by Jen YatesNZ
Thwack! Another whimper.
Thwack! More of a cry this time.
As the volume of her cries increased so did the power of his arm. He lost track of time, had made the bitch come several times and punished her for it, had thrashed her till his arm ached and still she sobbed and begged for more. Something suddenly snapped in his brain and between one thwack and the next, he stopped, reeled across the room, wrenched the door open and almost fell into Knightsborough’s arms.
‘What the fuck?’
Knightsborough staggered a little but made no effort to disengage. In fact his fists clenched round Rogan’s triceps and for a moment they stood, eyeball to eyeball. To lash out was his first instinct but the fleeting thought that he’d thrashed all the strength out of his arm, stopped him acting on it.
He closed his eyes and dragged in air through his nostrils, then shook himself free of Knightsborough’s grip just as the man loosened it.
‘Brandy. In my rooms. Now.’
The habit of obedience to his seniors was ingrained and tight-lipped, Rogan followed the Knight, as he was often called, down a side hall and into the sumptuous apartment that gave no hint of the high office its owner held in the War Ministry and yet was more often than not the room from which many a secret mission was begun.
Back stiff and jaw clenched, Rogan stood just inside the door and watched while his cousin poured a generous measure of brandy into two crystal snifters and took a slow sip of one before handing the other to Rogan.
‘Do I need to go back and release Mrs. Grey?’
Rogan concentrated on the movement of the liquor as he swirled the glass, then closed his eyes and tossed the entire nip down his throat. While he savored the burn and the warm serenity of it pervading his brain he allowed his memory to roam back to the room he’d just left. The peculiar thing was that while he had no control over what he did when the madness took him, he could always remember his actions in vivid and bitter detail afterwards. Slowly he shook his head.
‘She wasn’t tied.’
The Knight just nodded, his dark auburn hair gleaming like polished copper in the lamplight. Then he fetched the decanter and refilled Rogan’s glass.
‘Sit,’ he said, waving his snifter towards the pair of leather wing chairs by the hearth.
The brandy was doing its work, filtering through Rogan’s veins and nerve by nerve easing the tension that had held him in its grip. He sank gratefully into the chair as the familiar weakness that always followed one of his mindless tangents seeped through his body. Resting his head against the back of the chair he closed his eyes and simply concentrated on breathing. It was that or confront the sickening reality of who he was.
‘What was that about?’ the Knight demanded, sinking into the other chair. ‘You didn’t even fuck her. Just thrashed her—like some demented demon of vengeance.’
Demon of vengeance. Exactly.
‘That’s what it felt like. What it always feels like. I have to punish the fucking bitch. I’ll never be free of it until I can—’
‘What?’
‘—break her.’
‘Break her? Who? The Lady you’ve just taken to wife?’
The pain when he thought of treating Jassie that way was like a giant fist wrenching at his intestines.
‘God no,’ he growled. ‘I will not visit this festering toxicity on her. That’s why I’m here—and she’s at home—needing a husband in her bed—and laying some very choice epithets at my door.—What a bloody mess!’
The Knight was five years his senior and revered by all members of the Club as a fount of wise counsel in all matters pertaining to life. He was the one person Rogan knew who would understand the demons that drove him. He had to wonder why he’d never thought of baring his soul to his cousin before.
Knightsborough leant forward and threw a shovelful of coal onto the fire then downed the rest of his brandy and set the glass aside. For several moments they sat in silence watching the sparks lift and vanish up the chimney.
Finally the Knight tilted his head sideways and rested his cheek on his hand while he surveyed Rogan thoughtfully, his brown eyes reflecting the dancing light of the fire.
