by Lynn Kerstan
“I’m afraid not. Well, I knew a Fairleigh from Norfolk, but that was at Eton. No contact since.” His brow furrowed. “The other . . . How is Goudhurst’s first name spelled?”
“P-a-i-g-n. An unusual name.”
“For a Christian name, yes. But it was the surname of Old Holcombe’s nephew. Richard Paign, or perhaps Robert. I cannot recall, and it probably means nothing. I’m sorry I cannot help you, my dear.”
Duran spoke up. “As you say, there is unlikely to be a connection. But if Holcombe’s castle is not too great a distance, it might be worth paying him a call.”
She could tell he wanted her to agree. “I don’t see why not. But if we are to make a stop before Clifton, where lodging has been reserved for tonight, we must be on our way. Would you be so kind, Lord Philpot, to provide us the direction?”
Disappointment in his eyes, Philpot nonetheless smiled and lumbered to his feet. “I’ll have John Coachman sketch a map for you to take,” he said, tugging the bellpull. “The castle is perched in the Mendips, and the roads in that area are poor. Mind you, Holcombe may not admit you. Reclusive chap, and certain he is about to be robbed at any moment. I’m told he hires bullyboys and keeps dogs.”
When Philpot had gone to secure the map and a basket of refreshments for their journey, Duran rose and beckoned Jessica to a display of hunting scenes occupying most of one wall. A younger, more slender Lord Philpot rode to hounds in several of them.
Duran, laughing, pointed to the hind end of a horse jumping a fence, but his eyes were intense. “Listen carefully,” he said, “and pretend we’re talking about these paintings. Shivaji is to know nothing of what Philpot just told us. Do not under any circumstances mention Paign by name, or refer to a nephew of Holcombe who went to India.”
“You think it’s significant?”
“I know it is. Shivaji found Bickford’s body, I told you that, and described to me what he’d seen. The fingers, some of them, were deformed. He didn’t specify how, but I’d wager that Bickford, like Paign Goudhurst, was a name adopted by Holcombe’s nephew.”
“Goudhurst is a village in Kent,” she said. “It makes sense he’d choose something familiar to respond to, such as part of his real name and a place he knew well. But why are we concealing this information from Shivaji? I thought you wanted to go to the castle.”
“I do.” He directed her attention to a picture of a fox encircled by a pack of long-toothed hounds. “It will be your task to persuade him to make the detour without handing him our trump card.”
“I . . . But how? He didn’t want to come here. I’ll never convince him to follow another of my whims.”
“On the contrary. You could talk the paint off a wall. But this time, princess, you’ll be strictly on your own. If Shivaji thinks I’m in favor of dropping by the castle, he’ll whisk us off in the opposite direction.”
“He will in any case. Without an incentive, such as the information you intend to withhold, why should he listen to me? And you overestimate my talents, Duran. When we were gulling Gerald, my knees were knocking the entire time. Matched against Shivaji, I haven’t a chance.”
“Ah,” said Lord Philpot from the doorway. “You like my paintings. Well, mine in that I commissioned them. Did you recognize anyone in the pictures?”
“If you are referring to the handsome gentleman on the splendid bay, I did indeed,” said Jessica, smiling. What a love he was, and only days after his wife’s death, how lonely he seemed to be. She resolved to visit him whenever she could. When Duran was gone, it would probably be often.
The compliment pleased Lord Philpot, who, she was sure, had never much resembled the Adonis in those pictures. “Here it is, then,” he said, beaming. “A map to Holcombe’s Folly—that’s what we call it, but don’t tell him—and a letter of introduction in case it proves useful. A gift as well, because he’s a greedy chap. And there’s a nice basket being put into the carriage, although your valet insisted on inspecting the contents.”
That last was a question, Jessica apprehended.
“Old habits die hard,” said Duran with a shrug. “Before I employed him, Shivaji was a food taster for a petty tyrant in the Punjab. Poisons ate away half his stomach, which is why he’s always got a sour expression on his face.”
