Precious Bones (5 page)

Richard ordered John to stop before a sho
p and went in to buy some sugared marzipan for Mistress Thorne.  In his experience, ladies always enjoyed gifts.  He also picked up a bunch of violets from a young girl selling them on the corner, and climbed back into the carriage eager to make his call.

Chapter 13

Edward Norris threw back his head and moaned with pleasure as the boy’s lips encircled his cock, sucking rhythmically.  The boy was new to the Norris household and performed his duties admirably.   Norris bit back another moan, remembering his wife in the next room, and twirled his fingers through the boy’s hair, pulling his head closer and urging him to suck harder.  He closed his eyes and tried to imagine Richard Carlisle doing the deed instead, his blond hair lustrous in the candlelight, his generous mouth wrapped around Edward’s engorged member.  The thought of Richard undid Edward as usual, and he spilled his seed into the lad’s mouth with a soft cry of release. 

He absentmindedly patted Matthew on the head and sent him from the room.  He would not need his services again tonight.  He was
too tired from an afternoon spent in the Tower to swive the lad, regardless of how delicious his young body was, and how seductive he looked lying face down on the big bed, ready to receive Edward.

Edward pulled a nightshirt over his head and
climbed into bed, blowing out the candle.  Thoughts of Richard tormented him day and night ever since he had spotted him at Court five years ago.  Edward had not been in love since he was a young man, and to find himself yearning for someone after all these years was a sweet torment.  Of course, Carlisle did not share his tastes, and judging from the gossip, had enjoyed the favors of several prominent ladies of the Court.   To his credit, none of them had been married.  Edward himself had been married these past twenty years, and the sour face of his wife was enough to drive him not only from the marriage bed, but from the house altogether. 

Grace had prove
n a great disappointment, and after several miscarriages, had finally produced a sickly daughter, who died a few months after birth.  She looked like a woman twice her age, and Edward had quit her bed after the last miscarriage vowing never to return.  He preferred the company of boys anyway.  He never forced or threatened anyone, at least not in his own home.  He liked them to come to him willingly and enjoy pleasuring him, and he made sure to hire “assistants” who responded to his bold gaze and didn’t flinch when he brushed his hand over their cock. 

Matthew was all of seventeen and just the sight of his naked body was enough to arouse Edward’s lust.  He had long
ago given up on Richard, but the feelings wouldn’t go away, turning from love to lust to resentment.  The thought of him on his knees with Edward in his mouth was a sweet fantasy that brought Edward to the brink every time.  He went out of his way to treat Richard with contempt in public, trying to hide his secret.  Carlisle would be disgusted if he ever found out, and Edward couldn’t bear that.  He’d sooner kill him.

He finally fell asleep dreaming of Richard’s blue eyes and strong thighs.

Chapter 1
4

Constance sat in her favorite window seat mending one of Tom’s shirts.   The weak sunshine streamed through the diamond-shaped panes of the leaded window, and she absentmindedly stabbed the needle into the fabric, paying little mind to what she was actually doing.  A smile played about her generous mouth and she finally put the shirt down, unable to concentrate.  She was caught by surprise when Richard Carlisle had shown up at the door yesterday bringing a bunch of violets and a box of sweets.  He looked slightly embarrassed as he presented her with his gifts and inquired about her injured hand and bruised ribs.  Constance assured him that she was quite well and introduced him to Tom, who happened to be at home.  She watched Richard as the two men talked and thought how handsome he looked in his dark-blue breeches, matching leather doublet, and a coat of dove gray shot through with silver thread.  Carlisle’s eyes kept straying to her as he spoke with Tom, and he asked Tom for permission to take Constance for a drive. 

Tom politely declined, explaining that it would be inappropriate for an unmarried young woman to share a carriage with a man who wasn’t her relative or
fiancée, but consented to allow them to take a walk by the river.   She threw on her fur-lined velvet cloak and allowed Richard to escort her from the house.   The day was brisk for March, but the weak sunshine provided a little warmth against the chill of the afternoon.  There was a lot of traffic on the Thames that day, and they watched the packet boats coming and going across the river, their oars dipping into the murky water and their lanterns doing little to dispel the fog swirling over the surface.  The usual smell of mud and rotten fish was blown away by the fresh breeze, and the occasional whiff of roasted chestnuts reminded Connie of Christmas. 

