'And therefore I wish you to treat me as a friend. Here we are, two friends, alone in a carriage, travelling at midnight through the streets of London, and you sit there prating about cutting a poor figure.'
'I am sorry, Emily.'
'So you should be,' she said severely, and then smiled, allowing her teeth to flash in the gloom. 'Do you know what any other friend would be doing now?'
'I have no idea. Telling you a story.'
'God give me patience,' she muttered. 'He would be kissing me.'
'Kissing you?'
‘I suppose you have never kissed a girl.' 'Well,' he began.
it's done like this.' She held his arms, kissed him on the mouth. She took him by surprise, for in fact he had never kissed a girl before; when, with the other junior officers in the regiment, he had been laid on top of a whore, only a few weeks ago, she had neither offered her mouth nor had he wished to kiss her. But here was a tongue licking across his own, gently sweetened with champagne, as was the breath which rushed against his. He discovered his eyes were shut, and opened them again to stare at her face, so close, to feel her hands sliding across his uniform jacket, to feel his own arms going round her. But what to do with his hands? He touched bare flesh and gave a little gasp until he realised that it must be her shoulder. But how wonderful it felt.
The cab was slowing, and turning into the gateway. Roger felt a sense of panic that this heavenly moment was about to end. He clung to her the more tightly, sent his own tongue questing after hers, felt, to his amazement, her hands slipping lower on his body, wondered with desperate anxiety whether he dared do the same. She turned away from him as the cab finally pulled to a halt, and his hands slid across the bodice of her gown. He sat back and gazed at her as the door was opened and the interior filled with light from the link torch held by one of the Brand footmen.
'You'll not leave me now,' she whispered, and stepped down, drawing her cape about her shoulders. Roger found himself at the foot of the front steps, paying the cabbie, the entire night revolving about him. Emily had already gone inside, but the footman was still holding the door for him. He ran up the stairs, into the front hall, found her already half way up the next flight of stairs.
'Your coat and hat, sir,' the footman said.
He tore them off, handed over his sword as well. He could not believe it was really happening. But was it not what he had always wanted to happen? His aunt. But only by marriage. A lovely girl only a year older than himself. Why, he supposed, how wonderful it would be if she would marry me. What a sensation that would cause.
Whatever would Father say? But it was impossible, and Father must never know.
Emily was waiting for him at the foot of the next flight of stairs, ‘I should not be here,' he mumbled inanely. 'My regiment . . .'
'You said you were free until six of the morning,' she said. That is still more than five hours. But I do not think we should waste a second of them.' She held out her hand, and he took it. She led him up the stairs.
'But . . . that fellow. The servants.'
'Are my servants. I act as housekeeper for my father. They will not say a word. I promise you.' 'Well, then, your father . . .'
'Will be brought home drunk, and will scarce awake before noon. By then you will be on your ship.' 'Alison . . .'
She gave a little tinkle of laughter. 'Alison is asleep. Do not worry about Alison.'
'But . . .' He checked in horror as they reached the next gallery, and were met by a maid.
'Good evening, mum. Shall I attend you?'
'Not tonight, Rose, thank you.' Emily opened the bedroom door. 'You shall attend me.'
He stood in the doorway, shifting from foot to foot as she disappeared into the gloom.
‘I . . .'
She turned to face him. 'Don't you like me, Roger?' 'I do. I ... I adore you. But . . .'
'You adore me.' She came closer, put her arms round his neck, kissed him on the mouth. Her body seemed to fasten itself on his, sliding up and down his uniform. 'And I adore you. We shall adore each other.' She stepped away from him. 'And if you say one more word about our being related I shall scratch your eyes out.'
'I really . . .' He sighed, ‘I suppose I just can't believe it is happening. That you should want to . . . well . . .'
'I do want to. I have wanted to since I saw you at my sister's wedding. Perhaps I also never believed we would meet again like this. But we have. And I don't want to waste a moment of it.' She held his hand, pressed it on her breast, and he realised that while she had been talking she had unfastened her gown and allowed the bodice to fall round her waist. He touched satin-like flesh, had his palm scraped by a hardened nipple, felt he was going to burst with desire . . . but she was away again, half lost in the darkness.
