by Amanda Elyot
Chapter Seventeen
In which our heroine slyly cheats danger not once, but thrice, and ends up getting an education—and an eyeful—at the notorious Mrs. Lindsey’s house.
A DEFEATED C.J. had begun to return to the Royal Crescent when she heard footsteps behind her. Being a native New Yorker, she felt her reflexes quicken, and she flattened herself against a stone façade and waited to see if the person belonging to the footsteps passed by. But she was greeted with silence. Too apprehensive to look back, she elected to test whoever was following her in an effort to ascertain whether it was simply someone taking a similar route or one who might, in fact, be stalking her. To her horror, her impromptu experiment appeared to substantiate her fears.
She accelerated her pace and heard the corresponding steps behind her quickening as well. The footfall, though distinctly audible, was light enough to belong to a woman—perhaps someone from the working classes—for C.J.’s own tread in her expensive kidskin slippers was almost noiseless. She increased her speed, aided by a slight decline in the pavement, and turned a dark corner into a dimly lit street, which she realized immediately was a cul de sac. Her heart began to pound. There was no turning back or she would run straight into the panting being who was now but a few yards behind her. Given the recent events surrounding Lady Dalrymple’s illness, C.J. hazarded a quick guess as to the identity of her pursuer, but dared not look back to verify it. Her aim was to elude, not to confront. Breaking into a run, she noticed a door being opened about ten feet away; C.J. shoved past the exiting gentleman like a cat scuttling indoors from the cold.
The heavy oaken door shut behind her, locking automatically and leaving a cursing Saunders on its threshold.
Soaked with sweat, C.J. leaned against the wall just inside the building and clutched her chest to catch her breath. Flames flickered in the baroque wall sconces, casting shadows, like greedily lapping tongues against the red flocked wallpaper. The narrow foyer, tiled in a domino black and white, gleamed in the candlelight.
Leaving the building now was inadvisable. Saunders might be lurking near the doorstep, anticipating her exit. This would be a waiting game that C.J. had to win. Her breathing steadier, she decided to explore her sanctuary and slowly pulled back the deep gold damask drape that masked the foyer from the rest of the town house.
C.J.’s eyes widened. Beyond the golden curtain was a world worthy of Hogarth: colorful, brightly lit, loud, and merry. Gentlemen of all stripes were enjoying brandies in oversized crystal snifters, some wagering at snooker—one lewdly brandishing his cue stick as if it were a priapus—and indulging in amorous play with willing young ladies in various states of dishabille. Far from being shocked, C.J. was fascinated by the exhibitions before her. Bustling about like a mother hen in a gown of purple satin with deep décolleté was a stately looking woman with a pile of extravagantly coiffed silver hair and a violet patch on one of her highly rouged cheekbones.
A besotted client, deep in his cups, prostrated himself before the madam. “Mrs. Lindsey, I am forever in your debt,” he said with near-religious fervor before passing out, one arm draped over Mrs. Lindsey’s amethyst-encrusted slippers. The madam had only to glance at a large periwigged man and a small African page boy attired in harem pants and a jewel-studded striped silk turban, and the inert patron was noiselessly ejected.
Suddenly, C.J. felt a tug on her arm as the page boy got her attention. He escorted her to a thin, bandy-legged chap approaching middle age. “Yes, that is the she who will be my ladylove!” cried the patron gleefully. “She shall play my virgin tonight! There can be no other!”
Before C.J. could protest that she was not in Mrs. Lindsey’s stable of beauties, the sweet-faced, ebony-skinned page led her and Mr. Bandylegs—who introduced himself as Sir Runtcock—down a candlelit corridor, passing a half-opened door through which C.J. spied an odd liaison indeed. An extremely fat gentleman of middling age and florid, baby-faced countenance was dressed as a young schoolgirl in a simple, high-waisted white frock with a wide pink sash. His bare, and corpulent, bottom was being soundly flogged by a doxy severely attired as a governess. The cross-dressed patron, evidently enjoying his “punishment,” cried out to be birched with even greater ferocity.
