by Robin Gideon
“Yes, do that for me, will you?” Mr. Williams said, flashing Dirk a genuine smile.
Turning to Faye, Dirk gave the slightest nod and said, “Perhaps we’ll see each other again sometime soon, Mrs. Smythe.”
* * * *
“What exactly are you telling me, Georges?” Agatha’s tone held an undercurrent of threat. She always blamed the bearer of bad news. And she never liked visitors who simply showed up at her door. “I’m not sure I understand.”
The banker crossed his legs at the knee and leaned back in the wing-backed chair in Agatha’s sunroom. For a moment, his eyes did a slow perusal of the room, and Agatha felt a twinge in the pit of her stomach. Was Georges, her banker, actually assessing her valuables?
He didn’t speak until he settled his gaze directly onto hers. “What I’m telling you, Madam Smythe, is that unless you have an infusion of capital in very short order, your lifestyle is going to be seriously curtailed.”
Agatha started to speak, and the banker held up his hand, silencing her. “The income you received from the carpentry store you sold should have provided a pleasant income for you for four or five years. You spent that money in less than seven months.
“The money you and your son received when Michael purchased your shares of the London International Transport Company should have lasted you a lifetime, with wise investing. That income is now almost completely gone.” He narrowed his eyes. “Four times, I have requested you to come to the bank to meet with me. Not once—not even once—did you even bother to respond.”
He cleared his throat, and Agatha realized he was straining to contain his anger. “The Bank of Kensington has managed the Smythe family finances for generations, and it is only out of respect for that longevity that I’ve come here personally to explain to you the financial reality you must now face.”
Agatha managed a weak smile. She felt as though she had been kicked in the stomach. “But, Georges, surely you’re not suggesting—”
“I’ve made many suggestions to you over the years,” the banker said sharply, interrupting her, and for the first time, real anger flashed in his eyes. “And you’ve ignored every one. Because you’ve ignored my advice, you now find yourself at risk of losing this house.”
Agatha widened her eyes and opened her mouth in astonishment. “This…this house? My God, Georges, this house has been in the Smythe family for two hundred years!”
Georges got up out of his chair holding his top hat and walking stick, making it clear he would be leaving in short order. “This house is the collateral for three separate loans from the Bank of Kensington. Those loans are in your son’s name, but he couldn’t have gotten the money without your consent.”
He shrugged his shoulders beneath an immaculate Savile Row suit, and open contempt gleamed in his eyes. “If you continue to spend money like you have been, this house will be the property of my bank before Christmas. I suggest you figure out how to get some capital into your accounts, madam, because if you don’t, you’ll end up homeless.” He headed toward the door but stopped and turned back to Agatha. A faintly malicious light shone in his eyes. “And Christmas is such an unpleasant time of year to be on the streets.”
Agatha had spent money her entire life whenever she wanted and in any quantity that suited her wishes, and not a soul had ever shown the courage to tell her she couldn’t. No one, that is, until Georges Mann.
“I am not without influence,” Agatha said before Georges reached the door. “You’ll soon find that insolent tone you’ve used with me will cost the Bank of Kensington some of its dearest patrons.”
The banker left Agatha without another word, without even looking back.
Once she was alone, the bluster left Agatha in a single tremulously exhaled breath, only to be replaced with the cold reality of impending bankruptcy. What had he said she needed? An infusion of capital? Yes, that was his phrasing. A slow smile spread across Agatha’s plump, ruddy face. For once, she was going to follow her banker’s advice. She’d get that infusion of capital…even if she had to kill Faye to get it.
* * * *
In a guilty whisper, Faye said to Annie, “You must promise me you’ll never tell anyone what you witnessed here today.”
“Ma’am, I swear on my mother’s soul to never say a word about it to anyone,” she replied in a similar whisper. “We now know things about each other nobody else knows.” She smiled sheepishly. “I’ve got my secrets.” She looked up from her hands and bit her lower lip briefly. “Miss Harkness wanted to teach me things, and maybe she wasn’t entirely honest with me. But I’ll be honest with you—I wanted to be Miss Harkness’s student. I liked learning what she had to teach me.” She looked back down at the hands folded in her lap. “Oh, dear me, I suppose I really shouldn’t have told you that.”