‘You know Rogue, I’ve seen some seriously fucked up people in my time, through my job and this place. They probably don’t come much more fucked up than me. But I’ve always taken the view that every man—and woman—carries his own baggage, his own secrets and lives with them as best he can. T’is not my place to condemn, or even question who they are, or why they are as they are. But something about you has always struck me as—perverse. Most men who become involved at Matrix are comfortable with who they are and how they are; some of them outright enjoy it. I’ve never felt that about you. There’s no real satisfaction for you in the scenarios you act out here. If anything, the scowl you wear is deeper and darker when you leave than it is when you arrive. In fact I would say you hate yourself and what you do. Would I be right?’
‘Of course you’re right!’ The words exploded out of Rogan before he could think to monitor them. ‘Would you be happy if you could never marry the woman you love because every time you make love to her you’re going to end up thrashing her to within an inch of her life?’
He was shouting, breathing heavy, and his hands were curling into fists ready to hit something.
Knightsborough didn’t even flinch. In fact he nodded as if finally understanding the answer to a puzzle but he just kept observing Rogan through those almost mesmerizing brown eyes.
‘But you have married her.’
Rogan stared back at the Knight for a moment then leant forward and dropped his head onto his hands. There was no answer to that accusation except the obvious.
‘I’m guessing you weren’t always this way, Rogue, that something happened? Who is the woman you’re trying to punish?’
A shudder pulsed through Rogan’s body as he thought of the answer to that question, thought of telling the story again.
‘Have you ever talked to anyone about this?’ Knightsborough persisted when Rogan still didn’t answer.
‘Never, until the day I married Jassie. Since then—Bloody hell, Knight!’
‘Another brandy, I think,’ Knightsborough said calmly, rising to his feet.
Settled back in his chair once he’d refreshed both snifters, he said, ‘In my position as your superior in the War Office, if we were in the military, I’d have the authority of your Commanding Officer and I’m invoking that authority now. Tell me who you need to punish—and why.’
Dropping his hands, Rogan just stared into the flames as he tried to breathe away the familiar panic that rose whenever he thought of exposing this ugliness that had somehow come to define what he was. It was a good sign—perhaps—that he hadn’t already left the room running, or maybe just a reflection of the respect he felt for Ajax Beresford, Earl of Knightsborough.
‘Over the years, Rogue, I’ve counselled many men for many reasons and I’ve never revealed to another living soul one word of those discussions. Whatever is said in this room never leaves it.’
Jassie Carlisle had a lot to answer for. For sixteen years he’d held the secret of that humiliating night close, deep and dark, but since that day on Neave Tor he’d already exposed the filthy depravity of it three times and here he was, backed yet again into a corner from which the only way out meant telling it again. If there was any truth to the old saying ‘a problem shared is a problem halved’ his should be miniscule by now. Hah!
‘She was the wife of a professor when I was up at Oxford—’
Once started, the story flowed and he found he no longer worried about censoring it. None of it would have shocked the Knight anyway. His cousin just sat watching and listening in silence, one perfectly manicured finger tapping absently on the arm of his chair.
When he’d finished, having explained enough that his listener could not fail to understand what had transpired in the carriage on the way home from the theatre and in what state he’d left J
assie, Knightsborough silently reached for the decanter and filled Rogan’s snifter again.
‘This brandy is from the Bonaparte’s personal cellar. It’s good stuff. You should probably savor it instead of swilling it down like cheap gin.’
Rogan’s fingers tightened on the stem of the glass. He’d been about to do exactly that, craving the distraction of the burn as the neat liquor poured down his throat. He cupped his hand round the bowl of the snifter and gently swirled it instead. With a nod and a smile, Knightsborough appreciated the aroma of his own brandy then raised his glass.
‘I’d like to propose a toast to a rare and courageous woman.—To your wife, Windermere.’
Slowly Rogan raised his own glass and murmured, ‘To Jassie.’
They both drank then the Earl wrestled his big body into a more comfortable position and fixed Rogan with a steady gaze.
‘Has Lady Jassinda ever given you reason to doubt her word?’
Rogan shook his head.
‘Then why do you not take her at her word. Love her. Trust her?’
