The Erotic Memoirs of Ambrose Horne

by Chrissie Bentley

  ‘Well, nothing like that would ever happen to you here.’ Still standing, she walked to the door and spoke to the woman standing outside. ‘Yes, you may send the other applicants away. The vacancy is now filled.’

  A few miles away in his offices in Belgravia, Ambrose Horne, too, was considering the servants of Sapphos, although his ruminations were of a considerably more serious nature than those currently engaging Lady H_____’s attention, even if they were both operating towards the same goal. She, however, simply needed to procure the domestic services of a lesbian. Horne needed to discover a means of inveigling that same lesbian into the presence of Queen Victoria.

  It was seven years now since Her Majesty was first presented with the Criminal Law Amendment Act of 1885, a series of commands that were originally intended for the suppression of brothels, but which Parliament had somehow expanded to include penalties for homosexual and lesbian conduct.

  Victoria was furious. She had no problem with banning the bordellos, and the notion of male homosexuality, apparently, filled her with disgust. But so did the suggestion that women, too, should be subject to such unnatural urges. ‘Female homosexuality,’ she proclaimed, ‘does not exist.’ And, though her advisors tried their damnedest to convince her that she was mistaken – or even to consider the possibility that she was, Victoria remained adamant. She would sign the act into law, of course. But only after every reference to tribadism had been expunged from the document.

  Horne himself disapproved of the entire law; believed, as all right-minded citizens must, that Government and the Law have no business whatsoever peeping into a private person’s bedroom, and legislating over the uses they choose for their own bodies.

  Neither was he alone in his disgust, as he had discovered, three days earlier, when he was summonsed to a meeting at his favourite haunt, the No-Nose Club, there to be confronted by a deputation of six MPs – Members of Parliament who had spent the last half-decade campaigning against the Amendment Act, all to no avail. They had one final card to play, however, one final, desperate, dangerous card. And Horne was the man they had decided should play it.

  Horne himself remained incredulous at the audacity of their scheme. There were, apparently, two schools of thought regarding the Queen’s refusal to acknowledge that lesbians actually existed. The first was a genuine naivety, in which case she needed to be informed of the error of her ways. The second was that she herself possessed lesbian tendencies, and had amended the Law so that she would not then have to break it – in which case, insisted the fieriest of the MPs (a Socialist, of course), her hypocrisy needed to be proven to her people. All Horne had to do was discover which.

  ‘Of course we don’t expect to change the law,’ one of the others confessed. ‘As is so often the case in this country, such things are far easier made than unmade. But, if we can prompt discussion and provoke disquiet, at least the people might become more aware of the injustices that are perpetrated in their name every day, by the men they elect to represent them. They may even be a little more selective when they vote in the next election’ – an event, Horne noted, that would commence in just six weeks time.

  ‘Ideally, then, you wish me to deliver conclusive evidence of the Queen’s sexuality within the next month?’ Horne asked.

  ‘Sooner, if possible. A fortnight would be infinitely preferable.’

  Horne nodded. ‘As you wish. We shall meet again, in these rooms, two weeks tonight.’

  The chime of the doorbell disturbed Horne’s thoughts. Rising, and drawing aside the heavy drapes that kept out an unseasonably cold evening fog, he saw the shivering figure of Lady H_____’s carriage man at the door. Hurriedly, he snatched for his coat and dimmed the gas mantel. ‘At last,’ he murmured. ‘The game is afoot.’

  The election itself was expected to be tight. For more than 30 years, the Conservative, William Gladstone, had berated British politics with a rod of unbending moral self-righteousness; in years to come, Horne was convinced, the Victorian age would be regarded the most prudish, constipated and repressed society that British history had ever known. And Gladstone was the cause of it all.

  But reform was in the air. The Liberal Archibald Primrose had sworn to fight Gladstone not on the stony ground of policy and procedure, but on the matters that the average person cared about. Horne himself remained unconvinced that homosexuality was any more acceptable to the man in the street, than it was to the prune-faced Prime Minister, but still the possibility of a more enlightened government was one that he wholeheartedly supported.

  Lady H_____ was at the door to greet him. ‘You will adore the girl,’ she promised, as a footman collected Horne’s coat and hat. ‘Bright as a sunrise, cute as a button.’

