Victorian Taboo Page 3

  “You’re back, then,” Frederica said, and he could tell she was concerned.

  “How long…?”

  “You’ve been catatonic for about an hour. What happened?”

  “I saw her face, Freddy. I saw her, just for a moment.”

  The rapture in his voice was unmistakable.

  “It worked, then?”

  “I invoked her.”

  As his senses returned he became able to think about more than the pain in his body. Looking round the room, Charles saw that the girl had a sheet thrown over her.

  “The girl?” he asked.

  “She began oozing blood from eyes, ears and nose about the time of your first orgasm. She started screaming incoherently a little before you lost consciousness, then she writhed beneath your prone form for about ten minutes. When she became still, it was obvious that there was no power remaining in the circle so I opened it and moved you, by which time the girl no longer had any signs of life in her. “

  “It was always a risk,” Charles observed speculatively. “I doubt she had the strength of mind. We will need quite an exceptional creature for this work, and I doubt the whores of London have such a woman amongst their number.”

  “Given the relative success of this attempt, should I begin searching for a better candidate?” Frederica remained coldly pragmatic, despite the loss of life their venture had caused. She considered common women–and most especially whores–to be barely human, and gave them no more regard than she might any subservient creature. Still, the death of the girl had startled her, although she remained determined to disguise this. She was hardly listening to Charles and his answer nearly passed her by altogether.

  “Absolutely; I think our report at the next meeting will be a great success, don’t you?”

  Frederica nodded.

  “I’ll dump the girl in the Thames,” Charles added. “One whore more or less won’t make any odds to anyone.”

  Chapter Six

  Caroline Terrington watched her companion, Amelia Fontenbrass, sitting at the dressing table. She should, more properly, have been titled Lady Amelia, and Caroline was intensely conscious of this unusual circumstance. Amelia had come to Caroline from one of the best families in Northern Britain. It was a difference of class that was the very reverse of their financial circumstances, something Caroline could never entirely forget.

  Through her late husband, Josiah, Caroline could claim money and position. Her own Hardcastle family were well off, if not fabulously wealthy. Both lines would be hard put to trace their ancestors back beyond the great struggles with France, which ended in 1815 with the stunning victory of The Iron Duke, Wellington. Before that time, they had not been people of note.

  By comparison the Lady Amelia (she always feigned protest if anybody used the title) could trace her once-esteemed ancestors back to Guy de Fontenbrass, a Norman knight who fought for the famous Duke William and decided fair England was more to his liking than mother France. In the ensuing centuries, the family titles had piled up and so had their land.

  For sitting quietly and not taking sides in the Civil war, Charles the second had awarded them an earldom. Then, in 1855, the ninth earl came back from the Crimean War a hero, and completely mad. Within twenty years he had gambled every last ounce of the family fortune away, and what little was left he had dissipated in drink and a string of wenches he had debauched in the Fontenbrass Castle.

  Certain more vulgar personages had remarked that the family started its career screwing the Anglo-Saxon peasants, and eight hundred years later, they ended it by fucking them. Thus the family was ruined, both socially and financially, and its youngest generation left destitute. Despite these many setbacks, Amelia oozed sophistication.

  She searched through her jewel box, one of the few items she had brought from the ruined estate and her former life. Even these, her only possessions of worth, spoke eloquently of the rich past, with their fine workmanship and delicate decorations.

  “Shall I tell O’Shea we are ready to go?” Amelia inquired, and smiled at Caroline.

  The mistress of the house nodded. At least Amelia would be with her. The footman, O’Shea, disturbed her mind.

  Thus far, Caroline had lived a sheltered life typical of young women of her class and background. Even her years of marriage had not taught her much of sexual matters or given her any insight into the nature of her femininity. Consequently, she had no idea why, when this wild Irishman was near her, she invariably became flustered.