‘Because I don’t trust myself,’ Rogan snarled. ‘What if I really hurt her? Actually damaged her. I have no control over my actions when I’m like that. Haven’t you heard anything I’ve said, Knight?’
‘Every word—and nowhere have I heard that you’ve done anything other than subject a lady to a thrashing. It’s not life-threatening.—And some women actually enjoy it. The Countess may prove to be just such a one.’
Unable to stay still any longer, Rogan surged to his feet and began pacing.
‘That’s the problem, Knight! I cannot abide a woman who enjoys being thrashed. The more she enjoys it the more I have to punish her to try and make her see the error of her ways! Can you not see? And if Jassie allows me to treat her in that way she may come to enjoy it and then I shall hate the woman I love!’
‘Calm down, Rogue. I do see. You’re making a crazy kind of sense. Have you considered involving a third party?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Having someone stationed outside the room to—intervene—at the appropriate moment.’
Rogan felt his whole being clench and his breathing shallow out.
‘Do you seriously consider that to be a solution, some pervert outside the door while I make love to my wife, a lady?’
‘Perhaps not,’ Knightsborough conceded, rubbing a hand across his forehead. ‘Though I’m still inclined to think you should trust the Countess, Windermere. It’s the only way you’re going to get an heir.’
Rogan stopped pacing and turned to face the Earl. A heavy sense of despair settled round the region of his heart, a dead hopelessness the more draining because for just a moment he’d allowed himself to believe Knightsborough might have a solution. There was no way he would consider humiliating Jassie by having some voyeur listening outside their bedroom door, much less primed to intervene. Damn it all to hell!
‘I need to get out of London for a few days but I have to be back at Windermere for Grouse Shooting. My dear mama has decided it’s time the Abbey put on her glad rags and hosted an Opening Day Shoot and a ball as we used to do. You’re invited of course.—And now—the Ministry must need something couriered to Paris. I could be there and back before opening day.’
Anything to keep him away from Jassie.
Dark auburn hooked brows clashed above Knightsborough’s nose and he unfolded his long body to stand with one elbow on the mantelpiece and his severe gaze pinning Rogan to the spot.
‘I thought Hadleigh would have told you. You’re married. You have made your last run for the War office.’
Chapter 11
At eleven of the clock next day, Jassie stepped from a hackney onto the cobbles at the corner of Half Moon Street. With the hood of her cloak drawn closely about her face she walked briskly along to number nineteen, a discreetly elegant house with nothing but the number above the lintel to differentiate it from any other in the street. Mounting the few steps she banged the highly polished brass knocker. Ruby had been scandalized that her mistress meant to venture out into London on her own but Jassie had no intention of divulging the details of this excursion to anyone—except Windermere or Fran.
Her heart beat a wild tattoo in her chest as she waited for someone to answer her knock and she was again assailed by the fierce wish she’d insisted Fran accompany her to London. But before total panic could take over and set her to scurrying away from the door, it was opened by a bent and wizened old woman gowned in black silk and Brussels lace who glared up at her from under bristling white brows without saying a word.
Jassie swallowed, thought of invoking her status as the Countess of Windermere and just as quickly discarded the idea. It would be quite foolhardy to bring unwanted attention to herself after having gone to such trouble to appear unexceptional and anonymous.
‘Good morning. I am Miss B—Brown and I have an appointment with Lady Bouvier for eleven of the clock.’
The old woman inclined her head and said, ‘You’re expected. Come this way.’
The house was preternaturally quiet apart from the distant clatter of utensils somewhere in the back regions. Jassie supposed that because of the nature of the place most of the residents slept late. There was also an air of quiet luxury about the house, a thick piled carpet on the floor, silk wall panels and a collection of exquisite Sèvres urns in niches along the walls.
Up a curving marble staircase, they traversed another long hallway past several reception rooms to a set of double doors at the end. The old woman knocked and pushed the doors open, ushering Jassie through ahead of her.
