At Your Service

by Alysha Ellis

  She watched him slit the top with the paperknife and studied his face, fighting the urge to close her eyes and not see his reaction. His eyebrows rose and a smile played at the corners of his mouth.

  “As I thought. It’s a summons to meet ‘for a discussion of mutual interest to you both’. I’m quoting him here,” Henry said, then continued, “this fellow says he doesn’t wish to cause you distress but feels his knowledge of your Brighton activities would be of interest to others and as he desires to live in London, with the possibility of your meeting again in public, he suggests a financial arrangement would be of benefit to you both.”

  Henry dropped the letter onto the table between them then pushed it towards her. Her gaze was riveted on the paper and she brought her hands to her lap. Just looking at it made her feel ill.

  “Pure and simple blackmail, dressed up in flowery terms, but blackmail all the same.”

  Tears welled and one trickled down her cheek, causing Henry to rise slowly and come to sit beside her.

  “Hush, my love. He’s asked that you set a time and place. I’ll be there, close by and we will confront this young pup. I’ll sort it out.”

  She sniffed loudly and, unable to find her handkerchief, wiped her wet cheeks with the back of her hand. Henry handed her his ‘kerchief with a flourish as Bassett returned to remove their tea things.

  “Is everything alright, m’lady?” Bassett asked.

  “She’s fine, lad. Just a bit of soot in her eye. Must get the chimney cleaned.”

  Poor Bassett looked puzzled, not taken in by Henry’s lies and she could see him passing his worries on to Mrs Bassett, their cook, within minutes. Why Henry continued to call him ‘lad’ she didn’t know. Bassett had fought as a corporal under Henry’s command and they’d both begun to look old. Bassett, standing more erect than Henry, being a few years younger, had lost a hand in the war, but managed well with the stump that remained. Henry had employed him when the war had ended and Bassett and his wife were loyal servants to their house.

  Once Bassett had left the room Henry reached to pat her arm. “You can write him a short note, Helen. Shall we send him to the Huntsman’s Arms? It’s an hour’s drive away on the banks of the Colne River.” Henry’s brow furrowed as he formulated a plan. “It’s private, a good-sized dining room, and not too expensive. We can’t have him dining too well on our purse. You can bet he won’t pick up the account.”

  As much as she hated to do it, she knew she had to. Henry fetched a pen and paper. They choose a day the following week when Henry would be free and stipulated noon as the meeting time. The return address, a post office box, revealed nothing of where the man might live.

  “He calls himself Christopher Mortlock, if we can believe it,” she said, and wrote the address on the envelope before she licked it then pressed it closed.

  “I shall call him Lucifer,” Henry said.

  * * * *

  The day of the meeting arrived. The watery sun shone through the branches of the trees in the front garden and the fallen leaves made a carpet on the lawn, bunched between the rose bushes. A breeze stirred and whirled them in eddies down Holland Park Road. On each side of their home stood a foreign embassy, and the respective security systems overlooked the Montrose’s Georgian mansion. Its lovely cream stone walls always made Helen feel safe, but terror had arrived a week ago, sliding in through the mail slot in the front door and it had held her captive ever since. By the end of today, she hoped her heart would be lighter and the dark pall that had smothered her since the night at the opera would be dulled to a soft mist. Perhaps it wouldn’t be quite gone, but would be clear enough for her to see a way forward.

  She’d dressed demurely in a costume that spoke of quality and put on her fur coat. It had become unfashionable to wear fur, but on this occasion, being warm concerned her more than public opinion. She prevaricated over wearing a hat and decided against it—perhaps it was a bit too dressy for luncheon with a blackmailer.

  Henry had gone on ahead an hour ago with Bassett driving. He’d taken his walking stick, the one with a knife hidden in the shaft, and she’d teased him that he might be provoked into stabbing Mortlock.

  “I’d cut his balls off, more likely,” he’d retorted.