  Lust was something she did not know how to recognize and manifestations of it served only to alarm her. The thought of the improper fantasy she had enjoyed during the proceeding evening made her nervous with repressed desire. Josiah’s advances had never gone beyond a simple expression of his conjugal rights that left her totally unmoved and caused her moderate discomfort.

  What she had imagined happening to her, in the clutches of her footman, would have to stay locked in the depths of her memory. Where had these ideas come from? The recollection of it shocked her, to think that she could imagine such things. To surrender her body in such a fashion, even in a daydream, seemed repulsive in the cold light of day. She resolved that she must control her unstable femininity and suppress these disgusting urges.

  They walked across the hall. Sophie, the maid, handed them their shawls. Caroline walked on, then stopped and looked back. Amelia was talking to Sophie, touching the maid’s neck. Caroline noticed the bruise and smiled, thinking how observant and kind Amelia was.

  O’Shea stood to attention. Anyone looking closely would have realized it was not entirely attention but a knowing parody. The footman had an insolent manner. His uniform was clearly worn without pride and his eyes frequently strayed where they should not. He should not have been looking at his employer in such a fashion as he then was, but there was no one to prevent him from doing largely as he wished.

  The intensity of his gaze made Caroline shudder inwardly and wonder how she could even have thought about letting him put his hands upon her. Amelia caught up and addressed him as Brendan. She had an authoritative way with servants: never went too far, never took advantage of them. Caroline so admired her.

  They chatted lightly in the coach. The talk was of the social event at the house of the Duke and Duchess of Penbury, to which they had been invited. More precisely, it was a gathering to which Caroline Terrington had been invited. Amelia would be there merely as her companion.

  The house of the Duke of Penbury was one of the most prestigious in London. Situated at the northern end of Green Park, it was within ten minutes walk across the Royal Park from Buckingham Palace. The Duke and Duchess were the sort of people who never needed to mention such things as the proximity of their residence to that of the Queen. Not that the Empress, Queen Victoria, actually spent much time in the Capital. Her favoured locations were in the Scottish Highlands, at Balmoral, and that ghastly provincial Osborne House, on the Isle of Wight.

  The house itself had been given to The Duke of Penbury’s grandfather by a grateful nation. The old boy had stood and faced the French Guards at the Battle of Waterloo. It was remarked upon at the time as wonderful bravery. The Duke had, in fact, been blind drunk–a detail he had not seen fit to make public.

  “Caroline, how wonderful you look this evening,” Lotte, Duchess of Penbury greeted the beautiful young widow, then scowled at the footman who was standing about in the hall as if the fellow had no understanding of his place. If he had been one of her servants she felt certain she would have had him whipped. The thought of baring the uncouth young man’s, no doubt, lean and firm body and subjecting him to a little discipline appealed to her greatly. With her lustful nature, Lotte would undoubtedly have administered the punishment in the privacy of her boudoir. She wondered if his insolence implied carnal knowledge of his employer or an absence of the same.

  “You must come through to my personal soiree in the long gallery.”

  Lotte personified charm, as she took Caroline’s
arm. Amelia followed her mistress, but their hostess turned and, with an expressionless face, said, “They will look after you in the ballroom, Miss Fontenbrass. I am sure that your mistress will call for you if you are required.”

  Then, with a perfectly calculated barb, she added, “Oh, forgive my mistake, of course it should be Lady Amelia…if the ballroom is not to your tastes, I am sure the cook will make you refreshments below stairs.”

  Lotte watched the reactions to her snub with amusement. Amelia blinked slowly, looking like a reptile in contemplation of its prey. The young lady was furious, but powerless to respond the Duchess noted, with no small delight. Poor little Caroline smarted and blushed under the insult to her companion, but clearly had no idea how to counter it without snubbing her hostess in return. All she managed was to smile weakly at Amelia, her expression apologetic.

  “Just for a few moments,” she said, “but I would like to watch the dancing for a while.”

