Lilly was rather enjoying herself. She had taken to John, and was intrigued by Lucien’s flamboyant strangeness. John, as he outlined the duties she’d be expected to undertake, had given her to understand that the job was hers if she wanted it. This was a far cry from Mrs Langley’s regime and she leant forward, feeling rather daring, and said, “Is he always this ill-mannered?”
“You’ll have to excuse Lucien’s eccentricity,” John said in a confidential voice, though Lucien’s tut of exasperation from his lap made it clear he had heard the remark.
“Is he likely to start baying at the moon and chasing rabbits?”
“No.” Then John’s face took on a hunted expression. “Well, probably not. In his defence he is a very gifted private detective. The Metropolitan Police consult him on a regular basis. His facility for deductive reasoning…”
“Like Sherlock Holmes!” Lilly said gaily, and was surprised when Lucien sat up abruptly, fixed her with a jaundiced eye, and said, “Sherlock Holmes is a fool.”
“Oh, but his thinking is so original!” Lilly protested. “What is it he says, now? Once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”
Lucien snorted. “And that is precisely where he lacks imagination—in eliminating the impossible. One would think one could expect more from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle as an author. He is supposed to be the champion of the spiritualist movement, yet in his stories he insists on the merely pedestrian as the solution to every problem.”
He moved with an odd, long-limbed grace as he swivelled his legs off the settee and rose to his feet, gesticulating with his hands while he spoke. His fingers moved with intricate fluidity, as though he was playing an invisible musical instrument. “Séances, for example. Have you ever attended a séance, Miss James?”
“Elizabeth,” John murmured.
“Lilly to my friends,” she said, and they gave each other a conspiratorial look that gave her a warm sensation of fellow-feeling.
“Yes, yes, Lilly,” continued Lucien. “A modern woman. First name terms. A graduate of the Metropolitan School for Shorthand.”
Lilly felt a touch of surprise at this. She had thought him entirely self-absorbed—it seemed he had taken in more than she had given him credit for.
“I’m sure you’re a fan of all the new technologies—stencillographic oscillators and inspectacles and all the other accoutrements of the rational age…”
“Come now,” said Lilly. And she walked over and picked up the contraption he had been wearing when he’d come to the door, swinging it from her forefinger by one of its leather straps. “You wear inspectacles yourself.”
“Yes, yes,” he said impatiently, “but John invented those, of course, no matter what the patent office might have to say on the subject.”
He’d invented inspectacles? And was presumably responsible for the contraption in the armchair that had now started giving off occasional, alarming hisses and plumes of steam.
Before she could do more than glance at John in surprise, Lucien continued, “But just because I value the advantages modern steam technology can bring me, it doesn’t mean I dismiss the inexplicable, the ineffable, out of hand. So tell me, Miss James, have you ever been to a séance?”
She noticed he deliberately did not use the less formal method of address he had been granted, and decided that he clearly expected her to say that of course she had never been involved in any such nonsense. So she enjoyed the expression of surprise in his eyes—extraordinary eyes, she now noticed, pale grey, almost silver—when she said, “Of course. Twice.”
He studied her carefully, then his expression twisted into one of disbelief and dismissal. “Of course. For six pounds a week, I expect you’ve seen fairies dancing in the garden. Tell me, Miss James, where were these séances held?”
She knew he expected her make vague noises about some backroom table-rapping at an anonymous address to establish the story he believed to be patently false. So it was with some smugness that she said, “Doctor Moriarty Cain’s House of Spiritual Solace.”
It was perfectly true. On the first occasion, Mrs Langley had invited her along in the hopes that Lilly might be a convert to the cause, and Lilly had sat politely through the performance. Doctor Cain’s young girl assistant had spoken in a growling voice, supposed to be that of the late, long-suffering Mr Langley, and told her landlady he was in a better place. The next morning she had been given raspberry jam with her breakfast—a sign of high favour indeed.
