Fate's Victim

by Roxane Beaufort

  ‘I trust you slept well,’ he said, the timbre of his voice tingling through areas of her body that should only have responded to touch. It was so beautifully modulated, so rich in tone, so restrained, whereas she was certain that he could be heard in the far reaches of an auditorium when the occasion arose.

  ‘Very well, thank you,’ she answered, aware that her hair needed brushing and that she was still wearing her black dress, even her shoes.

  He seemed sensitive to this and suggested, ‘Perhaps you might feel able to leave off mourning now. There are clothes in the property basket that might fit you, and more hanging in the wardrobe. Oh, don’t worry; they aren’t worn outdated garments, but simply articles that have been left by former members who have gone on to fresh fields and pastures new. Would you care to try them on?’

  ‘I’d like to wash, if that is possible,’ she said, sitting on the side of the bed and enjoying the breakfast he had ordered for her.

  ‘So you shall. There is a bathroom along the corridor. I’ll leave you to it, and then you may come and find me in the theatre. The landlord will show you the way.’

  She was flattered by his concern, but a little disappointed because such a splendid man had made no attempt to storm her virtue. It would hardly have been a struggle – more a complete surrender. Angela found him as attractive as she had once found Aidan – still did if the truth was known, never fully able to shut her master out of her mind.

  The bathroom was clean and provided with hot water that flowed from a gas-fired geyser. She found soap there and towels, and took off her clothes and had a strip-wash. Wrapping herself in a bathrobe that she found hanging on the back of the door, she returned to Max’s room. Following his advice she rummaged through the basket and then turned her attention to the wardrobe. She found everything she could desire – satin underclothes, lace-trimmed corsets, diaphanous stockings; whoever had once owned them must have been a woman of taste. Though when she held them up against her nakedness and viewed herself in the pier-glass, it was to find that there was a certain racy quality about each garment.

  A canister of scented talcum powder stood on the dressing table, along with perfume bottles and a range of cosmetics. She dusted her underarms, breasts and crotch, and then fastened herself into the tight stays, squirming round to draw in the lacing. Sitting on the stool she rolled the stockings up her legs and clipped them to the long suspenders. Watching her reflection was arousing, and she stared at her mound. Though part hidden by her bush, the labial lips pouted and her pink clitoris stood out, begging for attention. She touched it and the sensation was wonderful, and sighing she dipped her middle digit into a jar of face-cream and gently massaged the tip of her bud with it. Her nipples responded, poking above the low-cut corset, and she brushed across them with her other hand. Watching these lewd actions excited her even more. It was like seeing someone else doing it, a curious kind of voyeurism. Playing with herself was comforting as well as stimulating. She did not have to rely on anyone else for her satisfaction. Pleasure, pure and simple, was her goal.

  She concentrated on her bud, rubbing it, circling the top, teasing and abandoning it momentarily, a feather-light touch all she would allow. Then she went to the other extreme, using pressure as she rubbed harder and harder till it tingled and she could no longer prevent an orgasm from sweeping her away. She plunged her fingers into her vagina, feeling the muscles contract around them as spasms of delight filled her whole being, and it was then that she longed for a huge penis to penetrate her, one attached to a powerful man. She closed her eyes and saw Aidan’s face, but it was Max who walked into the room at that precise moment.

  She shot up in her seat and hurriedly removed her hand and snapped her legs together, but it was too late. She could tell by his expression that he guessed what she’d been doing. He stopped and said, ‘I’m sorry to disturb you. I should have knocked. Most remiss of me, but…’ his eyes twinkled, ‘I don’t regret what I saw. Will you permit me to assist you?’

  ‘In dressing?’ she asked, thoroughly flustered as she could not help thinking that his cock was probably as large as Aidan’s and why didn’t she put it to the test?

  ‘In whatever way you fancy,’ Max replied diplomatically.

  She pretended not to understand this innuendo and became very busy, stepping into taffeta petticoats and then a pale blue rustling skirt that fastened at the waist and, finally, a very tight and revealing bodice, lavishly ornamented with beads and lace.