Constance felt a
little shy with Richard, but he sensed her discomfort and tried to put her at ease by telling her amusing stories of Court life.   Constance had never been to Whitehall Palace and had only seen the Queen once or twice as she left the city to go on Progress followed by all her courtiers and household goods.   The procession was an awesome thing to behold as the numerous carriages and wagons rolled through the city gates toward the house of whatever nobleman had the dubious honor of hosting the Queen.  It was said that entertaining the royal party had ruined many a man, and most of the Queen’s subjects prayed that she would never come their way. 

By the time
Richard had escorted Constance home, she felt more at ease, and blushed prettily as he took her hand, peeled off her glove and kissed it, his eyes never leaving her face.

“May I call on you again, Mistress Thorne?” 

“That would be most pleasant, my lord,” she replied as she let herself into the house, leaving him gazing after her. 

Connie wished she could tell Pippa all about Richard, but Pippa had already taken up her post and wouldn’t be home until Saturday evening.  It was only Tuesday and Connie would have to wait to talk to
her sister.  In the meantime, she could dream and hope that Mr. Carlisle kept his promise and came to see her again.

Chapter 15

April 2010

I
’d just closed the door behind Tristan and went into the kitchen when I heard a knock.  He must have forgotten something.  I would have to get him a spare key.  I flung open the door to find Adrian Turner standing on my doorstep holding out a huge bouquet of flowers and a bottle of wine. 

“Peace offering,” he declared
, waiting for me to invite him in.

“I didn’t know we were at war,
” I countered, stepping aside to let him pass.  I couldn’t imagine what he was doing here.   

“Cassandra, I came to apologize for my behavior.  It was unforgivable.  I acted like a pompous ass and I
’m truly sorry.  I don’t know what came over me.”  He stood there waiting for me to offer forgiveness, but I wasn’t ready to let him off the hook.

“Yes, you were a pompous ass.”  I just stood there waiting for him to leave. 

“Please allow me to make it up to you.  Let me take you to dinner, restaurant of your choice.”

“That won’t be necessary
, Mr. Turner.  Thank you for the flowers.”  I made a move toward the door, but he stopped me.

“Cassandra, please.  It’s only a meal.  It will give us a chance to get to know each other.”  I would have preferred
for him to leave, but I didn’t want to be churlish, so I relented.  “All right.  There is a good Indian place a few blocks from here.  We can go there.  I’m in the mood for a curry.  Would that suit?”

“Perfect
ly.  Lead the way.”  I reluctantly put on my coat and followed him out of the door.  Maybe he could explain what he had been doing here the day I came to look at the house, and what he meant by his strange comment.

Punjab House was a small Indian restaurant located around the corner from St. Paul’s Cathedral.  The storefront was not very impressive, but once you passed through the beaded curtain into the dining room the impression was of walking into a Hindu temple.  There were ornate wooden carvings on the walls depicting scenes from the lives of Hindu gods and colorful candles burned around the shrine to the goddess Lakshmi, who sat cross-legged on a lotus flower situated on a carved chest of rose-colored wood.  She had two arms out in front of her, palms up, and two arms raised behind her holding a flower in each hand.   A mural of the snow-capped Grand Pavilions was painted on the back wall, while soft Indian music warbled in the background.  Our waiter placed our entrees on the table and departed after bowing subserviently.

Adrian poured me another glass of wine
and then topped up his own glass before inhaling the aroma from his plate of lamb vindaloo. 

“This smells
divine.  I love this place.  Well done.”  He took an experimental bite and rolled his eyes in mock ecstasy.   I took a bite of my own food and studied Adrian over my wine glass.  He was as handsome as I remembered, with those slanted eyes that made me think of being watched in a dark wood by a ruthless predator.  His hair fell onto his face and his skin was tanned a golden brown, which was odd for London in April, unless he was a frequent patron of tanning salons.  He probably spent his days working out at some gym and then working on his tan. 