  Bassett would share a table with Henry and once Mr Christopher Mortlock had settled at her table, Henry would join them. That was the plan, in case Mortlock tarried nearby, watching to see if she’d called in the police.

  Bassett had been told the man she intended to dine with claimed to be a distant relative, who had fallen on hard times and wanted money. Pangs of guilt stabbed at her for telling their loyal servant such lies. However, Bassett’s whole demeanour displayed his delight in today’s outing and his part in the proceedings.

  She was driving the Humber Super Snipe. If Mortlock arrived by car, Bassett would tail him home in her car and she would drive Henry home in the Bentley. An alternative plan allowed for Mortlock arriving by train—Bassett would then shadow him on foot. Henry considered it imperative to know where Mortlock lived. She wondered why Henry needed this information, but he’d told her not to worry her pretty head about it. He could be quite masterful at times, as the current situation proved.

  “Quite like old times, sir.” Helen had heard Bassett say to Henry earlier as he’d helped him into the car. Bassett’s voice had trembled when he’d asked whether he should take a small pistol to protect Lady Helen from a physical attack.

  “Good God, laddie. Can’t have you shooting Lady Helen’s relations, regardless of how distant or distasteful they are. Perhaps a punch to the jaw would be safer.” Bassett appeared to have caught Henry’s air of bravado and while their joint antics had amused her, their mock comedy act had not been funny enough to raise a smile. Perhaps tomorrow she’d manage one.

  * * * *

  Helen chose a table with a view through the large bay window. The waiter left her with two menus, one for her expected guest. While she waited she let her gaze drift to the trees growing along the riverside walk. The oak’s leaves clung tightly to its branches but the walnut tree tossed its dinner-plate-sized leaves high in the air to greet the winter wind. The chill breeze and light rain helped stick them to the parked cars like large pieces of confetti. At a nearby table she saw Henry and Bassett dining with gusto and obvious enjoyment.

  How typical of men. They had a plan. Their emotions appeared to be tightly under control and their appetite remained hearty. Not for her. Everything she read on the menu made her stomach churn. She wished the day to be over.

  A man approached from the left and paused beside her.

  “Mrs Brown?”

  “Don’t be facetious, young man. You’re quite aware of my real name.” Her voice didn’t echo the turmoil inside her, instead she snapped her disapproval at his attempted humour. She gestured towards a chair and gave him the full benefit of a steel-cold stare.

  He was rather handsome, in a rugged sort of way. His thick brown hair flopped over his forehead in a cowlick. He wasn’t that tall, rather stocky, with wide shoulders that stretched his dress jacket more than the design allowed. In the soft lilt in his voice and his pronunciation of ‘Brown’ she’d heard his Welsh heritage. His olive skin and brown eyes also spoke of the distant coal fields of Wales.

  She looked him square in the face and forced herself to appear calm. “I can hear the Welsh Valleys in your speech. What is a young man like you doing this far from home?”

  “Trying to better myself, Lady Helen.”

  “And you think your path to improvement is by extortion and intimidation?” She passed him the menu, ever conscious of her manners, even to a blackmailer.

  “I hope to establish myself in London, ma’am, and when I recognised you at the opera the other night I thought you could perhaps help me with this.”

  “Which is a roundabout way of saying you saw a chance to threaten me with defamation.”

  “You don’t have to accommodate me, Lady Helen,” he cajoled in velvet
Welsh tones. “A simple ‘no’ will suffice and I will leave. However, I cannot guarantee that I shan’t be forced to offer your name as a user of my services.” He smirked. “Perhaps you could then confirm my prowess with your personal recommendation.”

  “I might, if I knew on which occasions in Brighton you gave me pleasure,” she retorted.

  “All of them, Lady Helen.”

  A blush of memory rose, its heat warming her breasts before it travelled up her neck. She turned to look through the window, refusing to acknowledge that his verbal spear had penetrated, wishing Henry would finish his lunch and join them. Surely his hot pot and roast potatoes were not as important as her present discomfort.