‘Miss Brown has arrived, my Lady,’ she said and stepped back into the hallway, closing the door.
What had she been expecting? If she was honest with herself she’d envisioned an exotic creature, voluptuous, statuesque maybe, with a cloud of artificially enhanced black hair, smoldering black eyes and lips painted a vibrant and provocative shade of red. She had not expected this exquisite creature who, notwithstanding her natural beauty, could have been Jassie’s own mother.
Reclining on a chaise longue in the window bay overlooking a small but entrancing garden courtyard was a woman with eyes more gold than hazel and hair almost the shade of Jassie’s own. The soft hint of grey at her temples added a touch of elegance rather than detracting from the picture she made. As the regal creature rose from the chaise in welcome, golden eyes liquid with emotion and curved unpainted lips trembling just a little, Jassie had the strange sensation of gazing into a mirror that reflected back to her the woman she would be a quarter of a century on.
Her shock must have shown clearly on her face, Jassie thought, as Lady Bouvier’s mouth twitched and compressed and in the blink of an eye her soft welcoming expression had hardened and Jassie caught a glimpse of the type of woman she’d expected to see—a woman tempered to blue steel by the vicissitudes of her life.
‘Lady Bouvier?’ Jassie all but stuttered.
‘You’ve found me.’
The response was coldly accusatory to Jassie’s ears and the feeling of teetering on the edge of an unstable cliff shivered across her nerve endings.
‘What do you mean? Oh! Maybe it was wrong of me to come! I’m sorry but my friend, Lady Francine Abingdon was—was certain you’d be able to help me—’
‘Help? You’ve come for my help?’
Was that uncertainty she heard in the woman’s voice?
‘Yes.—Oh!’ Jassie felt heat pour into her cheeks. ‘You thought I was—looking for—w—employment?’
A golden brow cocked in definite challenge.
‘What is your real name?’
‘M—my real name?’ Jassie parroted, stalling for time, hoping some clever and plausible response would occur to her.
The mobile mouth twitched into a knowing smile.
‘You see, I would swear that you would have to be the daughter of my—of Lady Mary Swinbourne, as became Mrs. Robert Carlisle. And if that is the case you have recently beco
me the Countess of Windermere.’
Jassie’s jaw dropped, knowing it was pointless to try and maintain her masquerade as the modest Miss Brown.
‘You—you knew my mother?’
‘She never spoke of me, I presume?’
‘Well—no! At least—I don’t think so.’
The Madame sighed and her mouth drooped a little but then she straightened her shoulders and tightened her lips.
‘I don’t know why that should hurt me. It’s no more than I expected, no more than I deserved by making the decision I did. She would’ve been foolish to do anything other than sweep all taint of me from her life—as you should.’
Jassie opened her mouth to speak then closed it again. For what could she say? She tried again.
‘Who are you?’
The words shot out of her mouth before she could rethink them, because really, she needed to know if she was to make any sense of the conversation.
‘I’m Mary’s twin sister, Isabelle.’
Jassie’s legs suddenly lost all strength and she groped towards a chair pulled up to a small table to the side of the chaise. Her heart was pounding in her chest like a runaway horse and she had the momentary feeling that her head was going to shatter.
‘You’re my mother’s twin sister?’
‘Yes.’
‘But—I thought there was no one. When Philip died—I thought I was—alone.’
Lady Bouvier sat back on the chaise and gazed at Jassie for a moment and then she said, ‘It probably would have been fairer for me to leave you in ignorance for you can never claim me as a relative. No, your mother had the right of it. I’ve been unforgivably selfish in revealing myself to you.’
Jassie came suddenly to her feet, all effects of the shock overcome by the swelling of delight in her breast. She had someone. She had family.
‘You could not have hidden it from me I think, for I already felt as if I were looking into a mirror that showed the future and how I would look—twenty or so years from now. You are so like me. But more than that, you cannot know what it means to me to find that I have—family. I have felt so alone since—since Philip died.’