There is a pot,' she said. 'Do you undress, and get into bed, my darling Roger. I will be back in a moment.'
'But . . .' He reached after her in the gloom, but she was too far away, opening an inner door which apparently led to a dressing room.
'Go to bed,' she said over her shoulder.
The door closed, and he was alone. As if he could ever be alone while her scent was whirling about his head, filling every recess of his lungs. He tore at his clothes, sent them flying about the floor, sat down to pull at his boots. His fellow officers had boasted of evenings like this, unbelievable conquests, of girls who actually wanted to surrender . . . but they had usually been married women. No unmarried girl was going to risk her reputation or her virginity by taking a man to her bed. Then was Emily Brand a whore? She could not be. She was Alison's sister.
He parted the curtains, got into the bed. Here her scent was even more pronounced, and the sheets were warm, as if someone had recently been lying on them. More likely the warming pan had only just been removed, by the maid they had met on the stairs. He lay on his back, gazed at the dimly visible white tester above his head. Emily Brand. Emily Brand, Emily Brand, Emily Brand. My God, he thought, I am in love, and was suddenly nervous. His erection was not yet full. He had not considered that before. But suppose he did not come hard. Would she not scoff at him? Emily Brand. An unmarried girl, but if she was so free with him, had she not been equally free with others?
He leaned on his elbow, staring at the drapes, watched them move. He could only just see her in the darkness, but he could smell her. It was not a scent he would ever forget.
'Emily,' he whispered, and reached for that white blur. She came closer, kissed him on the mouth; her hair flopped across his face. His hands slid over her shoulder blades, attempted to hold her breasts and were unable because she was pressed against him, slipped down her back to her buttocks, felt her spreading her legs to allow him between, while she gave a little moan and wriggled, and her fingers sought and found his penis. No doubts about hardness now. He rolled her on to her back, and her legs came back together, trapping one of his between. 'So soon?' she whispered.
'I . . .'He slid off her, and her breath rushed against him as she smiled at his ignorance. She held his hand, guided it down to her pubic bush, moved it up and down for him, left him to his own devices while she caught his head and brought it close, to kiss him again. He had never believed such a freedom would be granted by any woman. Certainly not by a lady. But she actually wanted him to touch her as he chose, gave another of those little wriggles and broke out in a fine sweat against his chest.
'Oh, Emily,' he whispered. 'I love you, Emily. Emily, Emily . . .' She closed his mouth with another kiss, and her hands were back at him, stroking and rubbing until suddenly he realised that he would not be able to stop himself. 'Emily,' he gasped. 'Not now. Emily . . .' But it was too late. He lay against her, quite paralysed with alarm, waiting for her disgust, for her to flee him, and instead heard a low gurgle of happy amusement.
'You are a potent fellow,' she whispered, if you will put your hand through the drapes, you will find a towel.'
He obeyed, still feeling her against him, mind utterly confused ‘I . . . I don't know what to say.
'
She took the towel from his fingers, dried herself and himself. Then why say anything? There is naught to be ashamed of. It is what I wanted.'
'Wanted? But . . .'
'You would like to enter me. You cannot do that. But you may use your hands again, and soon you will be hard again, and I will be happy again.'
He rested his head on the pillow, on strands of her hair. His confusion was complete. No one had ever warned him there might be a woman like this. A woman who wanted to touch and to feel and to hold, just like a man, but not necessarily to consummate. Should he be repelled? Should he be disgusted? Should he be angry? What would Father be? Oh, angry, certainly. Father would take her by force, in such a situation.
But was he not having the best of all possible worlds? He loved the feel of her fingers, as they now returned, gently stroking him while she nuzzled his cheek. And he was doing her virginity no harm. Nor was there any risk of a pregnancy. That could wait until after they were married. Because they must marry now. He could not envisage ever loving any woman save for this magnificent creature, who knew so surely the way to his happiness, and had no doubts of her own.