Having reached their destination, the exotic-looking page extracted a ring of skeleton keys from his belt and turned the lock, admitting C.J. and her “client” to a bedchamber of gigantic proportions. C.J. attempted to appear neither surprised nor overwhelmed by her surroundings, all the while scoping out a means of escape that would not lead her directly into the path of the prying lady’s maid or another of Mrs. Lindsey’s patrons. The enormous canopied bed rested atop a raised platform as though it were an altar to love. Above them cavorted painted nymphs and satyrs, contorting themselves into all manner of elaborate sexual postures, the outsized phalluses of the half beasts tipped in bright red, the faces of the voluptuaries convulsed with ecstasy.
The heavy wooden door closed behind them, and C.J. could hear the ever fainter jangling of keys as the page receded down the corridor.
“Ah, my pretty one,” cried Runtcock, rubbing his palms together with delight and hopping from foot to foot. “What are you called, my sweetling?”
C.J. stole a glance at the painted plaster firmament, her eye lighting on a pair of muscled arms stretching up from a shadowy abyss toward a nubile, bare-breasted young woman with flowers entwined through her blond, knee-length tresses. “’Tis Proserpine, sir,” she replied, coyly playing her part.
“Ahh, thou devilish sweet Proserpine, come to your Hades!” exclaimed Runtcock, deftly unfastening his breeches and dropping them to expose, poking through his linen, the tiniest pillicock that C.J. had ever seen. He wriggled out of his pants, linen, and hose, revealing his pale, scrawny bandy legs. Naked now, from the waist down, he proceeded to chase his prey around the gargantuan bed. “Oh, how fond my Proserpine is of the chase!” he squealed as C.J. leaped up onto the mattress and scampered across its breadth. Runtcock stopped in midpursuit. “Something is amiss,” he declared. “Your dress, my precious virgin, is not appropriate to your undefiled temple. My virgin should be attired in purest white!”
Anxious that her “patron” would rush out in his present state of undress and declare to Mrs. Lindsey that he had not been given a true “virgin,” thereby exposing her as an imposter, which might cause her to be ejected from the premises straight into Saunders’s suspicious grasp, C.J. gathered her wits for a swift defense of her sprigged muslin gown.
“La, good sir,” she said airily, “but your Proserpine is garbed as the virgin spring, which befits her name and her nature!”
“Oh, you clever, clever minx!” Runtcock exclaimed, leaping from the bed, while reaching for C.J., who deftly sidestepped the man, causing him to land facedown on a thick bearskin rug.
Runtcock gamely continued to give chase. He was more resilient than C.J. had anticipated. “Those delicious thighs,” he cried, grabbing hold of her upper leg when she paused to catch her breath, using one of the lewdly carved bed pillars for support. Latching on like a leech, the skinny bandylegs forced C.J. onto the mattress, his gnarled, clawlike hand inching higher and higher up her thigh. “Yes, my sweet! It is time to yield your virgin honeypot to Hades!” he panted, his petite member, staunch as it could ever be, flapping pathetically in the air.
C.J. tried to best him, but Runtcock was also stronger than she had assumed. Over and over the mattress they rolled, his lordship tossing a sinewy leg over C.J.’s hip until, at last, she rolled onto the rug and coyly skittered behind the draperies.
“Sweet Proserpine, I must see thy luscious form, those ripe twin globes and virgin forest.” Runtcock, who by now had succeeded in removing his upper garments, baring a rib cage sorely in need of a good meal, lunged for his voluptuous, fully clothed target.
Poking her head out from behind the wine-red velvet swags and pulling her red shawl more tightly about her shoulders, C.J. called out to the flagging Runtcock, “Yo
u impugn my modesty, sir. Let us devise a pastime: a game of hide-and-seek. You shall conceal yourself somewhere within this chamber, and once in hiding, count to fifty, after which time you may begin to look for me in my place of concealment. Should you find me, my virginity is yours to ravish.”
The bandylegs rubbed his hands together. “A game! How enchanting! Yes, yes, where can I hide, my little vixen?”
“Sir Runtcock, what about the wardrobe?” C.J. suggested gaily, nodding at a large double-doored armoire large enough to conceal at least two grown persons.
The naked patron appraised the cupboard. “A splendid idea!” he agreed, with more alacrity than C.J. had dared to hope for, and opening the doors, he climbed up into the armoire.
C.J. emerged from behind the drapes. “Now, sir,” she reminded him, “I shall close the doors and you shall count to fifty, during which time I shall conceal my supple virgin body within the room.”