  As if he’d heard her silent plea, Henry walked slowly towards their table. He leaned heavily on his walking stick and her heart tugged with love as she noted the pain in his face. She knew the effort it took him to look strong and erect. He sat abruptly on the third chair. Mortlock started for a second and reeled back, but on seeing the older man, relaxed. His face read like an open page. He showed no fear and she concluded he’d obviously done his homework, and recognised Henry as her husband.

  “Surprised to see me, young man?” Henry asked.

  “Yes, sir. You’re the last person I expected to join us for lunch.”

  “Then you have misjudged the situation entirely.” Henry propped his stick on the side of his chair and reached across to take her hand in his. “You see, it is I who arrange for Lady Helen to enjoy the ministrations of the Brighton establishment where you worked. And it is I who pay the expenses. You cannot pressure my wife by threatening to tell me.” Henry took a long breath.

  Mortlock’s mouth had opened, as if to speak, and his eyebrows had risen.

  Breaking the silence, Henry continued, “You have given up your work in Brighton?”

  “Yes, sir. Quite recently.”

  “I thought as much. I have a proposal to put to you that I hope will satisfy all three of us. Are you open to offers or are you set on extracting money?” Before Mortlock could answer, Henry said, “Blackmail carries a hefty jail sentence if you are prosecuted and convicted.”

  Mortlock flinched at the word ‘blackmail’ and Helen realised he hadn’t viewed his actions as being quite that serious.

  “You wouldn’t take that risk, sir.”

  “You would be advised not to try me, young man. Who are you going to get to confirm your accusations?” Henry leaned in close and spoke with soft menace, “I’m sure I could outweigh them one hundredfold with character references for my wife. When you have money, scandal can be laundered away. Remember that, because I am going to make you this offer only once.”

  Mortlock nodded. His olive complexion had become sallow. Henry’s grip on Helen’s hand tightened in a quick squeeze before he released it and spread his hands on the table, leaning towards their guest.

  “Now, this is what I propose.”

  Mortlock inclined his head, one ear tilted forward to catch Henry’s barely audible proposal.

  “I will hire you as our gardener. We have a large property, which can be developed at the back into a vegetable garden, and the front rose beds need attention. The trees lining our street cause a lot of litter at this time of the year, so there will be plenty for you to do.”

  Along with Mortlock, Helen listened intently, absorbing the details.

  “We have a married couple as staff and their day off is Thursday. I suggest this be the day you do the gardening, and any other work my wife may require of you.”

  ‘Work’ being a euphemism to cover any sexual favours she required. Henry looked very pleased, smug even, and gave her a quick smile before he drew a deep breath, then continued, “I usually go to town on Thursdays and spend the day at my club, unless I’m required at the House of Lords. This will allow you and Lady Helen to spend the day together.” Henry sat back in his chair, a satisfied smile on his face. “Do you agree?”

  “Remuneration? How much am I worth?” Mortlock asked, leaning forward.

  Ah, he is a negotiator as well as a blackmailer. A fizz of fear crawled up her spine and her breath hitched.

  Henry stayed silent for a moment and it looked as if negotiations might break down, but then Henry smiled and she realised he’d thought of all angles.

  “I propose to pay you the going rate for gardeners, taxed and recorded. My accountant will arrange this.” Mortlock opened his mouth to speak but Henry held his hand up to stop him. “However, as you may have extra costs, though God knows what, I will make sure my wife has spare cash on hand.”

  Mortlock inclined his head, remaining silent, perhaps waiting for more information.

  “What you do with the rest of the week is your business. However, while I may recommend you as a gardener to my peers, I shall not be recommending your other services. If you wish to establish a life in this city I would warn you to be very careful of what you say about my wife and me.”

  Christopher Mortlock squirmed in his chair under Henry’s piercing stare and veiled threat.

  “I quite understand, Lord Montrose.”

