Chapter One

London, 1835

"M r. Abelard, my niece is in need of a tutor."

Peter Abelard gave the man behind the desk a bright smile. If there was any justice in the world, geniuses would not have to endure job interviews. By all rights, Peter should have been lecturing to an auditorium full of adoring students, or authoring an essay on conceptualism, or simply thinking very deeply. But justice was in short supply, and so he found himself sitting on a stiff chair in a rich man's study, being inspected like a spring calf on market day. He stretched his smile even wider.

"I'm just the man, Sir," Peter said.

Mr. Fulbert, Peter's potential employer, narrowed his eyes. Fulbert was obscenely wealthy; that much was obvious from a glance around the study, all silk-dress walls and gleaming mahogany furniture. The room even smelled expensive, of polished leather and cigar smoke. But the man himself seemed out of place. Fulbert was middle-aged, and slight. He wore his thin, brown hair slicked back with pomade. His clothing was fashionable, but he lacked the bred-in-the-bone confidence of a gentleman born to wealth. Fulbert had a flinty look that Peter associated with men who worked for their money and knew what desperation felt like. Peter had seen the same look in the mirror that very morning.

Fulbert, who clearly felt he had better things to do than hire a tutor, drummed his fingers on his desk. "My niece is my ward. She's been with me since the age of twelve. She always insisted on managing her own education." He arched a slender brow at Peter. "Now, at twenty-two, she insists on a tutor."

Peter cringed inwardly. Providing elementary lessons to a spoiled heiress was close to his idea of hell. But he couldn't afford to let this opportunity slip by.

"I'm confident I can meet her needs." Peter folded his hands sagely on his knee. "I was granted a professorship at twenty-five, the youngest in my college's history. I've mentored countless students and made significant contributions to the field of philosophy."

Fulbert looked bored. He reached across the desk and poured himself a glass of brandy from a cut-crystal decanter. The winter sunlight bled through the thick-paned window, sparkling on the faceted tumbler as he filled it to the brim. Was Fulbert aware of the events of the week prior, which had resulted in Peter's dismissal and expulsion from campus? There seemed no way to know without asking, and Peter would rather die.

"Salary paid on the first of the month," Fulbert said, ignoring Peter's list of qualifications. "Take your meals in the kitchen, or your room. You'll have a chamber on the second floor."

Any accommodation would be an improvement on the boarding house in which Peter had spent the week. There, instead of the mellow tolling of bells in the university steeple, he was jolted awake by the hurried stamping of boots, and the wet, hacking cough of the man in the next room. "I'm grateful for the opportunity," Peter said with sincere feeling. "You won't regret your choice."

Fulbert fixed Peter with a shrewd look. "On that note, my niece has assured me there'll be no need for a chaperone. Seeing as how you're a scholar and a respected professor."

That had been true until last week. Peter didn't offer a correction.

"My niece is a grown woman. I'm inclined to allow her some independence." As Fulbert spoke, his brown eyes darkened, and his narrow face filled with menace. "But if you do anything to threaten this family's reputation, you will be very sorry, indeed."

Peter kept his smile steady. "You may rely on me to behave as a proper gentleman."

Fulbert studied Peter for another moment. Then he downed his drink in one thirsty swallow and set the glass on the desk with a clunk. "You'd best get started, then." He gestured to the door.

Peter rose from his chair and stood shifting his weight on the thick Persian rug. "Is that all?"

"What else?"

Everything was happening so fast. This position, the answer to Peter's fervent prayers, was suddenly a reality. "What knowledge has your niece cultivated thus far? To what subjects shall I devote our lessons?"

"How the hell should I know?" Fulbert turned his attention to a stack of correspondence on his desk. He tore open a letter and peered at it down his narrow nose. "End of the hall." Fulbert didn't bother to raise his eyes. "Great hulking door. You can't miss it."

Peter waited another moment for some words of welcome or encouragement. When none were forthcoming, he let himself quietly out of the study and went to meet his student.