  ‘Absolutely ravishing,’ Max enthused, sitting on the couch and clapping his hands. ‘I can’t wait to see you under the spotlight.’

  She blushed at this compliment, but was also hugely embarrassed, aware of her scent on her fingers and sure he could smell it too. She started to dress her hair, brushing the long locks up into a coronet at the crown and twisting curls to hang down each side of her face. She turned to Max, posing with her head slightly to one side. ‘Will this do?’ she asked.

  ‘Wonderful. You already look the part of a star. A touch of rouge, perhaps, a trace of carmine on the lips. The lights are strong and rob one’s skin of colour, unless it is artificially applied. Here, let me show you,’ and he gave her a lesson in stage make-up.

  She was pleased with the result. Her eyes were emphasised, larger, brighter – and her cheeks and mouth were rosy-red. She sparkled, was radiant, and felt as if she had come home. The theatre! How lucky was she to have been found by Max and given the opportunity to embrace this life. What a heaven-sent chance to hide under a different persona! No longer Angela Bayswater.

  ‘What name shall I adopt?’ she asked Max, pirouetting round the room.

  He chuckled. ‘Well, my dear, we’ll have to see, won’t we? I’m sure we can come up with something suitably glamorous.’

  Some of her confidence faded when at last she stood centre stage, a dazzling spot trained on her. A pianist sat in the pit, a flaxen-haired young man who was part of the troupe. The theatre was built alongside the public house and there was a bar at the back. Seats were ranged in rows and there was a balcony above. It was decorated with much gilt and red upholstery and had heavy curtains across the proscenium, just like a regular playhouse. Angela was impressed, and a bundle of nerves.

  She had told Max what she wanted to sing and he’d gone into a huddle with the pianist. Within a short time the music was found and the first chords rang out. It had been one of her father’s favourites and her eyes filled with tears as she recalled him begging her to sing it after dinner. Then she would accompany herself in the aria by Handel, from his opera Semele.

  She took a deep breath and started, her voice growing stronger as she gained confidence. ‘Where’er you walk cool gales shall fan the glade. Trees where you sit shall crowd into a shade.’

  Then the magic began. She forgot where she was or why, only conscious that this was right for her. She had come home.

  Losing all account of time or place she was startled by the spattering of applause that rang out when she finished. ‘There were cries of ‘Bravo!’ and ‘Well done!’ The thespians had gathered at the back of the auditorium to listen to Max’s latest protégée. The landlord was there too, and several members of the bar staff. All seemed impressed and Max was positively beaming.

  Father, you would have been so proud of me, she thought, but hot on the heels of this came another idea – and Aidan would be furious!

  Max took the side steps to the stage in a bound, clasping her hands and saying, ‘That was very good indeed. A tiny falter here and there, but this will yield to coaching. Now I want you to read this.’ He thrust a script into her hands. ‘It is the balcony scene from Romeo and Juliet. You shall be Juliet and I will play Romeo. Shall we begin?’

  It was like a dream come true. Angela forgot that she was on a stage attached to a public house in a scruffy quarter of London, transported to Verona and becoming the fourteen-year-old Juliet falling in love for the very first time. She knew the play, having studied it with her governess, but
now the words came alive, inspired by Max’s perfect understanding of the Bard’s poetry. The scene received further applause and, after she had performed a dance for him, Max pronounced himself satisfied with her budding talent and offered her a job. She was in the Seventh Heaven of delight.

  They went to lunch in the inn’s parlour and there discussed details, such as salary and billing and how she was to be presented when she made her debut. ‘As an ingénue, I think,’ he said, lighting up a cigar, the drifting blue smoke strongly reminiscent of her father’s habit of indulging after luncheon. ‘Yes, I can see it all. An artless, inexperienced and naïve young woman.’

  ‘But I’m not exactly that,’ she confessed.

  ‘I know,’ he replied, looking at her seriously with those melting brown eyes. ‘But you haven’t lost that air of innocence. We shall call you… let me see,’ his brow wrinkled as he concentrated, searching his brain for something striking that would draw in the crowds. Then he snapped his fingers and his expression changed. ‘I have it. Rose Trelawney, the Cornish Nightingale.’