  ‘Where is she now?’

  ‘I sent her downstairs with Daisy. Beyond any plans you may have in mind, Ambrose, I do have a household to run as well. My husband is expected home on Tuesday, after all.’

  ‘Is he standing this time?’ A diplomat by trade, Lord H_____ had made several runs for Parliament over the years, although his wife was still a babe-in-arms the last time he actually won an election.

  ‘I don’t know what he’s doing,’ Lady H_____ replied, her tone belying just a hint of exasperation. ‘At one point, the old buzzard was even talking about retirement. He has land in Ireland and fancies himself as a country squire, hunting, fishing and stringing up Republicans. I told him he was welcome to it, but he shouldn’t expect me to follow him there. London offers all the excitement I can take.’

  Horne smiled. ‘I’m glad to hear that. No, I simply thought ...’

  ‘I know what you thought,’ laughed Lady H_____. ‘You thought, if he went to Gladstone and announced his intention to stand for Parliament, the Party would have to conjure up something grand, in order to publicise his candidacy. Something along the lines of the Queen coming here for dinner.’

  ‘Something like that,’ Horne agreed. ‘Although it would probably suit our purposes better if she invited us to visit her.’

  ‘Us?’ Lady H_____ repeated. ‘I don’t think I quite follow you.’

  ‘Oh, didn’t I mention it?’ Horne asked. ‘I’m hoping to stand as well. In fact, I’m meeting Gladstone tomorrow, to confirm my constituency. I just thought, if your husband was running as well, then they could kill two birds with one stone, and have Victoria dine with us both at the same time.’

  ‘Ambrose Horne MP,’ Lady H_____ chuckled. ‘I suppose it does have a certain ring to it. But I dread to think what your platform will be.’ Horne tried to answer, but she hushed him. ‘No, don’t tell me now. I enjoy a good surprise.’

  She received one in her boudoir, later that evening. Already undressed, Horne sat watching from the bed while she slowly disrobed. Then, while she still stood in her knickers, he pounced upon her, his weight forcing her to stumble towards the wall. Then, while she still struggled to regain her balance, he tore down her underclothes and roughly entered her from the rear.

  She gasped, as much from delight as from the shock of his raw rod forcing itself into her barely lubricated bunny. With one hand flat against the wall, her forehead crushed into her forearm, she dribbled spit onto her free fingers, and smeared it around their conjoined organs; she endeavoured, with that same hand, to grasp Horne’s balls as they slapped against her flesh, but his thrusts were too fast, and too broad – when he withdrew, it was to the very tip of his glans, where he hovered motionless for tantalizing seconds, before slamming his length back into her, with an urgency that jarred her teeth.

  Instead, she bent her arm around him, clasped one buttock with nails that she knew were sharp enough to break the skin, and raked his flesh as he pounded into her – it had been a long time, she thought, since he had last taken her with such animal lust, for even the best-intentioned lovers can sometimes grow so comfortable with routine that it is hard to break familiar habits. But if that was his intention, then two could play at that game.

  His motions were quickening. Her own orgas
m was still some distance away, but that did not matter. She freed her other arm, ignored the hard wall that now knocked against her forehead, and coiled it, too, around her lover, spreading his buttocks wide and scrambling to press a fingernail to the sensitive flesh that separated his ass from his balls. He gave a cry, and she called out in tandem, as she sensed his climax well up from deep within him. She waited motionless while his pleasure coursed through his frame; did not move until he finally released her and tumbled back to the bed, exhausted.

  She joined him there, and thought of speaking. Instead, she lay silent for a moment, her head resting on his heaving chest, then leaned forward and, in the midst of a warm, wet kiss, nipped his stomach. ‘Ouch,’ Horne squirmed. ‘You’ve got very sharp teeth.’

  ‘No, you’ve just got very sensitive skin. Now this is sharp.’ She nipped him again, and again a yelp of pain sprang to his lips. She laughed. ‘And this,’ as she pressed her front teeth to his groin, ‘is even sharper.’ And it was. But there was a pleasure bound up in the pain as well, and Horne could feel a fresh erection start to unfold, to strain towards her face as if to demand ‘it’s my turn now.’

