Phaze Fantasies, Vol. III

by J Buchanan, Jade Falconer, Eliza Gayle

  "He knows,” Portia hissed. “Yon boy told him about the Lord barrister."

  Godwin waved his hand. “He knew that, anyway. He's one, too."

  Portia grabbed their hair. “No, you old fools, he told them that Lord Kincade was planning to marry a man."

  "Ah, we can't have that. Can we?” asked Godwin. “Besides, his Lordship don't even know himself yet. Now does he?"

  "Godwin,” said Geoffrey, “perhaps we'd best help Master Hugh with his toiletries. What do you think?"

  "Oh, too right, brother. He might need us both."

  Portia looked at the two conniving codgers and smiled. “You two old farts. What're up to?"

  "Nothing much,” Godwin said innocently.

  "Yea, nothing much,” said Geoffrey. “We just need to help Lord Percival trim his mustache."

  "Trim his mustache?” cried Portia. “He ain't got much of one now! What's to trim?"

  "Oh, darling Portia, there's trimming and there's trimming."

  * * * *

  As Lord Percival was learning the intimate art of mustache trimming, Byron Jones was dashing off for another day at court. With briefs piled high he nimbly crossed the Great Hall across to a flight of marble steps which led to a large vestibule. A statue of Cerberus, the three-headed dog, guarded the entrance to the court. Byron stopped to touch a nose, as he did every time he entered the courtroom.

  "Wish me luck today,” he whispered to the statue.

  He was right worried about the day's lineup of cases. Mrs. Hargrave and Mrs. Fubby were back on the docket—first. Their case, though, had moved into more than just a dispute between neighbors; it was war. Byron's stomach felt as though it had a gaping hole in its center. Lord Kincade would be furious with him, but this time he'd had no choice. Life and limbs were at stake.

  As Byron entered the Queen's Court, he saw Lord Kincade talking to the judge. The judge looked as though he had swallowed something sour; his demeanor, though dignified, bespoke a sad and silent existence, almost suggesting that nothing in his life had ever turned out exactly the way he had wanted. Lord Kincade, on the other hand, seemed almost resplendent in his robes and alight from the joy of a fine morning's stroll to work.

  Byron's dread made him imagine his future meager existence. Once the day's docket was announced, he was sure that his employ as premier junior council for his Lordship was over. While he sorted through the morning briefs, he could hear Mrs. Hargrave bawling in the anteroom. Spectators milled about in the stands waiting for the day to begin. An extraordinary amount had turned out to watch the proceedings between the two neighbor ladies.

  Byron hurried over to warn his senior. Lord Kincade was laughing at something the judge had offered in his dour little voice. Byron was struck at how handsome the barrister was. His wig hung in great curls outlining his face. Its stern ambiguity was offset by his dark laughing eyes, and the deep cleft in his chin was emphasized by his wide smile. Byron's breath caught in his throat at the fine figure of his dream lover. He longed to stroke the dimple in his Lordship's chin. Slowly. Byron shook his head trying desperately to dispel the images flooding his mind. He scowled angrily at the barrister.

  Kincade seemed taken aback by the vehement expression on his junior's face.

  "What's the matter, Byron?"

  Byron shook his head again.

  "Cat got your tongue?"

  Byron almost laughed. Almost. His bright green eyes suddenly sparkled. “No, sir, but someone got the cat."

  "What's that, Byron?” The barrister smiled down on his young protégée, yet his good humor was suddenly spoiled by the sight of the Mrs. Hargrave and Mrs. Fubby entering the courtroom.

  Byron followed his gaze, and said, “Sir, we are representing Mrs. Fubby today. It appears that matters have gotten out of hand ... umm, rather Mrs. Fubby took part of Mrs. Hargrave's hand."

  "She did what?"

  "Sir, Mrs. Hargrave was further accosted by Tidbits..."

  "Tidbits?” Lord Kincade interrupted. “Who or what is Tidbits, may I ask?"

  "Tidbits is the cat. Rather, sir, he was the cat, until Mrs. Hargrave grabbed her meat cleaver and took off his head."

  "She what?!"

  Byron realized he had the barrister's full attention.

  "She chopped off the poor cat's head. Then Mrs. Fubby took exception to the killing, so she grabbed the cleaver and had a good one at Mrs. Hargrave. Witnesses say she swung for the missus’ head, but she missed."