Faye leaned back in her chair, looking at her newest—and out of necessity, her most trusted—servant, thinking she was lucky Annie also had a secret that couldn’t be revealed without grave consequences. Together they had shared information that, should London’s haute monde discover it, would put Faye in shame and make prostitution the only possible profession for Annie.
“I don’t know what came over me earlier,” Faye explained quietly, idly playing with a golden pen on her desk, her tone faraway and distracted. “Do you mind if I talk about it? Maybe then I’ll understand what happened.”
“I’d be honored, ma’am, to hear anything you’d like to share.”
“Since we know things about each other of an…um…intimate nature, please call me Faye.” Annie’s eyes widened in surprise, drawing a smile from Faye. The upper classes weren’t usually on a first-name basis with the servant class. “But only when we’re alone.”
“Of course, m’lady.” Annie smiled, clearly more at ease with some restrictions.
Faye went back to studying the heavy golden pen. “I’ve never done anything like that before. I’ve never even thought of doing anything like that. I was just talking with Dirk and Radburn, and they were both being thoroughly charming.
“And to tell you the truth, for the past three years, I haven’t had any man make an effort to be charming to me, so I must admit I found their attention appealing.” Faye released a soft sigh. “And if I really want to be honest, my husband wasn’t always the most charming of men. He wasn’t awful. I’ve heard stories of women who had their lives turned into a living hell by their husbands. My Michael didn’t do anything like that…but then I always knew he loved himself much more than he loved me.”
Unconsciously, her eyes went to the oval-shaped mirror in the corner of the room—the one in which she had seen her own reflection while Radburn held her captive and Dirk administered cunnilingus with such skill that Faye’s orgasm was an almost violent experience. Never before had she felt anything even remotely like that.
“Michael bought that mirror and put it here in his office so he could admire himself. I can’t begin to tell you how many times I caught him looking at himself, primping and preening, always making sure every hair on his head was in place and that his clothes were absolutely immaculate and perfectly pressed.”
“I don’t mean to change the subject, but I’ve got to know,” Annie said. “Those men…did they force themselves on you?”
She delivered the question in a breathy whisper, and though it held her heartfelt concern, it was still colored with salacious curiosity, and Faye wondered whether she was making a big mistake by confessing her sins to a young woman she had known for only a short period of time.
“Did they force themselves on me?” Faye repeated quietly. It was not the first time she had asked herself that question. “To tell you the truth, I’m not really sure. No, actually, I know they didn’t. We came to an agreement on a contract extension, and then there was some discussion about going to a restaurant. Dirk kissed me to celebrate the agreement, and then Radburn kissed me and said that he and Dirk were partners and that partners share. I was dizzy after Dirk’s kiss. Radburn’s kiss o
nly added to my confusion.”
Once again, Annie’s eyes got very wide. “I’ve heard of their reputations with the ladies. Do you suppose they always work as a team when they’re feeling frisky?”
Faye pressed her lips together for a moment in thought. “I don’t think so.” She dropped the pen then picked it up again nervously. “I kissed Dirk, and I know I’ve never felt so”—she searched for the right word—“electrified by a kiss. And then Radburn kissed me, and his kiss was even better. So then Dirk kissed me again, and that one was better still.”
She dropped the pen and put her face in her hands with her elbows on her desk. “And then Radburn grabbed me. He…he slipped his arm through mine and pulled my elbows back. His body is solid muscle.” A shiver went through Faye as she remembered how it had felt to be pressed tightly to that masculine wall of muscle. She remembered, too, the hard swell of his erection and how she had wantonly fondled him through the fabric of his trousers. “After that, I might just as well have been in chains. I couldn’t possibly defend myself. And while Radburn held me, Dirk…took liberties. And he kissed me…” Her words faded away.
“Kissed you?” Annie prodded softly with thinly disguised libidinous curiosity.