  That’s certainly how Lady H_____ interpreted it. Holding it just inches from her lips, she addressed his penis full on. ‘You want some of that?’ And before Horne could do anything, she sank her teeth into the shaft – not so hard that it truly hurt, but certainly enough to let him know that she could do him some serious damage. Then, with her palm gently supporting his acorn, she commenced biting slowly up and down. ‘Just like eating corn,’ she said. ‘And you know how much I love corn.’

  Her eyes flickered defiantly up at him, and Horne felt her teeth sinking deeper into his hard flesh. ‘The thing is,’ he gasped, ‘where there’s agony, there should also be some ecstasy.’

  ‘Oh, there will be,’ she cooed. ‘But now I’ve shown you what to do, let’s see if you were paying attention.’ Slowly she squatted down, her bun over his face. He reached a hand up to part her lips, but she pulled away. ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘I told you, pay attention.’

  Horne shifted his head slightly, laid his mouth against her inner thigh, just below the groin, and sucked gently. The feel and smell of her snatch against his cheek was overpowering, but he resisted the temptation, and listened only to her insistent demand. ‘Harder. With your teeth.’

  He nipped the skin and felt her flinch. ‘Again. And harder.’ He bit down, then kept biting, across her thighs, towards her ass, into her groin. He had a hand on her breast, pulling on the nipple, twisting it and feeling it swell between his fingers. Now her flesh was on his mouth, so he bit her there, astonished as she writhed and squealed above him, grinding herself into his mouth, then pulling away as his teeth tried to follow his tongue into her deepest recesses. The tip of his nose brushed her clitoris; he heard her gasp loudly – ‘yes, there. Bite there.’

  He did so, and her entire frame tensed above him. Biting and sucking, he drew her flesh into his mouth, almost chewing on her sex as she hung there, barely moving as wave upon wave of sensation flooded her body, and she could stand no more. She screamed, louder than he’d ever heard her; then, turning her body so her back was to his face, she lowered herself onto his shaft and began riding him, one hand furiously flicking her clitoris, the other clawing at his thigh.

  Horne wished there was a mirror in view, so he could share her view, watch his hardness sliding in and out of her, while her fingers danced above it. Occasionally, he felt a nail scrape against his shaft, and he begged her to squeeze his balls. Abandoning her own pleasure for a moment, she reached down and gripped them hard, and that was it. He could feel his crisis approaching, knew that she was close to climax as well; and, when the moment came, as his hot spend flooded her red, glistening hole, it was as if their very bodies were melting together.

  Her movements were slowing now, as she accepted the last drops of his juice; eyes closed, Horne reached for her and held her close. ‘How long will he be home for?’

  ‘At least until after the election. After that, who knows.’ She laughed. ‘Is that what this was all about? You wanted to get in one last hurrah before the gatekeeper returns and the drawbridge is closed?’

  Horne nodded. ‘I’ll miss you.’ He was surprised to hear himself say those words, but they were true. Lady H_____ was what some people might call one-in-a-million, but Horne valued her even more highly than that.

  His meeting with Gladstone went as well as Horne had expected it to. The grand old statesman welcomed the detective into his office, plied him with sherry and engaging conversation, and seemed genuinely fascinated by Horne’s proposals for party reform.

  But, though he was more than aware of Horne’s renown, he was also wary of the young sleuth’s reputation – as a lothario, as a sensualist, as a creature who hurdled the highest taboos, and cared nothing for propriety or decency. Reluctantly, he said, he would have to refuse Horne’s kind offer to stand for the party at the forthcoming election. ‘But knowing the esteem in which much you and your opinions are held by so much of the general public,’ Gladstone continued, ‘perhaps you would care to place your personal support behind one of our other candidates? Is there one, maybe, who has caught your eye?’

  Horne did his best to look thoughtful for a moment, as though weighing up the possibilities. Finally, he spoke. ‘I have nothing but admiration for Lord H_____.’

  Gladstone turned to one of his aides. ‘Has he even declared a candidacy yet?’

  The aide shook his head. ‘He returns to England on Tuesday. I will arrange to speak with him then on the matter.’