  ‘But I’m from Somerset, not Cornwall,’ she pointed out.

  ‘I know, dear girl, but it sounds more romantic.’

  ‘I’m afraid. Supposing Aidan hears about it and comes to see the show. He’ll recognise me.’

  ‘No, no, he won’t. I shall find you a long curly wig, turning you into a golden-haired enchantress, and I shall choose your wardrobe myself. You must be seductive but pure, wearing pastel shades and wide-brimmed bonnets that part hide your face, lots of flowers on stage and maybe a garlanded swing on which you can pose, showing a tiny flash of ankle, maybe. You’ll be a sensation, or I’ll eat my hat!’

  ‘So this is a respectable family show?’ She thoughtfully formed little pellets out of a bread roll and moved them around her plate.

  ‘On the whole, yes, though the chorus girls do dance the can-can, but I insist they wear drawers. Some can-can dancers are nude under their skirts, you know, apart from stockings and garters.’

  ‘I know.’ Angela was recalling Valerie’s party where just about anything went.

  Max refilled their wineglasses. ‘The comedian tells bawdy jokes and some of his songs are risqué, but all in all it is harmless enough. Come, you must practice this afternoon and I may include you in tomorrow night’s show.’

  She gulped, was stunned by the swiftness of events, but could do nothing but go with the flow, borne along by Max’s enthusiasm and, the more time she spent with him, the more she was falling under his charismatic spell.

  All too soon the moment came when she was standing in the wings, waiting her cue to go on. Max had devoted his time to coaching her and she felt as ready as she ever would be, shaking from head to foot as she listened to the uproar from the main body of the theatre. The dancers had pleased them, so had the magician and the antics of the comic, Max’s dramatic monologue concerning a ship wrecked at sea had been well received, and now it was her turn.

  He was announcing her assumed name, one she did not yet associate with herself any more than the fair wig that turned her into someone else. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, it is my pride and pleasure to present the singing voice of the age. Rose Trelawney, the Cornish Nightingale, straight from a tour of Europe. Give her a big welcome!’

  They did so, mesmerised by this tall, distinguished man in his faultlessly tailored evening suit who knew so well how to play on the emotions of an audience. They were putty in his lean, aristocratic, well-manicured hands.

  Angela stepped out amidst a storm of clapping and cheering, smiling and dipping a curtsey as Max had shown her. The hall fell silent as the first chords of music rang out. Angela took a deep breath and started to sing. When she had finished cries of ‘Bravo! Encore!’ made the rafters shake, and they would not let her go till she had sung two more songs. After this she danced gracefully to a minuet and they were completely won over.

  Max and she celebrated in his room later. He had ordered cold chicken and salad and bottles of champagne. Angela changed from her stage costume into a silk kimono, embracing the free and easy lifestyle of the thespians. No one seemed to worry about being seen in a state of undress. She put it down to the communal changing rooms and frequent close proximity during travelling. It suited her to perfection. She had always thought people too preoccupied with modesty, particularly the English who liked to ‘keep themselves to themselves’. Not that she’d had much experience with Continentals, but assumed that the actors followed their example of greater freedom.

  ‘You’re enjoying the experience?’ Max asked, lounging back in a wing chair and watching her as she removed the blonde wig, popped it on a stand and unpinned her own hair.

  ‘Tremendously. They liked me, didn’t they?’ she said breathlessly, and her cheeks were still pink though she had removed the make-up.

  ‘Of course they did. Who wouldn’t?’

  Before she knew it he was on his knees between her legs, gently easing them apart. She sat there as if rooted, unable to prevent him from peeling back her dressing gown and exposing her naked thighs and the triangle of silky curls between. She placed her hands on his head and pushed him away, but he resisted. ‘Max… don’t spoil it,’ she begged, wanting to yield, needing to yield, but terrified of the consequences. Perhaps, once he had prised her secrets from her, he might no longer be interested and her career would be over before it began.