“Kissed me…everywhere.” The last word came out haltingly, one syllable at a time. “He got down on his knees…” The memory made a shiver slither up her spine. “…and kissed me.”
A small, startled gasp of understanding came from Annie. “On his knees to kiss you? Oh! That’s the kind of kiss Miss Harkness taught me!”
The tone of her voice hinted to Faye that Annie had been an eager and attentive pupil to Miss Harkness’s tutelage. Faye’s personal memories of what it was like to have Dirk’s tantalizing lips and probing tongue caressing her pussy caused another shiver to go through her voluptuous body. She closed her eyes and, with crystalline clarity, remembered every sensation she’d experienced when Dirk had kissed her on the mouth after her wrenching climax, his lips slippery with her own lusty juices, the scent of taboo passion a heady aphrodisiac to a young widow unaccustomed to sensual excess.
* * * *
Morton’s might not have been the finest steakhouse in London, but if it wasn’t, it was at least in the top three. Radburn and Dirk were at their usual table in the back corner, and two fillets done medium-rare were on the way. What was unusual was that the men were drinking before five o’clock. They had already finished half of the bottle of fifteen-year-old burgundy wine the waiter had recommended would go well with steak.
“Have you ever done anything like that before?” Dirk asked as he picked up the bottle and poured wine into his friend’s glass.
Radburn shook his head. His gaze was unfocused on the middle of the table. His thoughts were troubled. “Never. I’ve been with a couple women at a time, of course, but I’ve never done anything with another man there.”
“Same here.” Dirk poured wine into his own glass. “And for the life of me, I can’t remember exactly how it all got started.”
“I held her arms behind her back.” Radburn turned his palms toward himself, splaying out his fingers as if to judge the power in them. “She’s such a little thing. There’s no excuse for what I did.”
“It wasn’t like she had a terrible time.” Dirk smiled. “She could have told us to stop.”
“As I recall, she did tell us to stop.”
“She only whispered it.”
Radburn shook his head in negation of the spurious, self-serving logic. “She’s a widow, and she’s got a world of troubles with that mother-in-law of hers…and there I am acting like she’s a married woman from the ton, just waiting for the right offer to come along.”
The general promiscuity of both men and women of London’s elite society was an open secret, despite the ton’s efforts to paint itself as a bastion of trans-generational civility and propriety.
The big Scotsman groaned from his barrel-sized chest as though in pain, shaking his head slowly. From the moment he’d left Faye’s office, the memory of her slender, delicate fingers running along the length of his erection had tantalized him. He could tell Faye was not greatly experienced in sexual matters and that she wasn’t a woman who let her passions run free. Considering the number and beauty of the women who were more than happy to invite Radburn McSwain into their boudoir, he knew he didn’t have much of an excuse for attempting the rather forcible seduction of Faye.
The waiter arrived with their steaks still sizzling from the grill, each hunk of meat with a thick patty of butter melting on its surface.
“Waiter, will you please bring me a scotch?” Radburn asked. He caught Dirk’s curious glance. “Make it a double.”
“You know what?” Dirk grinned. “That sounds pretty good to me right about now, too. Waiter, make mine a double as well—but make it bourbon. Tennessee bourbon.”
As Radburn cut into his steak, he said, “As I see it, we’ve got to do something to help her out of her trouble.”
“I’ve known Agatha Smythe for years. She was smarter than her husband, and he made himself a fortune. She’s twice as intelligent as either of her sons turned out to be.” Dirk set his steak knife aside. “If Agatha wants her hands on Faye’s money, then Faye’s in big, big trouble. Agatha Smythe is vicious.”
“How so?”
“Remember Sally Olson?”
Radburn nodded and took another bite of steak.
Dirk said, “She basically got run out of London on a rumor because she made an enemy of Agatha. They had some kind of disagreement at the racetrack, and Sally wouldn’t back down. Pretty soon, everyone hears all about Sally being an atheist. It took a week for every social invitation to get rescinded. Even her best friends literally turned their backs on her.”