Lord Philpot’s eyebrows shot up. “The devil you say! But they must hire out cheaply, those native chaps. I mean, that is quite an entourage of foreign servants you travel with.”
“An affectation, m’wife tells me.” Duran lifted his arm, letting his coat sleeve fall back to disclose the jeweled bracelet. “Like this one. The spouse of a successful businesswoman has to keep up appearances.”
“Never mind him,” Jessica said, crossing to take Lord Philpot’s arm. “Sometimes he fancies he’s amusing, but that’s only when the malarial fever is on him. Happily, it’s not contagious.”
As she bade farewell to her host in the courtyard, she saw Duran emerge from the house with a lit cigar between his teeth. He sauntered to the carriage, slouched against the door panel, and said something to Shivaji, who was standing quietly nearby. When the valet glanced in her direction, she assumed the remark had concerned her.
Because she was nervous, or perhaps because she sensed Lord Philpot would be glad of it, she drew closer and brushed a kiss over his flushed cheek. “I shall call on you soon,” she promised, “here or in London.”
Tears sprang to his eyes, and unable to bear seeing them, she kissed him again and fled in the direction of Shivaji. From deep sorrow to deep trouble, she thought, mentally girding herself for battle.
“Memsahib,” he said, bowing, “your errand has been satisfactorily concluded?”
“Oh, yes.” She gave him what she hoped would pass for a smile of gratitude. “Lord Philpot said we arrived at precisely the moment his spirits were plummeting. His family had just gone, leaving him to mourn alone, when the necklace his wife had longed for was given into his hands. It was as if she’d put it there, like a message of enduring love. Is that possible? Might we have been sent, as emissaries of a sort, to . . . But no. How absurd. And yet, such a pleasant concurrence, don’t you think? My insistence on honoring an obligation, and his need of what I brought to him. So strange. Oh, but you have been waiting, and we must be off. Clifton next, is it? Well, I shall have a nap.”
With another smile she turned toward the coach. “You had better finish that quickly, Duran, or throw it away.”
Eyes narrowed, he took another draw on the cigar while Arjuna opened the carriage door and lowered the steps.
Philpot’s map was scrunched in her hand. One foot on the step, she looked down as if she’d never seen the paper before, removed her foot, and stood for a moment as if undecided. Then, with a small sigh, she went back to Shivaji.
“I suppose I should tell you about this,” she said, “although it is no doubt unimportant. When I explained to Lord Philpot why we could not remain longer, which he very much wanted us to do, he became quite enthusiastic about our errand. I think he wished to be of help, to repay us for our trouble, but unhappily, he did not know of any collectors we might have overlooked. Then, just before we were to depart, he recollected that a well-known but somewhat dodgy character connected to the antiquities trade is in residence not far from here.”
“Well-known, but not on our list?”
“He dropped from sight a few years ago, and his reputation was none too good in any case. Besides, I’ve never heard him to have collected imports from India. But Lord Philpot insisted on providing a map to the castle that Mr. Holcombe is restoring, and I am going to present it to you as if we plan to use it. Otherwise he will think me ungrateful.”
“If not Indian antiquities, what did Mr. Holcombe procure?” There was no trace of interest in Shivaji’s voice, and while he accepted the map, he did not look at it.
“Oh, just about everything, at one time or another. I’ve never met him, you understand, but his quest to become a member of the Royal Antiquarian Society
is something of a legend. He began with the excavation of a Roman villa, but sold more of what he found than he preserved. Then the craze for Egyptiana came in, and he was accused of importing empty sarcophagi and stuffing them with fake mummies. He dabbled in Chinese art when it was the fashion and, claiming to know the location of Confucius’s skull, petitioned the Society to finance an expedition to retrieve it. They declined.”
“A madman, in your judgment? Or criminal?”
“Perhaps a little of both, at least by repute. Putting together everything I’ve heard, I would say he is a man of small talent who is obsessed with finding a shortcut to social approbation. His latest project was to restore a twelfth-century castle, but the construction ceased when he ran short of funds. The castle isn’t far, and the map shows the route from there on to Clifton. But the roads are bad.”