  "Thank God for that."

  "Aye, but then she grabbed Hargrave's hand and hacked off her thumb."

  "Goodness,” said Lord Kincade. “Byron, I've known those two women since I was a wee lad. They've bickered for years, but this ... this is enough."

  "Yes, sir. Remember, we are defending Mrs. Fubby, sir."

  Byron heard a soft hiss from his Lordship. “Byron, I am fully aware of which woman is our client."

  Fully admonished, Byron mumbled, “Yes."

  "Byron, I'm sorry. I'm just upset with those two old biddies."

  Byron's surprise was evident.

  "Would you please bring Mrs. Fubby's statement to me?"

  Byron beat a hasty retreat to his bench for the brief. He could not believe it; Richard Kincade had apologized. Would wonders never cease?

  The case brought by his Lordship was noteworthy, not only for its brevity but also for its lack of emotional appeal. As effectively as a chef paring a piece of ripe apple, Lord Kincade sliced to the truth of the matter and dispatched the case. The spectators had expected to hear heart-rending accounts from the warring parties. They had hoped to feel the loss along with Mrs. Fubby of her beloved Tidbits, and they had longed to shudder in horror at the grisly details of the mauling to Mrs. Hargrave's hand. Lord Kincade squelched such atrocious behavior by omitting a venue for personal testimony. Instead, he interviewed the sole witness to the account, Mr. Harvey Sedgegrove, a retired professor of religious studies. Mr. Sedgegrove was as boring as he was tall, and he stood a good six foot four inches. A disappointing decorum overtook the audience of the Court.

  The case was dispatched with Mrs. Fubby promising to pay the chirurgeon's bill for sewing the wound on Mrs. Hargrave's hand, and with Mrs. Hargrave swearing to keep her sharp utensils where they properly belonged, in the kitchen. The ladies felt deprived of their day in court; equally, though, both left with the satisfying opinion that she had been vindicated.

  Once the matter of Tidbits and the Thumb, as the case came to be called, was finished, the rest of the day's briefs proved unremarkable, boring actually. Byron almost felt let down, but then he would recall Lord Kincade's apology and something deep within his heart would lighten. Byron's crush on Richard Kincade was beginning to take on the more mature nature of true love. With every passing day, he witnessed Kincade's attributes of integrity and wisdom, and those qualities became the example that Byron tried to emulate. Of course, Richard Kincade was a dashingly handsome man, but Byron had begun to see past the genteel façade to the soul of the man beneath. Byron wanted this man, he needed him, and he aimed to have him.

  Chapter Four

  Hugh Percival, though no Macaroni, was surely foppish in his affectations. Nothing pleased him more than to be noticed; nothing, save, bringing joy to his childhood companion and first lover, Richard Kincade. Hugh had long since lost his grand attraction to Cade, but never would he lose the sense of debt he felt toward his dear friend. The idea of an alliance between Cade and young Byron amused him intensely. Perhaps for a brief moment, he felt a pang of jealousy. He was, after all, human, but the opportunity to thwart society and please his best friend outweighed any latent envy he might harbor.

  His role in the affair would be as escort to the newly announced Rebecca Jones, Byron's fictitious cousin from the country. Newly arrived in town, she would need introduction, and who would know better how to make that overture into society than Lord Fitzhugh Percival. Convincing Byron to take part in this masquerade would not be easy, yet Hugh felt certain tha
t it could be accomplished. Any fool could see that Byron was smitten with his Senior Counsel.

  As Hugh walked down the avenue toward Byron's apartment, he was struck by the beauty of the bright blue sky. Clouds drifted, lazily painting swaths of white against the brilliant background. Flowers along the sidewalk seemed brighter, more vibrant. Love was in the air, and Hugh thought to himself, what a wonderful day. His step was jaunty. He felt as though he were on a special mission. Playing cupid to two fine men who just needed the slightest of nudges to come together was a mission Hugh found irresistible.

  He licked his right pinky finger and smoothed an errant eyebrow. Perfect. He leaned against a stile opposite Byron's apartment and waited for the young man to come along home from work. Shortly, he saw Byron strolling down the avenue with, of all people, Richard Kincade. Damn, he thought. How do I get rid of Cade, so that I can have my talk with Byron? Suddenly, Hugh had a wonderfully devious idea.