So far, our conversation had
been mostly about me.  Adrian Turner had asked me a lot of questions about my life, and I was beginning to feel that he was strangely fascinated by me.  His scrutiny was starting to make me uncomfortable, so I decided it was time to turn the tables on him.

“Mr
. Turner, what did you do before you took over your grandfather’s publishing house?”  He had to be at least thirty, and I wondered what kind of privileged existence he led at the expense of his wealthy family.

“
Please, call me Adrian.  I’m a photographer,” he took another bite, chewing thoughtfully as he seemed to debate whether to tell me something.

“D
o you take portraits or photographs of nature?” I inquired, hoping to provoke him into telling me more about himself.  He seemed to make up his mind and put down his fork.

“Neither, actually. 
I graduated from Christ Church College with a degree in Political Science before going off to pursue my real interest.  I spent the better part of the last eight years in the Middle East, where I worked as a freelance war photographer, going wherever there was conflict, and stories of human suffering to be told.  I spent time in Iraq and Afghanistan, crossing over into Pakistan over the mountains.  I was actually in Kurdistan when my granddad summoned me home. “

“I had no idea,” I mumbled
, feeling ashamed of myself.  I had assumed that Adrian Turner lived a pampered and easy life, and I found it hard to picture him going native in places I’d only seen on television. 

“Will you
remain in London?’

“For now.  My grandfather built his company from the ground up
, and I have to make sure that his life’s work is not wasted, so I’ll stay as long as I’m needed and then I’ll see.  It’s a little strange being back here and sleeping in a nice clean bed, while out there children are stepping on land mines and fanatical young men are blowing themselves up in crowded squares.”

“Is it a relief to be back at home?”

“No,” he answered thoughtfully, “it’s not.  After living for years in places torn by war, where innocent civilians are desperately trying to survive and keep their children from getting caught in the crossfire, it’s surreal coming back home and finding people passionately discussing Kate Middleton’s new hat, or David Beckham’s penchant for wearing nail polish.  No one really wants to know what’s going on out there beyond the occasional picture in the paper or a brief report on the BBC.  It interferes too much with their enjoyment of the finer things in life.”

I was taken aback by his intensity
, and despite my previous decision not to like him, was moved by his passion.

“So what have you been doing since you got back
, besides orchestrating a shake-down at the company?”

Adrian gave me a sheepish smile.  “I
’ve been an absolute terror, I’m afraid.  I’ve forgotten what it’s like to play at corporate politics, and I’ve managed to step on a number of important toes.  Now I’m trying to make amends, starting with our star author.  Aside from that, I’ve tried reconnecting with a few old mates from school.   Those few get-togethers were scarier than anything I saw in the Middle East.  Intense discussions of day schools for their toddlers, and horror stories of waspish mothers-in-law, left me craving some good old Taliban fighters armed with the latest hardware from the Russians.  I have become depressingly anti-social.”

“
What of your parents or siblings?”

“
I’m an only child.  My father died a few years ago of a heart attack, and Mum is currently living in Miami with her new husband, who made  a killing selling knock-off iPod accessories.  She has no interest in running the company.  I’m the only candidate,” he said with a sigh.  “Now tell me about you.  Have you been writing?”

I should have resented the question, but I
found myself telling him about my new book.  I didn’t mention the candlelit shapes I saw in the house, but told him about the inspiration for my heroine.  He asked to see the locket, and I went to unfasten it, handing it to him across the table.  He took it carefully and examined the intricate design on the cover for a long time before finally opening the locket.  Something came over his face as he looked intently at the picture within, and then at the initials engraved inside.  Did he recognize the woman? 
That’s impossible
, I thought to myself. 
How could he?

“Where did you get this?” his gaze was intense as he handed the necklace back to me.

“I found it at a stall in the Portobello Road flea market.  It was in a box full of rubbish.  I couldn’t believe my luck.”

“Luck indeed,” he said, looking thoughtful
, “what an amazing find.”  He gave the locket back to me and turned his attention to the waiter who materialized silently by our table. 

“Would you like some dessert, Cassandra?  They have sticky balls,” he added with a wicked grin.

“Thank you, Adrian, but I think I’ll pass on the balls this time around.”