“How did you know it was me?” I whispered.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” Juan Carlos answered. Leaning forward he stroked my cheek tenderly, but before I could say anything he clamped his mouth onto mine and began to kiss me passionately. Our tongues fought feverishly before he pulled away and worked his mouth down my torso, lingering on my stomach, kissing and licking before continuing to head south. I could barely see a few inches in front of my face, but I felt his hands caress my chest and a finger circle a nipple before pinching it tightly. I gasped, and his hand sprang away.
“Don’t stop,” I said quietly.
Juan Carlos’s hands and lips explored every inch of me, but eventually the hot, damp atmosphere became stifling, and I was gripped by a sudden need for some air.
“I need to get out of here,” I said, pulling my lips away from his.
He said nothing, but I felt his strong hands grab mine, and he heaved me to my feet.
“You want to hang out?” Juan Carlos said as we toweled ourselves off.
I retrieved my watch from the locker and checked the time before answering.
“It’s been nice meeting you, but I really have to go,” I replied, genuinely surprised at how late it was.
“No problem. Maybe we meet again, yes?”
“Sure, that would be great. Enjoy Brighton.”
“I already have.” He grinned.
I finished dressing and headed out, back through the reception area, but before I left I knocked on the glass partition where the receptionist was.
“Hi there.”
“Well, hi yourself,” he said, looking up from his magazine.
“I was just wondering, what kind of club is ‘The Black Orchid’ ?”
The smile immediately left his face and was replaced by a look of mild suspicion. “Why do you want to know?”
“Well, maybe I want to apply for membership. I mean, how would I know if I want to join if nobody will tell me what kind of club it is?” I said, giving him a cheeky little wink.
“I’ll be honest with you, mate—you don’t look the type. But saying that, one thing you learn in this job is that you never can tell.”
I looked at him and nodded my agreement even though I was none the wiser.
“BDSM,” he said finally. “Get all sorts up there. Literally queuing up to pay top whack, if you’ll forgive the pun, to have ten bells knocked out of them. Like I say, all sorts—bankers, lawyers, doctors. We even have one regular who they reckon is a lord of the manor. Proper titled gentleman, he is. Imagine that. Still interested in membership?”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Sure you will,” he replied without looking up.
I stood for a moment, rooted to the spot, trying to process the information I’d just been given.
If what this guy was saying was true, my new boss, the terribly upright Lord Shanderson, Third Earl of Beadale, had a hobby other than country pursuits. If, and it was a really big if, he was a member of The Black Orchid Club, he clearly enjoyed a bit more than a little slap and tickle. Bondage, domination, and sadomasochism—he just didn’t look the type. I’d met plenty of people who like it rough in my time; hell knows I’m not averse to a bit of domination in the sack myself, but Lord Shanderson, really?
My head was swimming as I pulled my jacket tightly around me and hurriedly made my way back up the hill to the train station.
“Well, well, well. Lord Shanderson, you’re a dark horse, aren’t you?” I said to myself.
When I arrived back at the station, crowds of people were milling around on the concourse, all staring up at the departures board. My heart sank when I saw that all trains out of Brighton were canceled.
“We regret to announce that all trains leaving Brighton are canceled due to a power failure in the Gatwick area. We will make further announcements when more information becomes available. Thank you for your patience and understanding,” said a disembodied voice from the PA system somewhere above my head.
“How the hell am I going to get back to Castle Beadale now?” I muttered, feeling neither patient nor particularly understanding. “It’ll be a miracle if I’m back in time to serve his breakfast at this rate.”
I remembered earlier walking past a long line of vacant taxis at the front of the station, so I headed back out to see how much it would be to take me all the way back to the castle.
The first driver in the queue wound his window down as I approached.
“How much to Castle Beadale?” I asked.
“Where?” he asked, clearly having never heard of it.
“Just near Westcourt Village—about twenty-five miles north of here.”
He looked me up and down with an air of grave suspicion before answering.
“Don’t normally do out-of-towners, but for you . . . sixty pounds.”
“Sixty pounds?” I yelled. “I want to go to Westcourt not Edinburgh.”
I stormed away from the taxi rank, and once out of sight I looked inside my wallet. A quick count up showed that I had just twenty pounds to my name plus a handful of coins. I don’t know what I expected to find as I was still waiting for my final pay from the hotel, so as usual at this time of the month funds were perilously low. When I was still at the Landseer I never really noticed when my bank account was running on empty as I was making so much cash on the side. But without that cash to fall back on I was well and truly broke. Not to mention stranded in Brighton.
Twenty quid might not have been enough to get me a taxi, but was sure as hell enough to get me drunk, so I headed to the pub opposite the station.
It was comforting to find that the pub was full of stranded people just like me, sheltering from the cold, killing time, and getting slowly pissed. At first I considered ordering just a large glass of New Zealand Sauvignon, but a quick calculation proved that it would be much more economical to order a whole bottle. At least that’s what I told myself.
“How many glasses, mate?” asked the barman as he stuck the bottle in an ice bucket.
