The dreadful evening continued as course after course was served. Mitch heard a middle-aged man braying like a bull, the girl beside him looking more and more embarrassed until she accidentally knocked her wineglass into his lap. Mitch had the feeling it might be worth getting to know her, but she left in a hurry as the servants helped the man sort himself out. He couldn’t help feeling sorry for them. It couldn’t be easy to work in an aristocratic household. He knew he would have gone mad - or gotten himself arrested - very quickly.
He breathed a sigh of relief as the dinner finally came to an end and the guests started flowing into the dance hall or spilling out onto the lawn. The staff had set up dozens of tiny lights, turning the garden into a maze that would have been romantic under other circumstances. It was impossible to believe they’d put so much effort into a party. Mitch had arranged gatherings and staff meetings, when he’d been a junior officer, and they’d been far simpler. It helped, he supposed, that everyone had been in the navy. They’d known how to put their egos aside and work together for the greater good.
Mitch stood and headed up the stairs, back to the balcony. He knew he should join the dancing, but what was the point? No one would notice his absence. He didn’t belong on the estate. His presence was a reminder that there was a world beyond the distant walls, a world where people without connections and estates and limitless bank accounts struggled for survival. Not for the first time, Mitch considered applying to emigrate to Britannia or another colony world. There was a great deal more social mobility on a world that was desperately short on settlers.
He reached the top of the stairs and peered into the darkness. There were no lanterns on this side of the estate. The darkness seemed almost a living thing. He looked up at the stars overhead, wondering just how many of them were space stations and orbital industrial nodes and everything else that kept human society going. Unicorn was up there somewhere, too small to be seen with the naked eye. He felt a twinge of guilt. He’d desperately needed leave, but ...
“You left early,” a feminine voice said. “Don’t want to dance?”
“No,” Mitch said. He turned to see Charlotte Hammond standing by the door. “I don’t think anyone wants to dance with me.”
“You might be surprised,” Charlotte said. It was hard to make out her expression in the gloom. “You’re a legitimate war hero.”
“Yes,” Mitch agreed. “And that and five pounds will buy me a cup of tea.”
Charlotte laughed, but there was a hint of nervousness in the sound. “You don’t like the party?”
Mitch decided to be honest. “No,” he said. “I don’t know anyone here.”
“It’s a good chance to make connections,” Charlotte said. She stepped closer. He was suddenly aware, very aware, of her body. The dress concealed her bare skin while leaving little to the imagination. “You never know who you might meet here.”
“I’m no good at making connections,” Mitch said. “It feels too much like kissing ass.”
Charlotte giggled. “That’s true,” she said. “But that’s not why I invited you.”
And she leaned forward and kissed him. Hard.
Chapter Four
Mitch awoke, suddenly.
He was in his room, the giant suite that wouldn’t have shamed an admiral, and he wasn’t alone. Someone was sleeping in the bed next to him, snoring loudly ... he sat up and saw dark hair spilling over the pillow. A flash of alarm ran through him. What the hell had he done? Had he lured one of the debs into bed? Or ... he froze, torn between hope and fear, as he remembered the previous night. Charlotte had seduced him. No, she’d kissed him and he’d kissed her back and ... they’d wound up in bed together. He tried to tell himself that it was still evening, that he’d only slept for a few moments, but the light streaming through the windows was a grim reminder that it was morning. The following morning. They were going to be caught at any second ...
Panic washed through him, followed by grim amusement. Duelling wasn’t legal. Not really. He’d heard stories, but ... he shook his head. He’d bet his life - he was betting his life - that he could outdraw and outshoot Captain Hammond. Mitch had spent his entire career on small ships, where everyone - even the captain - had to get his hands dirty. He’d kept up with his shooting whenever he’d had the chance, while Captain Hammond had Royal Marines to do the dirty work for him. Mitch could win a duel ... he cursed under his breath as more and more memories surfaced. Captain Hammond could really screw with his career. The Admiralty would not be amused.
Fucking a captain’s wife is bound to be against some kind of regulation, Mitch thought, with a flicker of humour. A wife who cheated on her husband when he was away on military service would be lucky if she was just sent to Coventry. It was socially unacceptable, even if the husband was an abusive piece of shit. I’m sure they can come up with something if they try.
He stared down at Charlotte. She wasn’t his usual type. She was easily ten years older than him, perhaps more; her body was pleasantly plump, with a hint she might become genuinely obese if she didn’t take care of herself. She’d had two children, he recalled, both in their late teens. And yet ... the memories mocked him. How many times had they done it? Three? Four? It was hard to believe she was that much of a tiger between the sheets, but the memories didn’t lie. He’d heard stories about older women, when he’d been a teenager. He’d always assumed they’d been made up, just like every other locker room story. He wasn’t so sure now. Charlotte hadn’t played coy and waited for him to make the first move. She’d been the one who’d kissed him. It had been one hell of a turn-on.
Charlotte opened her eyes and smiled. “Good morning.”