Radburn nodded again, recalling now the various rumors that had swirled around the haut monde regarding Sally Olson’s religious views and her sudden departure for America. At the ton, sexual intemperance was quietly accepted, but atheism was a sure ticket to being blackballed.
Dirk continued, “We haven’t really progressed all that far as a society, if you spend any time thinking about it. A woman has no control over her own property the instant she gets married. We’re nearly in the twentieth century, and yet arranged marriages are still common occurrences.”
Downing most of his scotch, Radburn set his glass on the table and said, “It’s agreed, then. We’ll figure out whatever is necessary to stop Agatha Smythe from getting her fat, little hands on Faye’s money.”
“Agreed.”
Radburn smiled. “I think that we should get my new carriage.”
Dirk raised his eyebrows. “You had one custom-built, like you said you were going to?”
Radburn shrugged, nodded, and then grinned a bit sheepishly. The carriage was undoubtedly a foolish extravagance. “I’ll have my cook pack a basket of food and libations. When Faye’s done working for the day, we can explain to her what we’re going to do. We can give her a ride home.” No woman could be seen riding in a closed carriage with men the likes of Dirk Boyd and Radburn McSwain without setting malicious tongues to wagging.
Dirk beamed an answering smile. He was obviously just as willing to embrace self-justification as his friend. “We’ll have to be careful. If she’s seen with us, rumors will be rampant.” He winked at Radburn. “But we’ve got to see her. I have to give her back her drawers.”
“See? We have plenty of good reasons for seeing her again.” He took a heavy gold watch from his vest pocket and opened it. “It’s a little past four. London International Transport closes its doors at five thirty. If we hurry, we can switch carriages, have a basket packed, and get Walter, my coachman, to do the driving for us.”
Chapter Six
“Mr. McClusky, will you please have a Hansom cab brought around for me?” Faye asked, standing at the doorway to her office. All the other employees of the London International Transport Company had already left for the day. Out of respect for the late Mr. Smythe, Mr. McClu
sky never left the office until Faye did.
Faye went back into her private office, closed her account ledger, and set it into the safe. Then she spun the dial. Lastly, she turned off the jets for the twin gas lamps on the wall behind her desk. She had stayed an hour longer in the office than necessary, mostly because she didn’t want to return home, but partly because she didn’t want to be disturbed as she thought about what she’d done in the office with Radburn and Dirk.
The day had been, at varying times, both hellacious and exhilarating. Any day that begins with speaking to her mother-in-law starts off a bad one. And when Agatha decides that marriage to the detestable Derwin is a necessity, bad evolves into horrendous. But then Faye had spent ninety minutes with Radburn McSwain and Dirk Boyd. The things they did—and the sensations she felt—were beyond anything she had previously believed possible. To feel such incandescent desire while in the arms of two gorgeous men! For Faye, the passion was so hot it seemed a miracle to her that her skin had not been burned from her bones. The climax she had experienced from Dirk’s shockingly intimate, forbidden kisses was cataclysmic in its intensity.
So Faye had avoided going home for very good reasons.
* * * *
Dirk leaned back in his carriage seat, a little amazed that he had enough room to kick his long legs out in front of him, and crossed them at the ankle. He looked around the custom-built town carriage with a mixture of envy and pride. The carriage was, without a doubt, the finest he had ever seen. The interior had been built with a man of size in mind, and Dirk could easily envision Radburn discussing his requirements with the designers and craftsmen.
While the vehicle’s undercarriage had originally been designed to hold a backward-facing seat in front, a forward-facing seat in the middle, and a third in the rear, Radburn had elected to only have the front and rear seats installed. What was left for seating was, in effect, two plush sofas of just under five feet in width, upholstered in wine-colored leather that was both warm and soft to the touch. On each end of the carriage, in the upper corners, were small kerosene lamps so that even in the dead of night it would be possible to read while traveling. With the center seat uninstalled, the remaining twin seats were just under seven feet apart. The floor of the carriage was covered with an inch-thick, custom-woven, burgundy-colored rug made of Falkland wool, the finest in the world. The coach whispered of solid wealth.
