Portia Da Costa

by Diamonds in the Rough

  The foray wrung a harsh cry from her cousin, and his hips bucked forward, but still she controlled him. With the fingers of one hand wrapped around the length of him, she inveigled her other hand beneath him and gripped his firm bottom through his trousers with the other. She sucked, then flicked, sucked, then flicked, repeating the sequence while she squeezed hard on the muscular round of his left buttock, pushing her fingertips toward the central groove.

  “Oh, my dear, dear girl,” he groaned, panting as she worked him. Adela almost smiled around his flesh, that he should call her a girl when he was barely any older than she was, just a year, nothing more. “I never realized you could be such a temptress. Oh, this is too delicious...too delicious....” He gasped, his voice tight. “But you really must desist or I’ll spend in your mouth.”

  Desist? Never! To defeat him, make him so helpless that he couldn’t contain himself, that was the entire object of this particular exercise. Fierce with resolve, she redoubled her efforts. Sucking harder, diving at him with her tongue, seeking out ever more tender spots. Fondling his muscular male bottom with her fingertips, and probing the cleft as rudely as she could through his clothing.

  “Oh, Della...Della...please. I can’t hold on much longer. You must stop.”

  “No,” she growled, the word muffled and made uncouth by the obstruction in her mouth. Digging with the tip of her tongue, she probed ferociously at the groove beneath the head of his penis, and at the same time pressed hard on the vent of his anus.

  Wilson let out a choked cry, his hips hammering, and thrusting his cock roughly and without control into her mouth. As it leaped and leaped, salty fluid bathed her tongue, and triumph was a silent, roaring cry.

  Got you, you devil! Got you!

  His cock still leaping, Wilson swayed where he sat, then seemed to brace himself, the muscles of his thighs tense. He still sought support, though, his hand gripping her shoulder.

  “You wicked siren, you...” He ground out the words, chest still heaving. “You did that on purpose, didn’t you? You did it to best me.”

  Adela withdrew, ejecting him and licking her lips, not sure whether she was angry or jubilant. Perhaps it was a little, or a lot, of both. Shaking Wilson off, she rose to her feet, but not before whipping the white handkerchief from Wilson’s pocket and dabbing her mouth with it. Men, they were such an ungrateful lot.

  “Yes, I believe I did.” She half flung the handkerchief back at him and he caught it neatly, but then crumpled it in his hand as if not sure what to do with it. “I’m tired of you thinking you can make free with me, Wilson. And then judging me, because even though you enjoy the fruits of my experience, you disapprove of the way I’ve acquired my knowledge. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again—you’re a hypocrite.”

  He glared at her, his eyes raging and confused. He still seemed to be half out of his senses from the pleasure she’d given him, and when he lunged up and forward, she danced away lightly, sweeping up her reticule and turning to make off down the path to the house.

  An iron hand grabbed her arm. “Clearly, you’re an apt pupil, Della. I don’t think I’ve ever had a better sucking. These men of yours, the ones you draw and fuck, they must be the most accomplished tutors.” Wilson was shaking with anger, but what right did he have to judge? Did he think he should have been the one to educate her? If he’d not been such an arrogant beast seven years ago, he could have been that instructor. Or perhaps if she’d been a little more tolerant of the foibles of a randy young man?

  “But I can show you more, cousin,” he went on. She could feel him shaking, the intensity transmitted through his fingers on her arm. “Believe me, I can show you more than these bought-and-paid-for stallions ever could.”

  “Let me go, Wilson, and kindly put your cock back in your trousers.” She kept her voice low and controlled, even though the wildness in his eyes made her shake, too. She was reminded once again of his enormous strength, so powerful in a man of relatively slender build. That was familiar, but this degree of passion was new, and it terrified her.

  For a moment there was a standoff. Had Wilson even heard what she’d said? But then his fingers loosened and when she shook her arm, his hand dropped away and he set himself to rights.

  “This isn’t over, Adela,” he said to her retreating back as she sped away.

  It is if I can help it.

  “It is. Leave me alone. Keep your distance,” she said, not turning, still striding. She would have to be very careful, and lie low for the rest of the house party. Or remain in the safety of groups.