  Amelia nodded and did not move until they were out of sight. She sighed. It was hardly Caroline’s fault that she was born into a family who had actually had to work for their now considerable wealth, but who lacked the confident polish to move in society. Had the roles been reversed, she would have found some unpleasantly sharp thing to say in return. A slight against one’s companion was an insult to one’s own dignity, but Caroline, in all her social innocence, had not considered this.

  * * * *

  The long gallery was for a select gathering. The gossip was of the recent atrocity in Phoenix Park, Dublin, where the Lord Frederick Cavendish had been murdered by the Invincibles, an Irish group demanding Home Rule. Adding an additional frisson to the subject were reports that the Irish Nationalist leader, Charles Parnell, was to be at the Penburys’ party, although nobody, including the hostess, seemed to have any idea whom he might be.

  From across the room, an elegantly clad gentleman watched Caroline and slowly made his way through the crowd. Sir Jasper had not particularly planned to continue his interest in the wealthy and beautiful widow, but her presence was a godsend and he was not about to pass up such a good chance. He had been searching for suitable women, and of all the prospective candidates, she was by far the most pleasing. More than ever, he needed to marry money and gain a position in society to revive his flagging political ambitions. His aged mother was infirm and confined to the family home in Polchester. She had no idea her son was in dire financial difficulties. After her husband had died she, like the old Queen after Prince Albert’s sudden death, had retreated from society. The grand dame believed her son was managing the estate in a frugal way. Recently she had begun to suspect he was selling the family heirlooms. As yet, she could not guess why. Indeed she found it hard to credit his actions.

  * * * *

  Brendan O’Shea despised both the idle rich upstairs and the servants in their cellar existence. He felt they were servile and too accepting of the tyranny of the rich. Then again, he thought, they were, after all, English and living in ease. If, like the Irish, they had been starved into submission and thrown off their ancient lands, perhaps they would not be so docile either. He watched the cook and butler lording it in their own little kingdoms and decided that the English were much the same, regardless of class.

  O’Shea knew he was at this gathering because of his mistress. What she had no awareness of was his agenda to make contact with Charles Parnell. Irish matters may have been just gossip to the rich upstairs in this house. To Brendan they were burning in his heart. He listened for Irish voices amongst the servants and hoped his moment would come.

  “Don’t you want any tea or cake?”

  He emerged from the deep pool of his thoughts. The voice, he soon realized, belonged to a young scullery maid. Her fair brown hair peeked out of her linen bonnet. There was something wanton about her stance and the way in which she made eye contact with him.

  “What’s your name?” he asked, his interest having been aroused by the girl.

  “Bit forward, aren’t you?” she shrugged. The look pretended innocence. He hoped it was a game. She had a London accent, the vowels flat and indistinct.

  “I can’t accept your offer if I don’t know your name.” Brendan smirked to himself that he could put on charm when the goal was worth it. This maid had lovely eyes and a figure that even her uniform and long white apron could not hide.

  “I’m Daisy. Well, mister, ‘aven’t you got no manners? When a lady introduces herself, don’t you know to offer your handle?”

  “Handle?” he frowned.

  She giggled.

  “Name. Don’t you understand English?”

  He was on the brink of launching into an Irish explanation, but he refrained. At this moment he was motivated more by the prospect of Daisy’s favours than her political creeds.

  “Brendan.”

  “Well, Brendan. Do you want tea?”

  He nodded. She handed him a cup and saucer.

  “Do you enjoy working here, Daisy?”

  She shrugged, and then added, “I’ve got a smashing view of the park from my room.”

  Brendan thought there was nothing to lose…and time was not on his side.

  “Why don’t you show me?”

  Daisy put her hand up to her mouth and sucked in air. He hoped it was a mild protest.

  “Never mind, I must go anyway,” he smiled.

  “No, don’t go. Come on, then, we’ll have to go up the back stairs.”

  Brendan walked behind Daisy as they tried to climb the wooden treads quietly. He watched her rear in fascination as it swayed. His lust inspired him to think of those hips rolling, and the inner thighs moving against the lips of her sex.