She covered her mouth for a yawn. “Anyway, if you’ll be kind enough to nod at me and appear enchanted by the prospect of a detour, Lord Philpot will be pleased. Then we can toddle off to wherever we were headed in the first place.”
Shivaji didn’t smile—in her experience, he never smiled—but he did nod, and as she ascended the carriage steps, she noted that he was examining the map.
Moments later he approached Duran, who was enjoying the last of his cigar, and spoke in an expressionless voice. “Have you an opinion of this Mr. Holcombe?”
“The old bird in the turret? I wasn’t paying much attention.” Duran lowered his voice. “Philpot is a friendly chap, but he chattered like a magpie all through lunch. The food was good and the wine exceptional. That’s about all I remember.”
“You do not think we should call there?”
“I’m thinking about a good inn with a large bed, clean sheets, and sirloin for breakfast. So long as that’s where we wind up, stop wherever you like along the way. Not for long,” Duran added quickly. “Last night we drove straight through, and you must be tired as well. A direct line to Clifton has my vote.”
It was nearly an hour before Jessica could be sure Duran had been outvoted. She had spent it in the circle of his arm, aware of the tension in his body and the surreptitious glances out the window to see if they continued north on the good road or turned west onto a bad one. Now and again she caught a glimpse of Shivaji, straight-backed and at ease in the saddle, showing no sign that he’d gone without sleep for nearly forty-eight hours. Unless he could sleep on horseback with his eyes open, which would not have greatly surprised her.
When the coach took the left fork at a crossroads and began to climb into the Mendips, she felt Duran release a long breath and sink back against the squabs.
“Clever girl,” he said, stroking her cheek with an idle finger. “If ever I underestimated you, be certain I shall never do so again.”
“Of course you will.” But she was glowing at the praise. “What did you tell him when I was speaking with Lord Philpot?”
“Hmmm?” The finger paused while he considered. “Oh, that. I advised him you’d tippled heavily at luncheon.”
She sat up and looked at him. “Why?”
“Because I thought you might elect to cover your story by pretending to be foxed.”
“Well, you were wrong. I was pretending to be sleepy. Too exhausted to think or speak clearly.”
“I see.” He pulled her onto his lap. “How glad I am you were only pretending. Philpot was right. This road is poor and certain to get worse. Remember the last time we traveled a bad road, on the way to Sir Grafton’s country house?”
Heat rose from her toes all the way to the ends of her hair. “It was . . . nice,” she conceded. “But difficult.”
“I know,” he said. “You always want to rush, or you want me to rush. Leaving it to the motion of the carriage, to the rocking and the bumps, requires discipline. You haven’t much discipline, princess. Not when I am inside you. Would you like to try again? See how long you can endure before demanding the first climax? And the second? And the third?”
Already her breasts ached to feel his mouth. The burning between her legs entreated to be quenched. She swallowed. Gazed at him helplessly.
“No answer? Then we’ll do what I want. Let me think what that might be.” He studied her body. She was sitting sideways on his lap, his right arm wrapped loosely around her back, her legs stretched on the padded leather bench. “Your legs are closed,” he said in mild rebuke. With his left hand, he gently lifted her knee.
She felt the touch through her skirts and petticoats and chemise and drawers.
Then he arranged her foot on the bench so that her knee was bent up, and all he had to do was raise her skirts and push aside all the rest and . . . But he didn’t. His gaze had moved to her bodice, the russet bombazine covering her to the collarbone and a fringe of lace concealing all but an inch of flesh below her neck.
His forefinger moved to that inch, stroking it before lifting her chin for a light, tantalizing kiss.
“Are you playing sultan again?” she murmured when he went back to looking without touching. “Arrogant man.”
“That too. But primarily, I’m teaching you the joys of anticipation. They can be better than—”
“Not better. Nothing is better.”
“No? We’ll see. I shall leave you dressed, because I don’t know how far this castle is. And we should get on with things, because I want to be inside you for a long time. Can you feel my cock?”