  "Ah, Cade, Byron,” shouted Hugh waving grandly.

  Gleefully, he noted Kincade's discomfort at seeing him. The old boy wants young Byron all to himself, does he ... well, he can just want a bit more. Nothing fans an attraction like the flames of jealousy. Perhaps Mr. Jones need not be so available.

  He strode forward and hooked his arm through Byron's. “Byron, you are just the man I wanted to see.” He leaned close to Byron's ear. “I have a slight proposition to put to you ... if I may?"

  Kincade looked bored. Hugh tried harder.

  "I wondered, Mr. Jones, if you are otherwise engaged this evening. If not,” he arched an eyebrow flirtatiously and smiled a dainty coy smile, “I wondered if you might join me for an evening's enjoyment.” He touched his hands together on his chest and said in mock sadness, “I've unfortunately been stood up, and I had such an exciting evening planned, too."

  * * * *

  Anger flared so hot and quickly in Kincade that he was surprised by his own vehement reaction. Not for a moment did he stop to wonder at his anger. He had been a party to Hugh's evening plans with a virile rascal named Edwin. Sharing the sexually potent young Edwin was one thing, but the thought of sharing Byron incensed him.

  Kincade thought back to his and Hugh's latest escapade with Edwin. Edwin had worn the hood. Made of ebony velvet, the hood covered his head completely. The thing transformed Edwin, with his slightly stodgy accountant's demeanor, into a debonair creature full of mystery and power. Kincade could see the scene unfold in his mind's eye.

  Tall and powerfully built, the hooded man had towered over Kincade and Hugh as they knelt at his soft black leather boots. His breeches had been tight, too tight, outlining his thigh muscles and the throbbing bulge of his crotch. Unbuttoned, the soft velvet of his waistcoat revealed Edwin's gleaming pectoral muscles. As if to accentuate his brute force, his arms flexed with each snap of his riding crop against his boot tops. The crack of the small whip had reverberated around the tight confines of the cellar room.

  Kincade looked at Hugh and recalled his submissive state only a week earlier. Hugh had turned his backside to the touch of Edwin's sharp lashes, which had been administered with growing intensity. He remembered his own excitement as he had watched Hugh's whipping. When the three had finally coupled, though, it was he, Kincade, who had stood in final dominance.

  The ultimate moment for Kincade had come when he had held tight the black-hooded head of his tormentor. After succumbing to Kincade's passionate embrace, Edwin had knelt in front of him to suckle his bursting cock. Watching his dick slide in and out of the black velvet hole, feeling the soft crush of the hood's fabric as he guided Edwin's head, and smelling the hot frenzy of lust and sexual release had built Kincade's excitement to a fever pitch. His heat had increased greatly when Hugh had joined the duo. Caressing Kincade from behind, Hugh had entered into the sexual fray, bringing Cade the most complete of satisfactions.

  The very thought of Byron playing the same role as Edwin, of sharing whatever delights he had to offer, created a pounding in Kincade's brain that threatened to break through his skull. Anger, white hot and blazing, exploded inside him. At that moment, he hated Hugh with every fiber of his being. The change from friend to fiend was almost immediate in his estimation. How dare Hugh suggest such a thing!

  "Cade, what do you think of my idea?” asked Hugh. He tugged gently on Kincade's sleeve.

  Roughly, Kincade pulled his sleeve from Hugh's grasp. With tight lips and an evident scowl, he said, “I don't think much of it, actually. Mr. Jones has a busy day ahead of him tomorrow, so perhaps he should go ahead home and have an early night."

  Hugh smiled. “Oh, what's the harm ... just a few drinks ... maybe get to know one another better. You wouldn't want to join us, I take it?"

  "As a matter of fact, no, I do not want to join you for drinks.” Kincade turned to Byron. “I repeat what I said earlier. Have an early night. You have an incredibly hectic day tomorrow, and I wouldn't want you to be too tired to properly accomplish your tasks."

  Byron's ire rose. “I am not so old as to tire easily, my Lord."

  He bowed slightly to Lord Kincade, then said to Hugh, “If that offer of a drink is still on, I would be very pleased to accompany you, sir.” He pointed to his apartment. “I would like to freshen up just a bit, though, before I join you.” He grabbed the porch railing on the front of the apartment house and easily swung over it.