Mitch glanced at the clock. “It’s seven,” he said, as she sat upright. Her breasts bobbled in front of his eyes. It was hard to raise his gaze to meet hers. “Shouldn’t you ...?”
His words caught in his throat. Charlotte had been with him all night. Her husband was in the same goddamned house! Surely, he’d have noticed something. Captain Hammond had a lack of imagination, Mitch knew from their disagreements, but surely he wouldn’t have missed his wife not coming to bed. And what about the guests? Mitch couldn’t believe Charlotte had chased them all out, before coming to him. The party had been planned to last into the wee small hours. For all he knew, the guests might be still downstairs. A couple had been drunk enough to pass out well before the party came to an end.
“Not really,” Charlotte said. Her eyes moved to his crotch. “Thomas and I don’t sleep together.”
Mitch stared at her, unsure what he’d gotten himself into in every sense of the word. Charlotte was naked, gloriously naked. She wasn’t making any attempt to cover herself. Mitch had spent his entire adult life in the navy, where privacy was non-existent, but still ... he’d never known a girl who’d been so comfortable naked. It wasn’t as if they’d spent weeks or months or years together. His relationships rarely lasted so long. It had bothered him, sometimes, that he didn’t have a permanent girl back home. And yet ... he felt cold at the thought. Unicorn was tiny, compared to a fleet carrier or battleship. A handful of missiles would be more than enough to blow her into dust.
“You don’t?” Mitch’s voice seemed strange, even to him. “You don’t ... not at all?”
Charlotte stood, knelt by the side of the bed and took him into her mouth. Mitch stiffened, automatically, as her tongue started provoking him. It was suddenly very hard to think straight, let alone stand, bend her over the bed and enter her from the rear. It crossed his mind to wonder, a second too late, if one of the servants would hear them. Charlotte seemed completely abandoned, lost in pleasure. Mitch gave himself up to her, knowing - even as he lost control - that he was making a mistake. But he’d always known his life was going to be short.
Afterwards, they stood on wobbly legs and headed into the shower. Mitch was used to communal showers, but he still felt odd showering with her. Charlotte looked stunning as water ran down her body, washing away all traces of t
heir lovemaking ... Mitch tried to force himself to relax, praying to God she knew what she was doing. Her husband might come looking for her at any moment, if it crossed his mind to wonder where the hell she was. It was weird to think of a husband not sharing his bed with his wife. Mitch couldn’t understand it. He’d always liked spending time with his girlfriends.
“I ...” He stopped suddenly, unsure how he should address her. He’d just been inside her! “I ... how do you know Captain Hammond won’t find us?”
Charlotte shrugged. “We always sleep in, after a party,” she said. “Thomas has no engagements today. He can spend the entire morning in bed, if he likes. The maids will bring him coffee, and breakfast, when he wakes. We’re not due to have lunch until one.”
“After which we’re expected to head back to London,” Mitch said. He wondered, suddenly, if the plans had changed. It wouldn’t be the first time the military bureaucracy had mindlessly tried to follow an outdated plan. “Will you ... why?”
Charlotte looked at him. Mitch reminded himself, sharply, that she was a very intelligent woman. She ran the estate, when her husband was on active service. The party had probably been harder to arrange than he’d thought, given how many high-ranking or well-connected people had attended. And ... he wondered, suddenly, how many other guests she’d dragged into bed. She’d been alone for months ... no, not alone. She’d been surrounded by servants.
“Because I get bored easily,” Charlotte said. “Does that answer your question?”
Mitch shrugged. “And the servants won’t talk?”
Charlotte smiled. There was a very sharp edge to the expression. “They’re loyal to me, not to Thomas,” she said. “Even the oldest of old retainers knows better than to pick a fight with his mistress. If they talked ... I’d fire them. I wouldn’t have to blacklist them. The mere act of tattling on me would be quite enough to blacklist them from any respectable work. No one would trust them. How could they?”
Her voice hardened. “As far as anyone knows, I spent the night in my own room,” she added, dryly. “No one will care enough to investigate.”
“I hope you’re right,” Mitch said. Her comment about servants blacklisting themselves had unsettled him. “Can I ask a question?”
“Of course,” Charlotte said. She picked up the shampoo and lathered it into her hair. “Go ahead.”
“You went to a lot of trouble to arrange a party,” Mitch said. He bit down the urge to point out just how much money had been wasted on the party. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of families could have been fed for the same amount. “Why?”
Charlotte said nothing as she washed the soap out of her hair. “Politics,” she said, finally. “It isn’t just telling people what to do, you know?”
She grinned. “Think of politics, and social interaction, as a battlefield and you won’t be far wrong.”
“How so?” Mitch found it hard to believe. “A regular battle would leave hundreds of people dead or bleeding or ...”
“Social death is death, without an end,” Charlotte said, suddenly serious. “Someone who makes a serious mistake, one they don’t have the social capital to avoid, is likely to wind up in big trouble.”
She turned off the tap and reached for a towel. “On your ship, you give the orders and people snap to obey, right?”