“Just the one, thanks,” I said, handing over my money.
I found a table by the fire and made myself comfortable. Above the bar was a TV monitor that had a live feed to the departures board so I would be able to see when the trains began running again without the bother of leaving my seat.
Soon the combination of the wine and the heat from the fire had me feeling much more sanguine about my disrupted travel plans.
It was past ten o’clock by the time I stumbled off the train at Westcourt Station. I’d managed to text Tom to ask for a pickup, but God only knows how.
When I staggered across the car park he was sitting in the Land Rover with the engine running, grinning at me.
“You look like you’ve had a good time,” he said as I climbed in the passenger side.
“Sure have,” I slurred. “Sorry it’s late. The trains were all messed up, and I had to shelter from the cold.”
“In the pub?” he asked, laughing.
“How did you know that?”
“Call it a hunch,” Tom said as he pulled out of the car park and pointed us back toward Castle Beadale.
CHAPTER 11
“Bloody hell! You’re cutting it a bit fine, aren’t you?” Vera said, looking up from a pan of sizzling sausages when I entered the kitchen the following morning. “You’ll be pleased to know that I’ve set the table for you.”
“Thanks, Vera, I owe you one.”
“Bit of a heavy night, was it?” she asked, looking me up and down.
“Oh my God! Is it that obvious?” I said, cupping my hand over my mouth to check my breath for alcohol fumes.
“Don’t be daft!” she snorted. “You look fine. Tom told me he picked you up from the station last night. You young ’uns deserve to let your hair down now and again—Lord knows I did when I was your age! Now get cracking and take these through; he’ll be down any minute,” she said, handing me a silver dish containing heavenly smelling crispy bacon.
>
I was arranging the dishes on the sideboard when Lord Shanderson came in.
“Good morning, Gowers,” he said, taking his seat and unfolding his newspaper. “By God! That bacon smells divine.”
“Good morning, Lord Shanderson,” I said, pouring him a cup of tea. “Would you like me to serve you, sir?”
“No, thank you, Gowers, I’ll help myself in a moment or two.”
I was just about to leave him to enjoy his breakfast when he placed his paper down on the table and began to speak.
“Did you enjoy your day off, Anthony?”
“Indeed I did, sir, thank you.”
“Did you do anything interesting?” he asked, holding my gaze for a split second longer than was comfortable.
It seemed a strangely personal question, but I was touched that he appeared interested. For a split second I considered telling him I’d been to The Black Orchid to see what his reaction would be, but thought better of it and searched my brain for something more fitting.
“I had the most wonderful fish and chips at the end of the pier,” I said, relishing the memory.
“How splendid,” he said, beaming. “I haven’t had fish and chips for years.”
I couldn’t really picture Lord Shanderson eating fish and chips with a wooden fork at the end of the pier, but then I couldn’t imagine him paying to have his arse spanked either.
“I understand your return journey was not ideal,” he continued, suddenly looking more serious.
I felt a little bit nauseous. Had he seen me rolling in drunk last night? I’d be mortified if he’d seen me staggering around like an idiot. I swallowed hard before I answered.
“Yes, trains can be tricky, sir, but I got home safely in the end. That’s the main thing,” I said with a nervous smile.
“Yes, well, I think we had better make sure that doesn’t happen again, don’t you, Anthony?” he said, before returning to his newspaper. “That will be all.”
I left the dining room as quickly as I could without breaking into a run and stood in the tiny butler’s pantry trying to make sense of what he had just said to me. I couldn’t work out if he had seen me coming in drunk or if Tom had told him.
“Jesus, Anthony, you’ve only been here five minutes and already the boss has seen you falling down drunk,” I said to myself with a slap to the forehead. “Pull yourself together, man. You really need this job!”
I went through to the kitchen where Tom was sitting at the table devouring one of his mother’s doorstop bacon sandwiches.
“Morning, Anthony,” he said cheerfully.
“Can I have a word?” I said, hoisting him to his feet by his elbow.
I marched him through into the butler’s pantry where I was sure we wouldn’t be overheard.
“Did you tell His Lordship about my being drunk last night?” I asked.
“Certainly not! Why would I do that?” Tom said through a mouthful of half-finished sandwich. “He’s not mad at me for borrowing the Land Rover, is he?”
Tom looked as worried as I felt, and it seemed pretty unlikely that he’d go round telling tales for no reason.
“He just seemed to know all about the difficulties with the trains, that’s all. How would he know about that if you hadn’t told him?” I asked.
Tom seemed to think about it for a moment before he just shrugged his shoulders.
“Anyway, I don’t make a habit of getting myself into that state, so don’t go telling anyone else,” I said.
“Relax, Anthony—it’s not me you need to worry about around here. I’m one of the good guys.”
“And exactly who should I be worried about?”
“I’m just saying, not everybody round here will have your best interests at heart. I’m not naming no names.”
And with that he returned to the kitchen to finish his breakfast.
