Sobs shook her body, and she timidly poked out her tongue and he felt the nervous lightness of her first attempt to pleasure him. His balls tightened, his cock leapt into her face and she recoiled instinctively. He grabbed her hair and refused to let her go, inexorably pulling her back to her task. Her tears aroused him, and so did the feel of her soft fingers gingerly touching the hairy scrotal sac and smoothing the shaft that reared like a spear. It prodded her cheek, determined to penetrate her lips.
‘Is she giving you trouble, my lord?’ asked the glacial voice of Priscilla Wallace. A stately figure in velvet and diamonds, not tall but commanding: many likened her to the queen.
Aidan looked at her through slumberous eyes, on the verge of climax and wanting no interruptions. ‘She has a freshness that delights me,’ he answered truthfully.
Mrs Wallace glared at Bethany, saying sternly, ‘Obey the gentleman or you’ll receive a thorough thrashing and,’ her cynical gaze locked with Aidan’s, ‘he shall give it to you.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Bethany gasped, and set to work, opening her mouth wide and taking the thick penis inside as far as she could without gagging.
Mrs Wallace withdrew though Aidan was hardly aware, head back, eyes part closed, groaning as his hips lifted to meet Bethany’s act of slavery. His fingers tangled in her blonde hair, strands falling forward every time she dipped to her task, the fine golden floss tickling his groin as she worked busily. It seemed that she was warming to it, perhaps even excited by having the cock of this fine gentleman in her mouth. Freeing one hand he sought her fork, feeling it damp and hot through the thin cambric dress. He imagined her sparsely furred pussy and rubbed harder.
She moaned and slurped at him busily. His crisis was not far away. His cock grew that much harder and started to pump. Bethany, realising what was about to happen, tried to draw back but he refused to let her go, holding her to him with both hands, pushing his fiery, needy prick to the back of her throat as it jerked and pulsed and gave forth its milky tribute in a final rush of ecstasy.
She coughed and spluttered and forced herself free, starting to retch. His spunk was in her hair, over her face, dribbling down her chin. He relaxed but the girl stared at him with revulsion, trying to wipe herself clean of his cloying emission, gulping and trembling. She watched as his monstrous member started to shrink, till it lay limply across his thigh, then she spoke, her voice shrill with indignation.
‘How would you feel and what would you do, sir, if someone did that to your daughter?’
Aidan frowned and sat up, tucking his penis away. Her question surprised him. ‘Do?’ he said, a savage edge to his tone. ‘Do? I’d bloody well kill him.’
‘That’s men all over,’ said the tall, foreign-looking woman who sidled up to the couch. ‘One law for them an’ one for us.’
‘Good evening, Doreen,’ Aidan replied, running an eye over this coarse but attractive woman, whose swarthiness hinted at a touch of the tar-brush somewhere in her distant ancestry.
‘Lord Aidan,’ she said, mockingly, then snapped at the startled Bethany, ‘Sling your ’ook!’ The girl couldn’t get away fast enough, and Doreen stared after her with a thoughtful smile. ‘To think that I was all dewy-eyed like ’er once.’
Aidan trusted her no more than he did any woman, but at least she was honest about her whoredom, whereas so many females pretended to be virtuous but acted like bitches on heat in secret. He was wise enough to understand that this was but a job to the majority of the streetwalkers, done through necessity not lust.
‘How is it that you are here, at Valerie’s party?’ he asked, though possessed of that depression following sexual activity with the wrong person. He simply could not get Angela out of his head.
Doreen shrugged. ‘I was asked along to ’elp out. Mrs Wallace an’ me are old mates. She knows she can rely on me to do a good job. Is there anythin’ you’d like me to do? I’m handy with the whip.’
Aidan stood up, towering over her tall though she was. ‘No,’ he answered, scowling darkly. ‘I’ve had enough and shall take myself off to my club.’
‘Really?’ Doreen said, leaning forward till her breasts brushed his shirtfront. ‘Nothin’ at all? Not even information?’
His ears pricked but he remained wary. ‘Regarding what?’ he snapped.