On the second occasion, she had not been able to resist pointing out the very obvious tricks the so-called medium was using. Manipulating the specially-designed table with his knee to make it appear to rise and spin. Using a scrap of chalk affixed to the inside of his finger joint to produce ‘automatic writing’. Playing, essentially, on the desires of the grieving and the hopeless.
So she did think a little less of Lucien when he offered her a seat on the settee, hurried out for a plate of biscuits, and returned to sit next to her, suddenly attentive and willing to call her Lilly now that she’d apparently established her credentials as…what? A credulous ninny?
“Tell me, Lilly, what did you make of these séances you attended?”
She decided to make no bones about it. Through a mouthful of sticky gingersnap, she told him about her landlady’s character—essentially that of a woman who hoped to bully and nag her husband beyond the grave. Of her one-sided devotion to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. And she told him of what she suspected about fishing line or cat gut to give the impression of floating, and phosphorescent paint to give the impression of an unearthly glow.
So she was surprised, given his previous words on dismissing the uncanny, when he continued attentive and said eagerly, “And now, Lilly? You are talking about more than a year ago. Could you get in to Doctor Cain’s House of Spiritual Solace now? As a bona fide devotee?”
Lilly selected another biscuit from the plate and considered. “I suspect, Lucien, that with a little help from you, I could. If you could school yourself to correct society manners for half an hour or so.”
He rose quite considerably in her estimation when he did not take offence at this, but instead asked her what she had in mind.
And so it was decided. Lilly was to take up her post the following morning, for a half day, calling at nine in the morning and forewarned that Lucien was often bad-tempered if disturbed before noon. She didn’t find that piece of intelligence frightfully surprising. Then, once she had returned home for lunch, which she chose not to mention would consist of cold toast she had scrounged from her breakfast, Lucien and John would call on Mrs Langley. They would be scrubbed, clean-shaven and on their best behaviour, in their roles as consulting detective and his faithful assistant, under the guise of requesting a reference for their putative secretary. Back in favour with Mrs Langley, Lilly would ask if she could accompany her to the séance the following week…though with what object she had not yet ascertained.
She wasn’t certain she cared. She had liked John from the moment she had met him, and the more she knew of him, the less she thought Lucien was obnoxious and the more she thought he was intriguing. And six pounds was six pounds, and raspberry jam was raspberry jam.
Chapter Three
When she arrived at 43a Jermayne Street the next morning, her newly-cut key in hand and an efficient, friendly smile on her lips, she was alarmed to hear moans and what sounded like grunts of pain coming from behind the closed door. Was somebody fighting in there?
No doubt detectives and their inventor friends attracted all sorts of trouble. Perhaps she hadn’t thought this through! The system of education at Chancery lane had been thorough and varied, but even in this progressive age typing schools didn’t offer young ladies instruction in…in fisticuffs. But she could hardly just turn around and leave them if they were in trouble. She jumped as a stack of paper found its tipping point and tumbled onto the floor, then she froze. She didn’t even know where they were—bey
ond this sitting room where she’d been interviewed the day before, she didn’t know the layout of their living area.
Then, distinctly, she heard Lucien’s voice say, “Oh, John, yes!” That wasn’t the sound of torture.
She crept closer to the closed door.
There was a squeaking noise she recognised as the sound of elderly bedsprings protesting as someone shifted, then a low groan of pleasure that set up an unexpected flutter of sensation low in her belly.
She hesitated. Surely they couldn’t be doing what she thought they were doing…could they? She remembered how Lucien had laid with his head in John’s lap the previous day, the casual intimacy of it, and she raised her hand to her mouth and chewed pensively on her thumbnail.
Then, feeling that little frisson of excitement again, she crouched on the floor, careful not to make any sound, and put her eye to the keyhole.
She jerked back at once, almost falling backwards with the shock. Her heart seemed to be beating faster and harder, and she felt hot. She was sure they would be able to hear the rapid pant of her breathing, but she couldn’t stop herself from leaning forwards and looking through the keyhole again. She held her breath as she peeped through.