Later that day I bumped into Gloria in the laundry as I was attempting to remove an ominous-looking stain from one of the fine linen dinner napkins.
“If that’s red wine you’re trying to get out, then I suggest you soak it in some white wine first,” she said, regarding my efforts with a certain amount of suspicion.
“Thanks, I’ll try that.”
“I hear you are moving into Rose View this week.”
“Am I, Gloria? You seem to know more than I do.” I laughed.
“Given it quite the makeover, apparently,” she said, remaining stony faced.
Something about Gloria made me think that her default setting was that of mild irritation. I watched as she folded a pile of towels as though she had a personal grudge against each and every one.
“So who should I talk to about getting a set of keys and moving in?”
“I suppose you should talk to Barbara, the estate manager. She’s in charge of all the cottages on the estate. You’ll find her in the office above the stables.”
Gloria picked up a basket of clean laundry and left the room without another word. After serving tea I headed out to find Barbara and the estate office. All big country houses rely on their estate managers for the smooth running of the organization. There are tenant farmers to manage, rented cottages to oversee, and a whole host of bureaucratic nightmares to shield the landowner from. But in my experience they were also invariably a bottomless well of insider gossip, so in order to cement our relationship I made sure to take a huge slab of Vera’s fruitcake with me.
The offices were formed of three, maybe four old haylofts knocked into one to create a big open-plan room. The walls were covered in year planners and ordinance survey maps of the estate. At the far end I spotted Barbara, but only just, as she was partially obscured by huge towers of paper on the desk at which she was sitting, barking down the telephone.
“Jim, listen to me. The fence bordering your farm is damaged and needs repairing today. If any of your sheep get out, you can’t come to us for compensation. The fence is your responsibility—check your contract. It’s all there. Today, Jim. Got it?” She banged down the phone and stood up from the desk. “Bloody farmers! They’ll be the death of me, I swear! You must be Anthony.” She extended her hand between piles of documents and shook mine with a surprisingly firm grip.
“Sit,” she said, gesturing to a chair that was also covered in papers. “Just push that lot on the floor.”
As I made room to sit I spotted an ancient Jack Russell sleeping in a basket under the desk. It let out a low and menacing growl as I placed the papers on the floor.
“Enough, Agamemnon!” Barbara shouted down at it. “Don’t mind him; he’s just old and grumpy. Bit like me!” She let out a booming laugh that practically shook the windows.
“Coffee?” she asked, walking over to a small kitchenette. She was one of those country types whose age it was impossible to guess. She could have been anywhere between forty and sixty, but her hair was cut into a short, graying bob, and her ample frame was encased in a thick tweed suit, the skirt of which ended unflatteringly halfway down her enormous calves. Around her neck she wore a double string of pearls that she fiddled with as she waited for the kettle to boil.
“I’ve brought you some of Vera’s homemade cake,” I said, passing her the Tupperware box.
“How bloody marvelous!” she said.
I was glad I had brought the cake, as it did a good job of masking Barbara’s disgusting excuse for coffee. It tasted like a supermarket’s own brand with UHT milk and was served in a dirty, chipped mug that looked like it would benefit from a good scrub with a wire brush. Barb, as she insisted I call her, might not have been much of a housekeeper or tea lady but she was, just as I expected, full of useful information.
“So, Anthony. You must have made quite an impression on Lord Shanderson.”
“Really? Why do you say that?”
“You obviously haven’t seen Rose View yet, have you?”
“As a matter of fact I visited it last week when George was living there, so I know what it’s like—it could be very nice with a bit of TLC.�
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“Oh! It’s had that all right.” She laughed, tossing me a set of keys across the desk. “There’s no need for you to sign a separate contract, as it will be part of your employment contract, which should be ready to sign in the next couple of days. It’s quite straightforward—a month’s notice for both parties, that kind of thing.”
“Barb, I hope you don’t mind my asking, but what happened to George?”
“Ah, him,” she said, chewing the end of her pencil. “He broke the terms of his contract with Lord Shanderson and was asked to leave with immediate effect.”
“Do you have any contact details for him? I’d like to stay in touch with him—we got on really well.”
“ ’Fraid not. Transient type, that one.”
I sensed I wasn’t going to get anything else out of Barb on the subject of George’s departure, so I changed tack.
“Have you worked here long, Barb?” I asked, choking down the last of my coffee.
“Years and years—bloody well lost count. My father was the estate manager for the late Lord Shanderson. Lived on the estate all my life.”
“Good, then if I need to know anything about the lay of the land, I know who to speak to,” I said, getting to my feet.
“Anytime, young man. My door is always open.”
I couldn’t wait to go and check out my new cottage, but there wasn’t time if I was to change for dinner and set the table. It would just have to wait until the morning. I would go down to the cottage first thing after breakfast and see it in the daylight.
Only one more night in that cold, drafty room, and then I’ll have my own place! I thought as I excitedly headed back to work.
The following morning, as soon as His Lordship was out of the dining room, I cleared the breakfast things with lightning speed and set off for Rose View.
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