Doreen wound sinuous arms around his neck. She smelt of spices wafting from a tropical desert island – exotic and bewitching, yet she was not the type that appealed to him – too confident and assured. ‘Regardin’ a certain young lady what’s given you the slip,’ she answered tantalisingly. ‘Word is that you’ll do anythin’ to get ’er back. Is this right?’
‘Maybe,’ he replied, giving nothing away. He had moved in the twilight zones of big cities for long enough to know that it was best to keep a still tongue in your head and a hand on your wallet.
Doreen cocked a saucy eyebrow at him. ‘I can tell you where she is,’ she brought out.
Aidan’s heart soared, but he kept a blank face. ‘Indeed? And why should I trust someone like you?’
‘You ain’t got no option if you wants ’er.’
‘How much?’ Aidan conceded, though disbelieving. ‘And what proof have you that it is her?’
Doreen fished down the front of her bodice and produced a crumpled piece of paper. She flourished it under his nose but kept a tight hold on it. ‘This ’ere’s a pawn ticket,’ she said triumphantly. ‘It’s got ’er name on it… Angela Bayswater.’
‘Where did you get that?’ he snarled between clenched teeth.
‘Took it from ’er pocket while she was sleepin’. She’s stayin’ with me an’ my mate.’
‘Give it here.’ He made a grab for it but she dodged away.
‘You can ’ave it when we’ve struck a deal. Let’s talk cash, Lord Aidan.’
Angela was wondering what to do next. She had risen from the tumbled bed and dressed, possessed of that terrible lost feeling that weighed on her like lead – she was homeless, almost penniless, and had no idea what Tilly and Doreen had in mind for her. The idea of becoming a prostitute, like them, was anathema to her.
She heard a church clock strike eleven and peeped put of the grimy window. It was pitch dark and raining. The candle was guttering and she lit another from its stump. She was hungry, but investigation of the food hatch revealed nothing except a stale crust and a piece of mouldy cheese. She was almost tempted to return to Arthur Taylor’s establishment. Surely Jacob would be home soon? She missed him more than she had thought possible. He was like the brother she had never had.
Suddenly she heard a rumpus down in the alley. It grew louder as whoever was arguing mounted the stairs. Tilly burst through the door, slammed it behind her and threw the bolt. ‘You got to get away!’ she hissed as a voice outside screamed at her and someone hammered on the door.
‘What? Why?’ Angela cried, leaping to her feet and grabbing her bag.
‘It’s that bitch Doreen. She’s grassed you up to Lord Aidan. He’s below, waitin’ to get ’old of you.’
‘Oh, my God!’ Angela exclaimed, terror lending her wings.
Tilly thrust a chair against the shaking door and said, ‘Out the window. The ’ouse next-door is empty. Get in the attic an’ run down an’ out the front door. Go on! Get movin’!’
Angela did not stop to think twice. She was on the slippery parapet in an instant, edging her way along to the broken casement of the deserted house. Dark, so dark and perilous, but panic drove her on. She dropped inside the echoing, empty room, found the door, the landing and the stairs and rushed down and down, tripping and part falling till she reached the hall. There she paused momentarily, listening, but it seemed that Aidan had followed Doreen and there was no one about. She was out of the door and along the alley like the wind and did not stop running till she had put several streets and the river between her and Friggle Lane.
A stitch was clawing at her side and her breath rasped in her throat. She paused, leaning against a wall. She ha
d no notion where she was. London was an enigma to her and one dirty street looked much like the other. All she could be sure of was that she was far away from Aidan and the treacherous Doreen.
She had fetched up by the side of a tavern. Suddenly the door flew open and half a dozen men staggered out, shouting abuse and laughing and obviously the worse for drink. Angela tried to shrink into the gloom but one of them saw her.
‘What’s this?’ he yelled and came towards her. He was large and brutish, wearing a shabby suit, a cloth cap and scarf. ‘Look ’ere, boys, it’s a girl! Come on, let’s ’ave a look at ’er!’ He lurched forward and she felt his huge hands digging into her arms.
‘No!’ she screamed. ‘Let me go!’ Her bag dropped to the road and the other men, hallooing like huntsmen, closed in on her. She was tripped and tossed on her back in the puddles. Someone jerked her skirt up and she felt cold air on her nakedness as the first man ripped at her drawers, pulling them down. She fought like a wild thing but it was useless; there were too many of them.