'Emily,' he whispered. 'Oh, Emily, Emily, Emily. Marry me, Emily. Say that you will?'
Once again the gurgle of amusement. 'I can't marry you, silly,' she said. She released him, raised herself on her elbow. 'But if you wish it, we can tumble like this whenever you are at Derleth.'
'Derleth?' He was sliding his hands to and fro between her legs, her thighs clamped on his fingers. 'Do you spend much time in Derleth?'
'I spend all my time in Derleth,' she said. 'And it is a dismal spot, I do promise you, with only your father for amusement. But when you return from the wars, my darling Roger, why then we shall have sport. And it will serve the old monster right.'
He moved his head to stare at her, as realisation burst across his mind like an explosion of gunpowder.
'Well?' Haggard demanded. 'Out with it, man. What have you?'
George Cummings stood first on one foot and then the other. His face was pale, and not entirely with fatigue. He licked his lips and looked longingly at the decanter of port on the table by the desk. There is some news, sir. But . . .'
‘I am not a boy, Cummings. You do not have to stammer at me. He's dead.'
'No, sir. Well, sir, I cannot say for sure. The news of Master Roger is not so definite. But sir . . . there is a letter.' 'Letter?' Haggard frowned at him.
Cummings took the envelope from his pocket, held it out. Haggard's frown deepened as he saw the black edge. 'Dead,' he said.
'Well, sir . . .'
Haggard slit the envelope with this thumb, took out the single sheet of paper, gazed at the embossment: the Admiralty. Slowly he raised his head to gaze at his agent. And realised that his eyes were filled with tears. It could not be. It was simply not possible. 'What does it say?' He did not recognise his own voice.
Cummings sighed. The frigate Antiope was lost at sea, Mr. Haggard. A most gallant action it was, sir, but against a superior French force. And finally a shot in the magazine ... it is supposed, sir. She blew up. There were no survivors.'
Slowly Haggard leaned back in his chair. The letter fell from his hand and sifted down to the floor. He supposed he was dreaming from the moment the news had been brought to him that Roger had deserted the colours, on the day before his regiment had been due to sail. He had attended a ball at Almack's, and then just disappeared. Roger. A coward. Because there could be no other explanation. Unless he had been set upon by footpads. Either way, Roger, lost. Susan's child. Yet had his grief been assuaged by the memory of their sudden enmity, the fact that Roger had taken Emma's side, had steadfastly opposed him. He had anticipated endless quarrels, endless opposition, as the boy had grown to manhood. He had not anticipated cowardice. And there had always been the others. If Alice seemed determined to be on Roger's side, Charlie, younger and more pliable, would surely be a prop in the years to come.
Charlie. Floating about at the bottom of the Mediterranean Sea. My doing, he thought. I sent him there. Just as I sent Roger into the Army. Just as I elected to come to England at all.
He raised his head. Cummings still stood there. 'You spoke of news.'
Cummings licked his lips. His distress had given way to terror. 'We ... we have traced certain of Master Roger's movements, sir, on the night he disappeared.'
Haggard nodded. 'Go on.'
'Well, sir, in company with several other young men from his regiment, he had attended Almack's . . .'
'I know that, for God's sake,' Haggard snapped.
'Well, sir . . .' Cummings' despair appeared to increase. 'We have ascertained, sir, that he left the ball in the company of Miss Emily Brand.'
Haggard stared at him for some seconds. 'Emily? But ... he saw her home, of course.'
‘Indeed, sir. That is the information I have been given by Miss Brand. That Mr. Haggard accompanied her home, and then left again.'
'Well, at least we may be able to obtain some clue as to his mood.' It was essential to keep living, keep acting, keep searching, for Roger. Charlie was dead, dead, dead. But Roger might be alive. Might not have run away. Might still be his son.
'Yes, sir. Miss Brand did not apparently notice anything unusual about Mr. Haggard.'
But he had not finished. Haggard raised his head again. There is something more?'
Cummings licked his lips. 'Well, sir, Mr. Haggard, you told me to spare no expense and no feelings provided I found Mr. Roger.' 'I'll not deny my own instructions.'