His proximity to her caused Runtcock’s poor excuse for a penis to drool. “I shall count the moments, Proserpine!”
She closed the wardrobe and noiselessly slid the wooden bolt through the loops on each of the gilded doors. A muffled voice counted “one . . . two . . . three . . .” as she picked up her hat and tiptoed across the chamber to the door. As C.J. reached for the cast-iron ring that served as a handle, she heard footsteps and laughter just outside in the corridor and the sound of a body bumping up against the door.
She rushed back to her hiding place behind the velvet swags just in time. A drunken trio staggered into the room, each wielding a jeroboam of champagne from which they swigged large draughts in between fits of hysterical mirth.
Suddenly, the gentleman lurched to a halt in the middle of the bearskin. “I thought this room was empty,” he said with a puzzled expression, gazing at the rumpled bedclothes.
“ ’Tis empty, silly,” burped a luscious redhead, looking about the vacant bedchamber.
“There’s no one here but the three of us, lovey,” added the blonde, naked from the waist up. A tad unsteady on her feet, she tackled the gentleman, who had not quite gotten to the bed, and in one motion the pair slid to the floor, dissolving into a tangle of limbs and a heap of giggles.
“Don’t leave me out!” pouted the redhead, who pounced upon the supine couple and began to fumble with the gentleman’s cravat, while the blond doxy pulled at the redhead’s bodice, loosing her full breasts.
“How perfect!” exclaimed the gentleman, who was made naked in a trice, owing to the deft work of his two lovely handmaidens. His left hand groped for the redhead’s bosom while his right one toyed with the blonde. “One set of pink,” he said, as he suckled the redhead’s erect nipples, “and one of brown,” as he favored the blonde.
Pausing for air, the gentleman complained of a prodigious thirst, which his voluptuous concubines immediately addressed, the blonde holding his lips apart while her confederate doused his gullet with champagne. “Jennet, my witch,” he said drunkenly to the russet-haired beauty, “let’s see if yer a real redhead! And you, Camilla,” he continued, tugging at the blonde’s flimsy frock, “is yer cunny as flaxen as yer hair?”
“Shall we show ’im?” Camilla asked Jennet, laughing raucously.
“It’s what ’e paid for,” the redhead sniggered. Jennet reached across the gentleman’s body and linked arms with Camilla; with astounding and practiced grace, the half-dressed women pulled themselves to their feet. Jennet, the taller of the two, led Camilla to the bed and urged her up onto the mattress and into a supine position. While Camilla languished, her eyes growing heavy lidded and dreamy, Jennet played her bedfellow’s body like a fluid arpeggio, her hands fluttering over her pale throat, down to her firm breasts, teasing her nipples with light flicking strokes, playing over her flat belly, then gracefully sliding Camilla’s diaphanous gown over her thighs, past her well-turned calves and over her dainty ankles.
C.J., undetected behind the deep recesses of the drapery, watched the scene with increasing fascination, as did the patron of the pair of skilled voluptuaries, his eyes shining with boozy lust.
“No tricks at Mrs. Lindsey’s,” cooed Jennet. “Camilla’s beard’s as yellow as August cornsilk.” The redhead’s tapered fingers twined gently through the blonde’s nether curls; and the fair-haired Maja reclined against the Florentine bolster, stretching her arms above her head as she felt Jennet’s insinuation within her. Her back arched farther and farther upward as she reached the point of ecstasy.
Reaching for Jennet, Camilla pulled her partner toward her until the redhead was kneeling above the blonde’s torso. Camilla made short work of Jennet’s flimsy shift, leaving Jennet in her stunning altogether, her thick russet ringlets streaming down the contours of her back as she straddled Camilla’s still supine form.
“You certainly are a redhead,” the gentleman murmured approvingly.
By now Jennet was perched over Camilla’s mouth like a conqueror. The blonde’s clever tongue sought its target, darting in and out with enviable dexterity.
It was becoming increasingly warm behind the velvet drapery.
Jennet arched back, grasping onto each of her ankles, her hair reaching the mattress as she lengthened her torso and dropped her head back. Her large breasts stood out in full relief. The redhead’s lithe body shuddered with pleasure as Camilla accomplished her mission.
“My turn, ladies!” cried the gentleman, and bounced up onto the mattress.