Lucien was on his hands and knees, stark naked, in the middle of the bed. His curls fell over his face in disarray, and those extraordinary, pale eyes were half-closed, eyelashes flickering as he moaned and writhed. His skin was incredibly white and perfectly smooth, though a single bead of sweat rolled down his flank and dropped onto the bedclothes.
John ran his tongue over the dimple just above Lucien’s tailbone, flicking and tasting, and Lucien spread his legs further apart and clenched his hands into fists, choking out a ‘Yes’ that had Lilly working her hand under her skirts to press her fingers between her legs, biting her lip as she tried to ease the throbbing ache that had started up there. It was shameless of her, but…oh.
John moved his square, blunt-fingered hands to Lucien’s hips, holding on to him hard enough to leave bruises with his fingertips, and buried his face in Lucien’s arse. As he withdrew momentarily, Lilly saw a flash of pink tongue, quick and clever.
The fabric of her gusset was damp, and she could feel the heat of her excitement through the cotton of her drawers. She began to move her fingers, rubbing gently, trying to ease the ache—but it only became stronger, more insistent.
She watched as John’s tongue flickered, teasing the rim of Lucien’s arse, and bit back the moan that threatened to escape from her parted lips. She felt hot and uncomfortable, restless, and she spread her legs further apart, rubbing herself harder with trembling fingers. The toe of her button boot scraped on the floor and the lips of her pussy made a lewd, sticky noise as she shifted. She froze, holding her breath again for a moment, waiting to see if they’d heard the tiny sounds.
Lucien reached down and took hold of his cock, running his fingers up its length and over the swollen head, hissing and shuddering with the sensation. John gripped his hips harder still and plunged his tongue inside him, moaning into Lucien’s flesh. His own cock twitched, slightly curved and erect against his belly, and Lilly found that she couldn’t take her eyes off it.
Her wrist was beginning to ache, from the weight of her gathered skirts and the rapid, frantic motion of her fingers, but a galvanic sensation was gathering in her cunt, her breathing becoming rapid and ragged.
This was certainly not genteel, or proper, but she found that she could not help herself—nor, if she was honest, did she really want to.
Lucien pumped his cock, shiny fluid beading on the tip, and his breathing became laboured. John gave another stifled moan and, as the sensation between Lilly’s thighs crested and surged, he gave his cock a final, hard caress. Thick, white fluid splattered the bedclothes and Lucien gave a hoarse, heartfelt cry just as, behind him, John tensed and found his own release.
Lilly bit her lip again and squeezed her eyes shut, assailed by dizziness as the heat spiralling low in her belly shattered into a million dazzling fragments of pleasure. Her heart beat wildly in her chest and she opened her mouth on a soundless cry of release.
Shuddering with the aftershocks of her climax, breathless, her pulse pounding in her throat, Lilly swallowed hard and leaned her sweat-damp forehead against the cool, varnished wood of the door. She felt boneless, as though she were floating. If their experience had been anything like as earth-shattering as hers, leaving her limbs feeling heavy and languid, she had a few moments to collect herself and recover her poise. Then it would simply be a matter of hiding her embarrassment when they emerged from the bedroom—presumably fully clothed.
It seemed as though this position was definitely going to be…educational. For one thing, she had already learned a lot about…well, positions.
She had just determined to test her trembling legs and smooth down her skirts when the door abruptly opened and she fell forward into the room, landing on hands and knees in front of an extremely naked Lucien.
Chapter Four
“Curiosity is a virtue in a detective’s assistant, Lilly. Though our methods are generally a little more sophisticated than peeping through keyholes.”
She glanced up, and immediately regretted it as she found her mouth was level with Lucien’s cock, still semi-erect, though less impressive than it had been moments ago.
“I…um…” She could smell him—a musky scent that made her nipples pebble beneath her bodice and set up a ghost of that treacherous ache in her cunt.
Then John yanked his lover back by the arm and threw a dressing gown at him. “Make yourself decent, Lucien.”