  She must never be alone with Wilson, ever again.

  * * *

  SMOKING ALONE IN a shadowed corner of the kitchen garden, Blair Devine was well placed to watch a male figure approach him. He remained hidden until he recognized Edward Foster, a valet of his acquaintance, with whom he’d had profitable dealings with before. Devine had been pleased to see the man’s employer among the house party guests.

  “Evening, Mr. Devine. How’s tricks?” Foster’s grin was sharp and wily. “You wouldn’t have a spare fag about your person, would you? I’m gasping.”

  Devine offered his cigarette case, filled with the fine Turkish cigarettes he purchased in Bond Street. Foster took one, and Blair gestured encouragingly, so the valet took a handful more and secreted them in his top pocket. Money oiled the wheels, but other little treats smoothed the way too.

  “Anything interesting?” he asked the keen-eyed young man.

  Foster took a long drag. “Well, Mrs. De Vesey is sneaking into the room of old Lord Rayworth himself every night, but that’s nothing new. Common knowledge... The Honorable Mr. Souter is on his uppers, despite appearances to the contrary.... Might be in the market for a loan, if you know anybody?” He winked, pulled on his cigarette again.

  Devine considered this, and filed it away for future reference. “What about any juicy little items of reading material? And anything more on the Ruffingtons? I know your boss knows the family slightly...”

  Foster gave him a speculative look, but Devine wasn’t worried. The young valet had done well out of him, and seemed to have a relish for the dealings they transacted.

  “Well, I’ve been romancing an upstairs maid here, a willing young miss and a real fast worker, if you know what I mean? She thinks she might have seen something along those lines, just the very thing you’re looking for.... That young Miss Sybil R. is careless thing, and Maisie, well, I’ve told her about certain...ahem...opportunities there are for sharp girls like her.” He favored Devine with another slow wink.

  Devine nodded. This was all very satisfactory. “And what about Wilson Ruffington? Anything on him?”

  “Nah, afraid not, Mr. D. All the staff think he’s a bit of a strange cove. Keeps himself to himself...can’t see why he’s here, to be honest. And his man’s a weird one, too. Very protective of his master, he is. Threatened to knock me down when I made a remark... Only joking I was. Anyway, he looks after his master’s room himself...nobody allowed in.... Maisie tried to get in to do the room, normallike, and the lock wouldn’t turn. Reckon old Wilson had done something to it, though I can’t imagine what. Bit of a mystery...”

  That was frustrating, but not surprising, and Blair Devine didn’t brood on it as he paid off Foster and bade him goodnight...and good hunting.

  He smiled again in the darkness. He already had plenty of choice lines of inquiry where that arrogant prick of a scientist was concerned, and he’d soon have his hands on more goods.

  There was no need to rush, though. He’d bide his time. All would be well...although certainly not well for Wilson Ruffington.

  * * *

  TO ADELA’S SURPRISE, Wilson did keep his distance for the rest of the weekend. He didn’t seek her out, or approach her, and when the demands of sociability made conversation unavoidable, he was both blandly and rigorously polite.

  It’s a trick. All part of some devious ruse, or experiment. So typical of you.

  Adel
a thought this over and over again, but by the time they were leaving, she wasn’t so certain. Surely by now he should have sprung whatever trap he’d been devising? Either that or become overtly hostile?

  Either way, she would have known where she stood.

  13

  Stolen Goods

  Where is it? Where is it?

  The journey home had been a nightmare. What with Blair Devine in their compartment like a burr beneath the saddle of a horse, his particular watchfulness a constant, minor irritation, and the never-ending stream of Sybil’s chatter about Algernon, a couple of hours had turned into a millennium. And all this had been exacerbated by the constant necessity of parrying Mama’s not so subtle probings about Wilson. By the time they reached their London home, in a carriage from Waterloo Station, the headache Adela had pleaded, to avoid interrogation, was real. But at least the jabbing pain in her temples had given her an excuse to retire to her room in peace, in order to leaf through the new drawings she’d done, and decide which ones would be suitable for Divertissements. There was a certain dark glee to the idea of distributing images of Wilson’s cock to the magazine’s many avid subscribers...even if there was no indication to whom said organ was attached.