  “Should I hear a whisper, or see at any time that you have harmed my wife, I will make life very difficult for you.” Henry waved away the waiter who approached. “I have the power and influence to ruin your life, young man. Always keep that in mind.” Henry looked at her. “Is that suitable, my dear? Do you think I’ve covered everything?” He looked so sweet she wanted to kiss him. His kindness knew no limit. How she wished his physical prowess could be restored, then none of this would be necessary.

  “I think so, Henry, but Mr Mortlock has yet to agree.”

  They both looked at Mortlock for an answer. Helen’s heart thudded as if she stood on the edge of a cliff. Her stomach clenched, her lower muscles dragged downward. Was she experiencing suppressed desire, or fear of Mortlock’s refusal?

  “Very suitable thank you, sir. My extra expenses could be one hundred pounds per week. After all, I need lodgings and there may be travel involved.”

  “These are not my problems, Mortlock. You wish to live in London, you sort them out.” With an agreement almost reached, Henry’s tone became dismissive. “I’ve checked on how much you earned in Brighton and they told me what they paid you. You can’t work there again because I have informed them of the breach in their security. Fifty pounds, plus a standard day’s pay as our gardener. Take it or leave it.”

  “I accept.” Mortlock held out his hand for Henry to shake and seal the arrangement, but Henry purposely ignored the outstretched hand and turned to her instead.

  “I’ll go home now, my dear. Have a nice luncheon. You and Mortlock can discuss the minor details.” With that, her dear, darling, clever Henry rose to his feet and kissed her on the head, before walking away swinging his stick, rather than using it to lean on. A wave of relief drenched her—the black cloud that had been suspended over her head for the past week began to fade. Through the window, the day seemed brighter, the breeze gentler and the rain had stopped.

  “Shall we order?” she asked. “I’m paying.”

  “In that case I’ll have the roast chicken and a glass of the house red.”

  “I believe the roast chicken is a house speciality here.”

  Mortlock leaned over the table, his face close to hers and whispered, “I can stuff your pussy better than any chef can stuff a chicken.” His male musk delighted her senses, her heat clenched in anticipation as his words trickled into her mind.

  She closed her eyes as memories of her last session in Brighton flooded her brain and she realised her appetite for sex had returned. Her social sense prevailed. Controlling the desire between her thighs and keeping her voice level, she chose to ignore his comment.

  “I’ll order a bottle of red wine. One glass may not be enough to toast our new arrangement.” Did he hear the quiver of excitement in her voice? When he opened his mouth to speak, she leant forward and put her finger on his lips. “Mortlock, in polite society we keep that sort of la
nguage for the bedroom. Please remember that.”

  “Of course, m’lady. I will use it only on Thursdays, but we may not always be in the bedroom.” The suggestive words and teasing tone in his statement nearly undid her. She’d never had sex outside of a bedroom and with that suggestion bouncing around in her imagination, she beckoned the hovering waiter and gave him their choices.

  Over the course of their meal, Mortlock drank plenty while Helen managed to make one glass last the whole time, refusing his attempts to refill her goblet. She hoped the excess wine would dull his perceptions when Bassett followed him. Henry insisted his plan be followed to the letter and she needed to be sober to drive.

  “Till next Thursday,” Mortlock said when their repast was over. He stood, bowing with mock servility.

  “Thursday, ten o’clock,” she agreed and watched him leave. The slight swagger in his step displayed his satisfaction with their business arrangement. He carried an air of restrained sexual power, heightened by his youth. He smelt delicious and she could attest to his virility. A smile played around her lips as she wondered if she could dispense with a blindfold now. She couldn’t pretend it was Henry anymore, having met Mortlock face-to- face.

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Four

  The arrangement with Mortlock worked well. The rose beds became a riot of colour and their perfume wafted through the windows, gracing the air. Mrs Bassett appreciated the fresh produce from the vegetable garden and thought the work they provided for Helen’s young ‘relative’ while he established himself in London an admirable and charitable gesture on Henry’s part.

  Mortlock showed a surprising knowledge and talent for growing things—but not nearly as clever as his inventive and imaginative sexual exploits.