Feeling hands all over her, mauling her fork and belly and tearing at her bodice, she yelled and yelled, but the first attacker was already on his knees between her legs, erect cock out as he struggled to penetrate her. She tried to bring up her knee and jab him in the balls but one of his friends seized her ankles and held her legs apart. Her assailant’s weight pinned her to the rain-washed paving stones. She could hardly breathe, her face buried in his dirty waistcoat, the foreign smell of him assaulting her senses.
‘God dammit, will you keep still you bloody little bitch!’ he shouted, having difficulty in maintaining his erection, his tool weakened by too much alcohol.
‘Call yourself a man?’ she mocked, though knowing it would only make it worse for her but unable to resist. ‘What’s the matter? Lost the lead in your pencil?’
‘Shut up!’ he bellowed, and fetched her a blow across the face that made her see stars. She could feel her strength draining away, and he was forcing his phallus into her, careless of making her pregnant or passing on some nasty disease.
Then, suddenly, the alley seemed to explode. He was hauled off Angela and felled with a single blow from an iron fist. A man loomed over him, a tall, commanding man. Angela got a quick flash of his walking stick raised in fury and, in that instant, it became a sword, the dingy light reflected on steel. The men backed off, turned tail and ran, and her would-be assailant dragged himself to his feet and followed them.
Her rescuer bent and helped her to her feet. ‘Are you harmed?’ he asked in a rich, rolling voice.
‘Bruised, but that’s all; they didn’t succeed in their intention,’ she said shakily, staring at him, impressed by his flowing black cloak lined with scarlet, and the fedora cocked at a jaunty angle on long dark hair. ‘Who are you?’ she added warily, hoping she was not about to jump from the frying pan into the fire.
He swept off his hat and bowed deeply, saying, ‘Maximillian Devere, at your service. Actor manager of a small but talented troupe. We are performing at the hall that is part of and adjoins this hostelry. I’m lodging here, along with my artistes. Come inside and have a drink. You look as if you could do with a stiff brandy,’ he said kindly, slipping the blade back into his swordstick. ‘Just as well I arrived when I did. I thought those brutes were up to no good when they left the public bar.’
Angela was aching and battered, and not only physically. The actor was courtly and strong, he spoke well and reminded her of her own kind, long lost to her now. She instinctively trusted him, needing a knight-errant as never before.
What did she have to lose? she reflected, bending to retrieve her valise, but he was there before her, saying, ‘Allow me,’ and lifting it easily.
He offered his free arm and she slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow and, together, they entered the Pelican and Garter, inn combined with place of entertainment. A new phase had begun for Angela.
Chapter 9
It was like stepping into another world. The landlord of the Pelican was large, genial and a devotee of the theatre. He greeted Maximillian with an expansive smile, saying, ‘Bit of bother outside, was there, sir?’
‘Indeed there was,’ the actor answered with a dramatic gesture. ‘I rescued this young lady from a fate worse than death. Those ruffians were molesting her.’
‘By God, sir, I won’t have that,’ the landlord declared, red around the jowls, his waxed moustache bristling. ‘Point them out to me next time they dare show their faces in here and they shall be barred, sir, barred for good and all!’
He ushered them into the bar parlour and the sudden light and warmth and friendliness confused Angela. It took her a while to put names to faces after she had been introduced all round as Miss Angela Bayswater. She had never met thespians before, a stranger to this select breed of mountebanks who were respected, lionised and invited into the mansions of the great and powerful. They seemed to be classless, at home anywhere, leading a roaming life that took them all over the length and breadth of England, and abroad, too.
They made her welcome; a comedian, a juggler, an acrobat, a magician, ladies from the chorus line adept at high kicks, and then there was Max himself. He was a master of stagecraft, it appeared, as comfortable acting in the works of William Shakespeare as he was in melodramas.
‘Can you sing and dance?’ he questioned Angela as she sat beside him on the oak settle by the fire, and the landlord brought her over a balloon-shaped glass containing a measure of brandy.