'Well, sir . . . notwithstanding what Miss Brand had to tell me, I spoke with the servants, sir, clandestinely. It was necessary to disburse some currency, you understand . . .'
'Of course,' Haggard said. 'Go on, man.'
'Well, sir, one of the maids confided to me that Mr. Roger did not leave immediately after accompanying Miss Brand home. That he stayed for some time, sir, upstairs, alone with Miss Brand, and that eventually he left in haste, sir, barely half dressed, trailing his clothes behind him.' Cummings paused for breath, and to mop his brow. While Haggard continued to stare at him for some moments. His brain seemed to have atrophied. Charlie was dead, dead, dead. And Roger . . . had raped his own aunt by marriage?
But he had been invited there in the first place. Conspiracy, conspiracy, conspiracy. It was the only sure fact about the Brands. All was conspiracy.
He pushed back his chair and got up. Cummings hastily backed to one side of the room. The girl did not know where he went after that, sir. But my people are still looking.'
Tell them to cease,' Haggard said, and opened the door. Conspiracy. Not on Roger's part alone. Emily Brand. A girl who wanted only the embraces of her own sister. Unless it be the embraces of her nephew by marriage. Emily Brand, a crawling thing, a snake . . . no, it was Alison he had once compared to a snake. A hateful thought, as hastily rejected. But Alison had been in town then, even if she had come hurrying back to Derleth the moment she had learned of Roger's disappearance. Learned of it? She had been there.
He stamped up the stairs. What was he going to do? What could he do, about Emily Brand? He could not call her out. He could not have Cummings' people waylay her and slit her nose. By God, he could do that. Perhaps he would do that. Emily Brand. To have her here ... he opened the nursery door, gazed at his wife and son, playing on the floor. My only son, he thought. Of them all, my only son.
'John?' She frowned at him, then scrambled to her feet. She wore only an undressing robe and her hair was tucked out of sight beneath her mob cap. It was far too early for Alison Haggard to dress. 'News of Roger?'
'Aye,' Haggard said. 'And of Charlie.' 'Charlie?' Her frown deepened. 'Is dead.'
She stared at him for some seconds, while her jaw slowly slipped open. 'Oh, my God,' she said.
'Drowned,' Haggard said. 'The entire ship's company.'
'Oh, Mr. Haggard.' She got to her feet, while John Haggard junior lay on his back and stared at his parents with deep
, thoughtful eyes, ‘I am so sorry.'
'Are you, madam? Does it matter to you in the slightest?'
'John,' she protested. 'How can you say that?'
'How can I?' he snapped. 'My entire family has been destroyed. With a single snap of the fingers, your fingers, madam, I have lost both of my sons.'
Suddenly she was watchful, taking a step backwards to find herself against the cot. 'I have no idea of what you are speaking.'
'Have you not? Had I never seen you I had never quarrelled with my sons. Had I never seen your sister I would still have Roger, at the least.'
'Emily?'
'Can you deny it was she left Almack's with Roger? Can you deny it was she seduced him, there in your own house, left him so ashamed he deserted his regiment and his honour? Can you deny it was she destroyed him?' He pointed at her. 'I will tell you this, madam. Should that sister of yours ever set foot in my presence again, I will take my whip to her. There you have a promise. And one I shall keep.'
'You are being absurd,' Alison said. 'How on earth could Emily destroy Roger? Even supposing she did seduce him?'
'Supposing?' Haggard shouted. 'Can there be any doubt about it?'
. 'You persist in seeing him as a child,' Alison shouted in turn. 'Well, he is not. He is a man grown, with all the appurtenances of a man. I cannot help it if he is so confused and uncertain that he does not know his own mind. He fled before . . .' She checked, and bit her lip.
Haggard frowned at her. 'You were there?'
‘I . . .' Again she bit her lip.
'By God,' Haggard said. 'You were there. You are no better than your sister. Well, I have always known that. You are an unnatural whore, at heart. By Christ, a snake. I knew it when first I saw you. A snake.'
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