  They reached the attic area. Daisy hurriedly opened a door and pulled him in. He let her speak first.

  “Look, over here,” she whispered. She led him to the tiny window. Pulling it up and open on its squeaking sash cords, Daisy leaned on the ledge and looked out across the green ward of the Royal Park.

  “The Queen lives over there.”

  He moved up close behind her and pressed his loins against that delicious rear. She stifled a squeal. He let his arms go around her and felt for the swell of her small breasts.

  “Brendan,” she protested…but it was with a faint heart.

  “Don’t you want us to be friends?” he lavished his Irish charm upon her.

  “Of course I do.”

  “We could go out,” he said, knowing the words that would turn this girl on. He reckoned her to be nineteen. Was she experienced? He doubted it.

  “Would we be steady?” she asked.

  He thought it a silly remark.

  “If you want.”

  He could tell what she wanted by the relaxed softness of her body.

  “Would you take me on the boats in the lake? We could go there on Sunday.”

  He let her dream and started to push up her apron and black dress. His fingers felt the flannel material of her cheap undergarments. He knew she would stop him if he delayed too long and let her think about what his intensions were.

  “If we are to be steady, I want to show you how much I love you, Daisy.”

  Her body shivered. Brendan slipped her knickers down over her rear.

  “Brendan. You mustn’t.” Again her objection was not made with finality.

  “Have you ever felt the passion of a man?”

  Daisy gulped. She made no answer. He undid the buttons on the front of his trousers. He wore no underclothes. The erection that had been growing while following her ass up the stairs pressed against the naked skin of her rear.

  “Should we be doing this, Brendan?”

  “I just want to show you how much I love you. Don’t you want to be my girl?”

  “Of course I do, Brendan.”

  “Is that the Palace?” he asked to take her mind away from his fingers gently easing her legs apart.

  “Isn’t it beautiful?” she sighed.

  He grunted, but not because of the Royal residence. />
  Brendan decided to chance his sexual luck. He pushed his cock between Daisy’s legs and found the softness of her moist vaginal lips. She did nothing to resist. Brendan worked his shaft into her. He decided not to thrust it deep as he could tell by her tightness and the shuddering of her body that she was probably a virgin. As he pumped her loins with his stiffness, Daisy made moaning noises. He could feel the sweet collapse of her hymen as he gripped her curving hips in his strong hands. With each stroke she yielded a little more, becoming pliant to his touch. She was nervous, but increasingly willing and open. He kept whispering little endearments into her ear, trying to keep his conquest calm as he deflowered Daisy.

  When he felt the uncontrollable surge start in his balls, he quickened the pace for a few moments, bringing her to a wriggling, breathless groan. As the passion flowed, he slipped his cock out of her vagina, thinking it would be a bit harsh to risk getting a child on her. For some reason the image of his mistress came into his mind. He wished then that his hot eruption was running down her rich and cultured ass.

  Chapter Seven

  The sheets were deliciously soft and Jenny rolled slowly over, just for the pleasure of feeling the sensuous fabrics moving against her skin. This was more luxury than she could have imagined. Her body was weary from lovemaking and she basked in the languid dreaminess that filled her. Jasper had gone from the room, wanting to carry out ablutions and re-attire himself in privacy. She could hear occasional sounds as he moved about.

  He was a peculiar man–there were no two ways about it. Jenny’s experience of lovers was modest: seduced by her dancing teacher when she had been very young, and having managed two discreet affairs with other powerful men in previous years. She had known instinctively that to play the courtesan, she would have to keep her intrigues very much out of the public eye.

  Sir Jasper knew nothing of her previous lovers and had not asked. She intended to be vague with him if the subject did ever arise. None of the other men she knew of had tastes quite like his, nor had she heard of anything comparable from the girls she lived with. Anyone seeing him in public would consider him to be such a powerful, dominating man. His presence had been tangible in the theatre, the intensity of his gaze enough to make her tremble. Once in the privacy of the bedroom, however, a strange transformation came over him.