  But when Adela came to unlock her carpet bag, where the portfolio had been safely stowed, the black leather binder was nowhere to be seen. How could that happen, when she always kept the key safe on her person?

  Upending the bag and flinging everything on the floor, Adela went through her belongings again and again. It was an absolutely pointless exercise. There was no way the dashed portfolio could just materialize, but still she rummaged, as if a miracle might occur.

  Adela sat on the bed, surveying the chaos of shawls and gloves and hairbrushes and other personal and toilet items around her, and seethed. She didn’t have to upend her brain to know precisely who was responsible for the loss of her drawings.

  Wilson, you blackguard. When did you take it? I’ll wring your neck!

  The portfolio had been securely locked in the bag all the time she’d not actually had it with her, but locks were no barrier to the one who’d taught her to conquer them. And there’d been plenty of occasions when her cousin might have slipped into her room, not to mention the fact that he was the only one who knew that the portfolio was worth stealing.

  To confirm her suspicions, Adela took a magnifying glass from her drawer and perused the lock. At first glance it was immaculate, unsullied, with no sign of tampering. Just as she would expect it to be if Wilson had breached it. If some other miscreant had been at it, there would be scratches from the tools used. Only Wilson would be able to pick the lock without leaving a mark.

  And yet, leaning in close and squinting hard, Adela did see something. One single tiny scratch, almost invisible.

  You despicable devil! You’re taunting me. You left this on purpose.

  It was exactly what he’d do, and she’d have it out with him. She would visit her cousin, alone, whether Mama liked it or not. Lack of propriety or otherwise. A note had been waiting upon their homecoming, alerting Adela to a meeting of the Ladies’ Sewing Circle tomorrow, and if Mama objected, it would be a simple matter to use that as a cover for her activities. She’d done it often enough to disguise her trysts at Sofia’s house of pleasure.

  And it would be useful to drop in at the circle, too. Her closest friends there, Sofia and Beatrice, were both women of the world and might have counsel to offer on the subject of Wilson and his infuriating foibles.

  * * *

  “CALL ON WILSON? What do you mean, call on Wilson?”

  Adela sighed inside. Her mother’s face showed exactly the reaction she’d expected. A little alarm. Puzzlement. A smidgen of hope...then a bit more hope.

  “Just exactly that, Mama. I’d like to continue one or two points of conversation that he and I explored at Rayworth Court.” Well, it was a form of the truth, and better that than the actual truth, which might kill her mother—or alternatively, give her too much hope.

  Mrs. Ruffington frowned, clearly perplexed. Adela couldn’t blame her. “You really are the most contrary young woman, Della. I don’t know where I am with you. One minute you seem to be getting on well with Wilson, even going off together on walks, unseemly as that is. The next, you don’t seem to want anything whatsoever to do with each other, and he doesn’t even show his face to say goodbye when we leave.” Mama shook her head, clearly perplexed. “And now, suddenly, you’re wanting to visit him alone, in a way that’s completely unsuitable. It won’t do, Della, it really won’t do. If you want to talk to Wilson, we must invite him to dinner, or to tea. I won’t have you visiting him on your own, and that’s the end of it.”

  “Very well. I won’t go, then.” So it would have to be by subterfuge. Adela didn’t like deceiving her mother, but she’d become well used to it. This deception was her sole cause for guilt when she went to visit Sofia’s boys from time to time. Mama only wanted the best for her, but that “best” mainly involved marriage to a nice, respectable and preferably titled man. Ideally Wilson. But that wasn’t going to occur until hell froze over.

  Mrs. Ruffington plucked at her shawl, still frowning, and out of the corner of her eye, Adela saw Marguerite cast them both a shrewd look. Her younger sister was sage beyond both of them, she suspected.

  “Shall I invite him, then?” persisted Mama.

  “No, don’t bother. He won’t come.”

  “How can you possibly know that, dear?”

  Just an instinct. A deep feeling. He’d stolen the portfolio to bring her to him. “Because he’s just as contrary as I am, Mama. I think it’s better if we just forget the matter.”

