly into the dark, back toward the carriage and the gas lamps now flickering along the park fence.

  She understood him so much better now.

  But understanding only made it worse.

  At home in bed that night, after her bath, she went over it all again in her head.

  Bizarre though the situation was, it made sense. Thompson had Dominick’s essay in his possession. The young man had the motivation and, with the recipe for poison, the means to murder his patron and claim the entire lauded series of philosophy essays as his own. The tutor’s future would be secured.

  But if she were wrong, had somehow misunderstood . . .

  Dominick would never forgive her. If she exposed his great secret, betrayed his trust for no good reason, he’d have every grounds to hate her. And if she were mistaken about Thompson, it would ruin the young man’s career to bring such charges against him. She knew too well what it was to be the victim of false accusations; she wouldn’t bring these charges against him without more evidence. Nor did she care to destroy Dominick’s faith in his protégé Thompson, the one person he’d trusted enough to show his writing.

  What she needed was a way to remove the Cambridge instructor’s motivation without having to publicly accuse him of the crime. But her top priority had to be Dominick’s safety; she couldn’t ignore her suspicions when doing so might lead to his death. She remembered urging him earlier, weeks ago, to share his writing with Thompson and felt a stab of guilt for her responsibility in what might have led to such a betrayal. It was she as well who’d brought the recipe for poison into Dominick’s household. A hard shudder racked her frame at the thought of Dominick contorted in pain, dying from the toxin. No matter how their odd connection was destined to end, even if it meant she’d never see him again, she couldn’t bear to risk his co
ming to such a horrible death.

  She had to do something.

  She could tell him to avoid all wine and spirits, on the assumption Thompson would place the poison in such, but what gentleman would give up drink without explanation? And Thompson, if he were intent on murder, could always find another means. If only there were a way, within the next few days, to let the world know Lord Rexton, the Master of Love, was really Amator Philosophiae, the Lover of Philosophy—and to do so without revealing herself as the source of the information or Thompson as the source of the threat. If the world knew Dominick was the essays’ author, Thompson would have no way to claim them as his own. His motivation for killing his patron would cease to exist. Dominick would be unmasked but safe. And if he didn’t attribute the unmasking to her, perhaps they would still have a chance—at something.

  As she tossed in bed, an idea slowly formed in her mind. It was risky, mad, even dangerous, and Dominick would hate it. If he found out she was behind it, he’d denounce her publicly; her book trade would be gone for good. She’d also need the assistance of Billy and Marie to pull off the scheme, and they’d be sure to lodge even greater protests. But the more she reflected, the more her plot seemed the only chance to ensure Dominick’s safety and neutralize Thompson without exposing the tutor and creating even more problems.

  If she proceeded, however, Dominick would be the one exposed.

  Very, very exposed.

  Yet it seemed the only way.

  She had no time to lose. Tossing back her covers and ignoring the cold night air, she set to work.

  Chapter 18

  If she hadn’t felt so nervous about the success of her mission, the clothing would have been quite enjoyable. Such freedom males experienced in their less restrictive trousers and coats—especially as a scruffy street boy! The attire, however, didn’t make up for the discomforts of the third-class railcar on the overnight train from London. Callista had slept horribly in the cold and drafty coach, propped up in her seat, worried about Dominick and worn out from the fierce dispute she’d had with Marie and Billy.