“More or less,” Mitch said. A good captain, one who understood his men weren’t machines, could get more out of them than a martinet. “But that’s the basics.”
“Not here,” Charlotte said. She waved a hand at the wall. “The people I invited are well-connected, either directly or indirectly; owners of the land, titans of industry, men of wealth and power ... some of the women I invited have little formal power, but considerable influence. None of them would react well if anyone, even the monarch, was to give them a direct order and expect them to follow it. Instead, they come here - and to other parties - where they are convinced to support the government and ruling factions.”
Mitch frowned. “You make it sound like a game.”
“It is,” Charlotte said. “And one played for the very highest stakes.”
She shrugged. “Lady Bracknell wants her son to marry well,” she said. “She’s got multiple irons in the fire, trying to determine which bride would be in the best interests of the family. Lord Darlington owns title to a bunch of asteroids, which are worthless unless he manages to sell mining rights to someone prepared to pay for them; Lord Roderick is hoping to convince the social queens to make his creations fashionable so his dressmaking shop becomes profitable ...”
“You’re kidding me,” Mitch said. “He makes dresses!”
Charlotte laughed. “There are men who wouldn’t be seen dead cooking for their wives,” she said. “And yet, at the same time, those men are professional cooks.”
“It’s the same thing,” Mitch said.
“It’s a matter of presentation,” Charlotte said. “Point is, you cannot expect these people to unthinkingly do as they’re told. You have to convince them that it’s in their best interests to support you. Even if you have formal authority, you still want them on your side. It’ll save trouble in the long run.”
Mitch was torn between fascination and an odd sense they were talking about different things. It was hard to understand what she was saying, even though it ... he shook his head as he towelled himself down. The aristocracy was a whole other world. He’d been in foreign parts, but ... he’d never felt so alienated. Perhaps it wasn’t a surprise. America and France had been foreign. He’d known they’d be different. But the British aristocracy was British.
Charlotte strode back into the bedroom and opened the chest of drawers. Mitch watched the sight, admiringly. Charlotte was striking. He knew it was partly the hormones talking, but ... he felt himself stiffen again. He forced himself to look away. It was nearly eight. They were pushing it. God alone knew what the guests had thought, when Charlotte vanished ...
He turned away to pick up his own clothes. “What about the guests? You left them alone.”
“Unsupervised, you mean?” Charlotte shot him a wink. “By tradition, the hostess is meant to leave the party shortly after dinner. It’s a way of saying the party is now over and the guests can leave without causing offense. You left early, did you not?”
Mitch sighed. “Does anyone here really care about me?”
“Consider yourself lucky,” Charlotte told him. “If you were one of the young bucks, or the debs, you’d be watched like a hawk at all times.”
I notice you didn’t deny it, Mitch thought, as he watched her dress. There was something oddly enticing about watching her put on her clothes, even though - with every movement - she raised a barrier between them. Her dress was a uniform, in every way that mattered. It struck him, suddenly, that she’d planned the whole affair right from the start. How else would she have known to preposition clothes in his room? His lips quirked at the thought. I’ve known logistics officers who wouldn’t have done so well.
He frowned as she stood, brushed down her dress, and stepped through the door. The room felt bigger without her, as if her personality had pervaded the chamber. It was hard to believe, somehow, that she and Captain Hammond’s wife were the same person. Mitch wasn’t unused to the slight confusion that came with seeing senior officers out of uniform, but ... he shook his head. Common sense said he should say nothing, go back to London, rejoin his ship and forget her. He’d never been very good at listening to his common sense.
This isn’t the first time she’s done this, Mitch thought. It was hardly the kind of risk anyone would take on a whim. Charlotte would have to be very certain the servants wouldn’t rat her out. Who really owned the estate? Mitch had always had the impression it was Captain Hammond, but ... what if he was wrong? What if it was Charlotte? What if ...?
There was a knock at the door. Mitch hastily finished putting on his trousers and shirt, then raised his voice. “Come in!”
A maid stepped into the room, carrying a breakfas
t tray with practised ease. She was a slight girl, wearing a uniform from a bygone era that exposed the tops of her breasts. Mitch felt oddly creeped out by the display. It was unlikely the maid had been allowed to choose her uniform. She certainly didn’t have the raw sensuality Charlotte had displayed ... he pointed to the table, silently indicating she should put the tray there and leave. It was hard not to feel sorry for the girl. If she was so short of career options, she had to go into service ...
He felt an odd stab of resentment. It wasn’t fair. The world wasn’t fair - he knew the world wasn’t fair - and yet it still stung. He was a firm believer that everyone should have the right to climb as high as they could and ... it was a sick joke to remember the guests from the previous evening and realise that doors were opened to them simply because of who and what they were. Admiral Onarina had cut her way to the top through sheer brilliance, but how many other senior commanders owed everything to a name? Mitch himself knew he was unlikely to be offered command of a battleship, let alone a promotion to admiral. Not, he supposed, that he’d want either. A frigate might be small, but she could go places no one would dare take a battleship.
Fighting For The Crown (Ark Royal Book 16) Page 4