He held out his hand to Lilly. She took it and scrambled to her feet, relieved to see that he was already dressed in a burgundy-coloured robe with silk lapels, though his hair was dishevelled and he looked sleepy and sated. She quickly dropped her eyes, blushing furiously, unable to meet his gaze.
“I didn’t realise you were there,” John said apologetically. “I had quite lost track of the time. I’m sorry to say, though, that Lucien probably did know. His hearing is very acute. He does enjoy his little games.”
Lucien stepped forward, wrapped now in a dark blue robe that made his silver eyes look paler and stranger than ever. He gave her a knowing look and a little smile. “I don’t think we were the only ones enjoying ourselves, John.” And he took a strand of her frizzy hair between his long fingers, where it had escaped from her no-nonsense bun, then ran his fingertip over her cheekbone, where she was sure an aroused blush of colour still lingered.
Lilly was stricken with embarrassment. She wondered if she might spontaneously combust on the spot—that might be preferable to having to confront Lucien’s assessing, knowing expression, and from the heat in her cheeks it was a distinct possibility. Just…poof! Up in flames. Then her fundamental nature reasserted itself, and she lifted her chin and gave a little sniff.
“Gentlemen,” she snapped, “I suggest you get dressed. This paperwork isn’t going to organise itself.” And she swept from the room with as much dignity as she could muster. It wasn’t much, given how aware she still was of her saturated drawers and the stickiness of her fingers.
By the time they reappeared in the living room looking decent and respectable, she was absorbed in a pile of paperwork that seemed to have been filed using the ‘put it down somewhere and forget about it’ method. Not a technique they taught at Chancery Lane.
John laid a gentle hand on her shoulder, and she glanced back and gave him a quick, professional smile—though not lacking in warmth. Then she returned to her paperwork. The only thing she could possibly do now was pretend that the whole mortifying incident had never happened.
It was mid-morning before anyone spoke—although she had been interrupted at one point by a series of alarming glooping noises and at another by a small explosion that had filled the room with acrid smoke and necessitated the opening of a window. She reflected that life as an assistant to a detective who lived with an inventor was going to take a little getting use
d to. Especially if they were going to get up to the sort of recreational activity she had witnessed that morning on a regular basis. Not that, if she was entirely honest with herself, she would object to seeing a repeat performance.
Not, she reminded herself sternly, either respectable or genteel.
Lucien, who had been lying on the settee with his eyes closed and a furious scowl of concentration on his face, not even stirring when John and Lilly had stamped out the curtains that had been set alight by the explosion, broke into her thoughts. “I am expecting a visitor at eleven o’ clock, Lilly. I would like you to take notes. John tells me you can do that squiggly writing you secretary girls are so keen on.”
“Shorthand? Yes, certainly. Might I ask who the appointment is with?”
Lucien gave her a quick, distracted smile, and she realised he was already running through the facts, in his head, of whatever case brought this visitor to their door.
“It’s Inspector Ladd, of the Metropolitan Police,” John supplied. “I believe I told you they often consult Lucien on their more…esoteric cases?”
“Indeed,” said Lilly as she gathered her notebook and pencil. Then she added archly, “And what, may I ask, would Inspector Ladd’s reaction have been had he been the one to walk in and find you…in flagrante delicto?”
“Inspector Ladd,” Lucien pointed out without opening his eyes, “does not have a key. Besides, he is not as pretty as you are.”
And before she could recover from the fluster this unexpected compliment put her into and come up with a suitable retort, there was a knock at the door.
Lilly took up her place in the overstuffed armchair, which was mercifully free, this morning, of suspicious-looking contraptions. Lucien settled himself at one end of the settee with his long legs stretched elegantly out in front of him, his eyes narrowed and his fingers steepled under his chin.
John answered the door to reveal a fat, florid-complexioned policeman with extravagant mutton-chop whiskers, who was breathing heavily from the flight of stairs he had ascended from the front door. “Dermott,” he puffed. “Doyle.” And he waddled into the room to collapse heavily onto a chair John had quickly moved to the middle of the room for him. It creaked alarmingly under his bulk, but held.
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