  "Lord Kincade, sir, I will present myself to you on the morrow. Good day."

  When he had gone, Kincade took a blow at Hugh. Hugh ducked and laughed.

  "What? Are you angry? Just because you choose to let the chit go loose, does not mean that I will."

  "Hugh, I'm warning you. This man is different; he's not some toy for you to play with and then discard."

  "Who says that I'm planning to drop him?” He glanced wistfully at Byron's door. “I might decide to keep this one. We're drawing nigh to the moment, when we should start thinking about our old age."

  "Old age! Are you daft, man? I'm not getting old; besides. that's what you take a wife for, old age. Indeed. One doesn't get a boyfriend for old age,” he declared.

  Byron hooted as he came out on the porch of his apartment. They turned to look. Together they admired the fit young man in front of them. He was handsome in a dreamy clean-cut way. Both men sighed. Hugh laughed, and Kincade's fury returned.

  "Off with you then, the two of you. I don't have time for this nonsense,” he said and left, striding angrily down the sidewalk.

  * * * *

  Byron joined Hugh on the walk. He looked fresh and attractive. Hugh put his arm around the young man and steered him in the direction of the latest pub. Byron had combed his hair back into a sleek ponytail revealing his fine-looking features. He twirled about in front of Lord Percival.

  "How do you like my newest redingote?” he asked, flaring out the frock coat as he turned around.

  "It's lovely, Byron. I'll be the envy of every molly in London."

  Byron laughed and said, “Well every one but Lord Kincade. He doesn't seem to want my social company."

  "Oh, don't be too sure of that, young man.” Hugh smiled knowingly. “Don't be too sure of that, at all. I want to offer you an interesting proposition—one I think you will find irresistible."

  * * * *

  Felicity Turner was fit to be tied. At first, Richard Kincade had pursued her relentlessly, but now ... nothing. Surely he wasn't dropping her over something as frivolous as a bit of hair in his soup. They were a couple; all of society knew that. How could he just abandon her? The morrow's eve was the first dance of the new season. Kincade had promised to take her, and he would. She knew it. He was a man of his word. She told herself that she was just imagining his aloof manner. She reasoned that perhaps, just perhaps, his ardor had cooled a little. It would be no great thing to fan his flames just a bit.

  She studied her reflection in the glass panes of her balcony door. She ignored the deep brooding look on her face, concentrating instead on her slim figure and high-th
rusting breasts. She cupped the underside of her breasts and twisted back and forth in front of the glass, admiring her reflection.

  "Wait until he sees me in my new dress,” she said.

  * * * *

  The bedroom door opened quietly. Portia entered, bringing a cup of steaming milk and a cold biscuit for Felicity. Ruefully, she watched the young girl prancing about in front of the mirror with her hands lifting up her bosom.

  She would need more than that to lift for Lord Kincade to notice her. Portia stifled a nervous giggle. Taking a deep breath to steady herself, Portia said, “Miss, here is your milk."

  "Oh, bother! Just put it down over there somewhere, girl."

  Portia was several years older than Felicity, so she was hardly a girl.

  "Yes, miss. By the by, miss, I won't be available tomorrow. Cindy will attend to you."

  Felicity stopped swaying and turned to glare at her maid.

  "What? No! I don't think so. You will be here first thing in the morning as usual, and you will remain here all day. I have to be dressed for an outing to the courtiers, and later, I must be dressed for the dance."

  "I'm dreadfully sorry, miss, but I must be off,” Portia said somewhat desperately. She hated confrontation with anyone, but most especially with Felicity Turner. The young miss had an ugly streak in her, and she felt no compunction in letting her anger take over. Portia, however, stood her ground, even though it felt a weak position to take. She said, “I'm helping out my uncle tomorrow ... Uncle Geoffrey. He works for young master Byron Jones. Mr. Jones’ cousin, Rebecca, is coming for a brief visit. There is no one to attend to her."

  Felicity brushed Portia's excuse away, with a wave of her hand. “Send Cindy,” she demanded. “I need you.” Felicity stomped over to her dressing table and perched on the stool in front of it. She tasted her milk. Steam drifted from the top of the cup. “This milk is too cold,” she declared.

  "Too cold? But, miss..."

  "I said that it is too cold.” Felicity's hateful glare dared Portia to contradict her.