  Her mother’s face was a picture of disappointment, and Adela’s heart turned over.

  “Well, perhaps we could invite him to tea, or perhaps luncheon? In a week or two...” She patted Mama’s arm, and leaned in confidentially. “I know you have hopes, Ma. I understand that. But I’m not sure he and I are suited, in the romantic sense.... Perhaps we could all try to be better friends with him, though, if you’d like that? I’ll make an effort.”

  Mama’s eyes narrowed a little, and Adela wondered if her parent had seen straight through her. Mama was sharper than a lot of people gave her credit for. It wouldn’t do to be too confident that one could pull the wool over her eyes. One of these days, she might ask dangerous questions....

  A clandestine visit it is, then.

  Another meeting of the Sewing Circle that wasn’t a meeting of the Sewing Circle.

  “Thank you, darling,” said Mama, beaming. “You’re such a sensible girl, really...and I still think you’d make a perfect wife for Wilson. A steadying influence. He’s twenty-six and it’s time he settled down.”

  Adela took a sip of tea. Anything to stop her from laughing out loud. If Mama only knew what her plain, sensible, steady eldest daughter was really like.

  “Where’s Sybil? We must start making plans. We need to be ready. Her dear Algernon could be ready to propose at any moment and she needs to be prepared. There’s so much to do!” Mrs. Ruffington rose to ring for their solitary parlor maid. She liked to observe the proprieties, even though they now only had the skimpiest establishment.

  Before anyone could answer, the door burst open and Sybil came flying in.

  “Oh, Mama! Mama! What am I going to do? The most terrible thing has happened!”

  Having flung this out, Sybil burst into a wild flood of tears to rival Victoria Falls in volume and intensity, becoming incoherent and not making any sense at all.

  Adela’s heart sank. Embarrassing and difficult as Wilson could make it for her, the loss of her portfolio paled to a minor inconvenience. She’d seen hysterics like this from Sybil before and had a sickening feeling that the cause was the same again. Vacating the seat beside Mama, she settled her sister into it and sat down at the other side, grasping Sybil’s hand and putting a handkerchief from her own pocket into it.

  “What is it, my dear? Please...cal
m down and tell us.” The expression on Mama’s face suggested she harbored the same fears.

  “Don’t cry, Syb.... Tell us what’s wrong. Nobody can help you if you don’t share what it is.” Adela touched her sister’s face. Sybil met her eyes, pleading.

  “It’s my shawl...my favorite shawl. I think I—I lost it at the house party,” the younger girl stammered. “I can’t find it anywhere.”

  “A shawl? All this for a shawl?” Mama laughed in relief. Adela watched the horror drain from her parent’s face. “When you’re Lady Framley, my sweet, you’ll have dozens of beautiful shawls. Don’t fret so! I’ll order more tea. We have Madeira cake and it’s rather good for a change.”

  “Yes, the cake is good, Syb...do try a slice.” Adela squeezed her hand. “And don’t worry, I’ll find your shawl. I promise you.”

  Sybil grinned back, her eyes bright, full of trust...and hope, but as Adela ate her own cake, it tasted like dead cinders on her tongue. What could she do? She had no doubt that all Sybil’s many shawls were present and accounted for, and that it was a quite different item that had suddenly gone missing.

  “I shall write to Lady Rayworth now,” announced Mama, sounding decisive, “asking if her staff can look for your shawl. I’m sure they’ll find it. They seemed very efficient. Come along, Marguerite, you can help me compose the note.”

  As their parent bustled out, with their younger sister in her wake, Adela wondered if Mama suspected the truth. She fancied not, though, as Mama had still seemed pleased with herself, and with life.

  A state which neither she, or her sister enjoyed, as Adela rounded on Sybil.

  “It’s letters, isn’t it? Tell me, Sybil...tell the truth.”

  On the point of tears again, Sybil nodded, her smooth young face blotched with distress.

  “Which ones? Old or new? You weren’t carrying the old ones you exchanged with Johnny around with you, too, were you?” She knew her sister had a habit of carrying keepsakes in her carpet bag, regardless of all her fine talk about safe places.