She could, pulsing against her thigh, strong and importunate. Then his left hand moved to her ankle, slid under her clothing, and glided upward. A low moan escaped her throat. She began to wriggle as his fingers came closer, closer still, and he stilled her with his other hand.
“Soon,” he said, dipping his tongue into her ear.
At the moist invasion, she nearly cried out. The silk of her drawers felt rough against her skin as his finger meandered over it and approached the slit, already damp, that would admit him where most she wanted him to be.
He stopped.
“If I touch you there, you’ll come,” he said. “Won’t you?”
“Even if you don’t touch me,” she said breathlessly.
“Are you swollen, Jessie?”
“Y-yes.”
The finger brushed the soft hair near to the proof of it, brushed again, and then his large hand cupped her mound.
She pushed against it. He removed the hand.
“Always so eager,” he chided. “You can have everything you want, you know. I’ll give it to you. But at the time of my choosing, when it accords me the most satisfaction.”
“The coach is jolting about,” she said. “What are you waiting for?”
“An excellent question. How good are you with buttons?”
She was very good with them, in spite of trembling hands and a precarious balance. When he sprang free, large and hard and pulsing, she clamped her lower lip between her teeth and wrenched her gaze to his face.
“Now, please. Please, now.”
“As you desire, princess.” He brought her forward, raised her skirts and placed her knees astride his thighs so that she was open to him. Moving his hands to her waist, he held her above him for so long that she began to struggle.
“Shhh,” he said. “Slowly. Come down on me slowly.”
The knob of his cock slid against the hot, wet entrance to her body. Held there. The hands at her waist tightened and began to twist her left and right, left and right, so that she felt him there, up and down, forward and back, but never at the nub of her pleasure. Not so far as that.
“Kiss me,” he murmured.
Bending forward, only so far as he would allow, she felt his shaft between her legs, clutched in between her thighs, rubbed herself along it as his tongue slipped into her mouth and began to move in rhythm with her.
Not for long. Holding her still, he threw his head back against the cushions. “You make it impossible, wife. I am, as always, your slave.”
Raising her carefully, positioning her, he pressed upward even as he drew
her down onto him, slowly down so that every inch of his penetration became a symphony of pleasure. More and more he filled her, thick and so deep. So very deep. When she thought he could give her no more, he did, and did again, until he groaned and held her tightly against him.
“Are you comfortable?” he said. “Legs? Arms? No cramps?”
“I am. Yes. Oh my.”
“Then don’t move. Not deliberately. Feel the vibration of the coach. The straining of the horses. Above all, feel me inside you, as I feel you encompass me. You are so tight, princess. So wet. So warm. Rest your head against my shoulder. Lick my throat, if you will. Yes. That’s good. Ahhh. No, don’t squeeze. This time we won’t make it happen. We’ll let it happen. And after, if that was not enough for you, we’ll let it happen again. Then, I promise, I’ll turn you on your back and give you the drumming you are asking for.”
She could not bear it, the waiting, the unexpected motions, the urge to move against him, the need to finish. To experience the hot pleasure that built and built and built for endless minutes. Hours, it seemed. Aeons.
His face was taut with restraint. He wanted it too, that rush, as the coach jiggled and she slipped up and down him, his flesh so deep inside her they might have been one creature with one single goal.
“Soon now,” he said in a ragged voice. “We need to do this right so that I can pull out in time. Go first, Jessie.” He pulled her so close against him that all her being was centered where she rubbed against him, harder and harder, until his hand pressed over her mouth to cut off her scream and his other hand lifted her off his throbbing shaft. She sagged against him, blood tingling, her skin so sensitive that when he licked a drop of perspiration from her throat, she came again.
“That was good,” he said after a long time. “Very good. Shall we do it again?”
“Can you?” she asked, sitting back to examine his face. Sitting back farther to look down at the slick, limp penis nestled against his heavy scrotum. At her glance, it seemed to stir.
“I expect I can,” he said.