The trio then engaged in a series of extravagant maneuvers while the gentleman tried to service both of his playfellows at the same time. With the ménage à trois thus preoccupied, C.J. emerged from her hiding place and was tiptoeing across the room when the gentleman suddenly exclaimed, “What have we here?”
Unaware that he had spotted her in a mirror, artfully positioned on the ceiling above the bed, and equally unaware that the wardrobe concealing the now-forgotten Sir Runtcock contained a peephole especially designed for such voyeurism, C.J. stopped still in the center of the chamber.
“One of each!” cried the gentleman ecstatically, angling himself to get a better look at the new girl, with not a care in the slightest as to how she might have materialized. “A blonde, a redhead, and now a brunette!”
His companions appeared equally unconcerned with her provenance. Camilla reached down and retrieved one of the champagne bottles. “Come’n join us, lovey!” she slurred happily.
C.J. found herself taking a step or two toward the bed.
“Umnhnhmn!” came a muffled cry from somewhere in the room.
The four of them looked about.
“Mnuhmnmn!” the voice repeated emphatically. “That’s my Proserpine! My virginal Proserpine!”
“It’s coming from the wardrobe,” deduced the astute Jennet.
“Proserpine. What a pretty name,” remarked the friendly Camilla. “When did you start?”
“Perhaps we should release him,” said Jennet, stretching her long legs and striding over to the armoire. She slowly slid back the bolt, tossing a lascivious look at the gentleman. Out popped a scrawny little man with a bandy-legged gait, made all the more prominent by his incarceration within the narrow confines of the wardrobe.
“My Proserpine,” he gasped and lunged for C.J.
“Oh, my goodness, we were interrupting your sport,” Camilla realized.
“Nay, we were quite through,” replied C.J.
The gentleman caught C.J. unawares about the waist. “Come and join us, then,” he insisted, planting a sloppy, wine-soaked kiss behind her ear.
Jennet unwittingly came to the rescue. “Proserpine is Sir Runtcock’s for the evening and cannot be released from his patronage until Mrs. Lindsey permits it.”
“Jennet is right,” C.J. contributed. “I dare not risk my . . . situation . . . until I am at liberty to do so. But if Sir Runtcock is . . . through . . . for the evening, I shall endeavor to see if I may be permitted to come back and join you.” Talk about winging it.
“Never!” cried th
e skinny little man, taking his member in his hand. “You are my little virgin!”
“And there you have it,” said C.J. gaily, as she pulled open the door and hastily slipped into the corridor.
Sir Runtcock, as bare as a plucked guinea fowl, once again took up the chase. The corridor was not more than forty feet long, with a spiral staircase at the far end of it. C.J. scampered nimbly down the cold marble steps, winding her way about the center pole for several feet. Halting briefly, she glanced up and noticed that her “patron” was nowhere about. His deformity rendered the configuration of the staircase too treacherous for him to follow her.
Having safely reached the foot of the stairs, C.J. took stock of her surroundings. Embedded in the stone walls of the catacomb, tiny slivers of mica glinted in the flickering candlelight provided by thick beeswax pillars in heavy, elaborate iron wall sconces. Mrs. Lindsey evidently spared her patrons no expense if she used such costly candles in her basement.
C.J. traversed another dimly lit corridor and rounded a dark corner. A hand-carved sign above the ebony door before her read STYGIAN CAVES. She pushed against the door and, to her surprise, found it yielded more easily than she had expected. She heard the sounds of lewd laughter and the thumping of pewter tankards and goblets meeting in toasts and then slamming emphatically on long wooden tabletops.
She ducked behind a large stone pillar near the door, praying to remain undetected by the score or so of gentlemen—or so they were by birthright—some attired in modish fashion, with others robed in monkish, hooded brown cassocks tied at the waist with a length of rope. C.J. had read about the Hellfire Club and similar secret societies, which rose to prominence in the middle of the eighteenth century. She thought such brotherhoods had been banned, but apparently, the secret orders were still welcome within the bowels of brothels.
Through the haze of burning frankincense, C.J. watched as the “monks” retrieved black masks from the deep pockets of their cassocks and donned them with utmost solemnity, then with nearly sinister precision, raised their left hands to their hoods and slid them back over their shoulders.