  Horne nodded. ‘He has property in the west of Ireland. A constituency that would simultaneously allow him to enjoy his land would certainly appeal.’

  Gladstone smiled, and regarded Horne over the rims of his spectacles for a moment. ‘Ireland, eh? Scarcely a place for that lady wife of his, I’d have thought. But no matter. I’m sure some form of arrangement can be made.’ Then, rising, ‘Well leave it with us. And I thank you for coming to visit.’

  ‘One last thing, sir,’ Horne said as he rose. ‘Does Her Majesty intend bestowing her traditional blessing on the candidates and their supporters this year?’

  ‘I have yet to hear anything to the contrary,’ Gladstone replied. ‘And yes, Horne, you will receive an invitation.’

  Horne bowed and took his leave. That all went a lot more easily than he had expected.

  Little occurred over the next three days. Horne could act no further until Lord H_____’s candidacy was confirmed; and Lady H_____ was utterly absorbed in organising the household in readiness for her husband’s return. By the following Thursday, however, all was arranged. Lord H_____’s candidacy was announced and approved, and now all of London society was abuzz at the prospect of the grand ball that would announce the official opening of the election campaign. There, every would-be MP in the land, Liberal, Conservative and Labour alike, would descend upon Windsor Castle to receive Her Majesty’s traditional blessing, a thousand-or-more names and faces, plus the countless other onlookers who clogged the highways and hung from lamp-posts as the procession of guests wound through the narrow cobbled streets.

  The crowds were finally thinning as Horne’s carriage pulled up at the Castle’s great stone gatehouse, and a weary-looking guard checked his invitation. ‘You might find it easier to walk from here, sir,’ the man said. ‘There’s so many carriages up front, they must be stacking them atop one another.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Horne smiled. ‘I think we will.’ Instructing his driver to make his way back into Windsor, and await his return at a certain alehouse, Horne stepped out of the carriage, waited while his evening’s companion gathered up her bonnet, shawl and bag, then commenced the few hundred yards walk to the main hall.

  The guard was correct; the carriageway was chaotic, and the entrance hall even more so, as titled Lords and Ladies mingled – some, it seemed, for the first time in their life – with the bluff industrialists and hearty l
and-owners who represented the political aspirations of Britain’s northernmost constituencies. Horne lost count of the number of times he heard a ballgowned matriarch recoil from an introduction with a shuddering squeal of ‘oh, he’s so common’; but the shirt-sleeved masses gave as good as they got, loudly laughing and poking fun at their ‘betters’ in an ear-splitting cacophony of broad and impenetrable accents.

  This was no time, however, to be observing social customs. Pushing through the crowd, one hand tightly grasping that of his companion, Horne entered the main hall. A red-waistcoated usher took his name and led them, unerringly, to their places; seated, Horne cast his eyes around the room and glimpsed Lord and Lady H_____, several tables away to his left, their backs towards him. Perfect. The gold sovereigns that Horne had passed around earlier, to the gentlemen in charge of the seating arrangements, had clearly worked their magic.

  The order of the evening was simple. The first course would be served, after which each of the electoral candidates would be called upon in turn, to stand and bow to the Queen, seated on a raised dais at the head of the room. Their guests would likewise stand, to share the applause, and acknowledge one another.

  It was an interminable process, enlivened only by the blundering attempts at gravity unleashed by some of the lesser-schooled candidates – the Yorkshireman who launched into a lengthy, and bafflingly colloquial commentary upon the electoral system; the Welshman who was so nervous that he forgot that he’d ever learned to speak English; and so forth. Finally, however, the Master of Ceremonies announced the Honourable Lord H_____ and, a moment after he stood, so the remainder of his entourage rose to their feet: Lady H_____, Ambrose Horne, and two young women who had not seen one another since a spiteful Butler tore them apart six months earlier, Rosie the parlour maid, and Lisa, her lover.

  Across the sea of heads that stood between them, the two girls stared at one another in disbelief. All around, the entire room seemed to hush, as though it sensed that something remarkable was about to occur. Then, without a word, the two broke away from their tables, raced down the aisles and across the room, to embrace tearfully, joyfully, at the feet of their Queen.