‘I have had singing lessons, and can play the piano. Dancing, too, was a part of my education,’ she replied shyly, though feeling more at ease as the brandy slid down her throat and settled like a hot ember in her stomach.
‘Then why are you wandering the streets at this ungodly hour?’ he enquired solicitously, leaning towards her, and she liked the feel of his wide-shouldered frame next to hers.
He was a striking man in his thirties, his features having a foreign slant, with high cheekbones, a swarthy skin, and thick black hair that coiled in ringlets about his shoulders. He had flung back his cloak and wore a plum velvet suit beneath it, the narrow trousers thrust into soft leather knee boots that gave him a swashbuckling air. A silk cravat, a damask waistcoat, and frilled cuffs completed this outfit that singled him out as being far apart from the common herd.
‘I have been the victim of misfortune,’ she sighed, and proceeded to fill in the details, though omitting facts that she thought might be too shocking.
Max and his companions listened in silence, apart from the occasional sympathetic murmur, then, ‘So you have nowhere to live, no money, and no means of earning any?’ he asked quietly.
‘That is correct,’ she said, and started on a second brandy, losing her shyness, happy in the company of these interesting people.
Max appeared to be lost in contemplation, then he suddenly said, ‘How would you like to join us?’
‘You mean appear on the stage?’ she answered his question with another.
‘That’s right. Of course, I shall have to give you an audition – which means hearing you sing and seeing if you have any potential for acting. You have the looks, my dear, and hopefully you’ll also have the talent required.’
In his enthusiasm he gripped her hand and she was very aware of that firm grasp, surprised and even alarmed by the sudden rush of excitement that made her nipples stand out and her clitoris throb. ‘Thank you, sir…’
‘Call me Max,’ he insisted, smiling with a flash of even white teeth. ‘That is settled then. Tomorrow morning you shall tread the boards and I’ll put you through your paces. Don’t be alarmed. I can be a hard taskmaster, but promise to be gentle with you.’
‘But where shall I stay tonight?’ she asked, the sudden hope rising in her breast dashed by practicalities.
‘Here, with us,’ he proclaimed expansively. ‘We having lodgings for a while, then we shall travel to our next venue in Cardiff. A touring company, you see, following the well-worn path of traditional
strolling players… sometimes appearing in theatres, or music halls with acts suitable for vaudeville.’
‘What is that?’ she interrupted.
‘It’s a variety entertainment or a play interspersed with dances, and songs that are usually comic.’
‘That’s where I come in,’ added the dour-faced person who Max had introduced as their ‘funny man’. Angela wondered if it was true that jesters were often melancholy in daily life.
‘Then there’s burlesque. Somewhat coarser in content, mocking situations with grotesque exaggeration, showing a rather low form of wit. I give the public whatever it demands. My forte is serious drama, but I have to make a living though still striving to become a renowned actor like Henry Irving,’ Max went on.
‘It sounds exciting,’ Angela said, but was having difficulty in speaking, her tongue seeming too big for her mouth. The warm fire, the feeling of safety, was making her as relaxed as a rag doll. She wanted to sleep very badly.
Max went into a huddle with the landlord, returning to say, ‘He has no more rooms, I fear, and suggests that you share mine… no, don’t be alarmed. I can occupy the couch. You will be quite safe, I assure you. We actors often double up if the accommodation is sparse.’
She trusted him and was by now so desirous of finding a corner in which to fall asleep that she did not argue. The other members of the troupe went to their own quarters, and Max led Angela upstairs. The room was softly lit and oak panelled, one of the best the tavern had to offer. The fire’s ruddy glow added to the sensation of security and peace. All Angela could see was the four-poster bed and she dropped into its depths, pulled the quilt over her and sank into oblivion. She was hardly conscious that Max, true to his word, seized a blanket and pillow and settled on the couch near the hearth.
She was awakened by sunlight streaming in at the casement and Max standing by the bedside, holding a tray. Wisps of steam rose from a coffeepot and the smell of bacon and sausages reminded her that she had not eaten for hours. She sat up groggily and he smiled down at her, already washed and shaved and changed into yellow check trousers and a scarlet jacket. He was certainly a dandy, and she approved.
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