  ‘Dearest girl, how could it do that? I respect you, adore you; I want to sanctify this moment by making love to you. Don’t be afraid,’ he murmured, and his voice was her undoing.

  She no longer resisted and he carefully parted her legs as if unwrapping an infinitely precious treasure. She gasped and lay back in the chair, sliding forward to give him easier access. He inserted his thumbs either side of her outer labia, then parted the wet folds and exposed the inner pair and the thickening stem of her love-bud.

  He was as expert at love as he was with declaiming words, playing her body like a delicate instrument; drawing rapturous notes from her as he caressed her breasts, cajoled her nipples and used his mouth and tongue on her clitoris. Passion surged through her and she was coming, the waves of feeling so intense that she cried out.

  Max let her enjoy her second of bliss then he pulled her down onto the rug and, while she lay there, he stripped rapidly, the dancing firelight turning him red as a demon. His body rippled with muscles, his chest was darkly furred, his belly too, his penis like a lance rising from his groin. Angela held out her arms to him and he went to her, straddling her thighs, bracing himself on his arms as he lowered his head and captured her mouth, his tongue dipping and delving. She raised her legs and locked her ankles round his neck. He thrust into her again and again, his balls rolling against her perineum while she held him close, rejoicing in the sensation of his large helm filling her channel and stretching her inner muscles and jarring her cervix.

  The logs threw off heat and scorched her skin, but lying there in front of it with him gave her the deepest satisfaction, yet there was something lacking. She dug her nails into his back and left long scratches hoping, deep in her psyche, that he would retaliate. She had become accustomed to being misused by men and found it hard to accept that this one was different, not wishing to own or enslave her, but willing to give her the freedom to express herself.

  He was pumping into her hard and his penis jerked, portending his crisis. The movement of his hips became frantic and then she felt the gush of semen as he spent deep inside her. He lowered himself to one side, but his cock remained captive till eventually it softened and slipped out. Angela was soothed, healed and should have been the happiest woman alive, but there lingered regret that Max had not mastered her as Aidan would have done. He was, if anything, too good to her.

  ‘There’s person here to see you, my lord,’ said Maurice, valet and general dog’s body in Aidan’s service. He was slim and dapper, his hair slicked back, a typical toady and Aidan despised him and would not have had him anywhere near him had h
e not proved to be so useful at spying. He also had a most enticing bottom and was not averse to showing it, sharing it and submitting it to chastisement.

  ‘Who let him in?’ Aidan barked, scowling darkly; his temper had not improved since Angela gave him the slip.

  ‘The butler, sir. The young man was most insistent. Gives his name as Jacob Taylor, sir. Says he’s on important business concerning Lady Angela.’

  ‘Why the hell didn’t you say that first? Show him in at once. My God, I’m surrounded by incompetents and idiots!’ Aidan bellowed, making the china ornaments rattle.

  Maurice backed towards the door, then scurried out. Aidan paced the carpet like a caged beast, hands locked behind his back. It was mid-morning, but he was still attired in his brocade dressing robe, the very one that Angela had borrowed on the morning after her deflowering. He had several others, of course, but liked to wear this one and imagine it folded round her delectable body.

  Beneath it he had on black trousers, a shirt and waistcoat, was showered and shaved and booted, and it would be the work of minutes for him to don his coat and prepare to go out should this Jacob Taylor person have news of import.

  He stared out of the window. From his apartment he could look down on the rotunda. It glinted in the sunlight and his gardeners were at work, keeping the lawns velvet smooth and tending the herbaceous borders.

  A tap on the door and he swung round, barking, ‘Come in.’

  A young man entered, sturdily built and with brown hair. He was attired in a neat suit and carried a hat in one hand. There was something familiar about him and, in a flash, Aidan was transported back in time to earlier that year when he and Angela had gone riding on the very day her father died. There was a groom with them, and it would be unusual for Aidan not to notice a personable youth. He remembered the name, Jacob, having given him instructions to see Lady Angela safely to the manor house. Now he subjected him to a stern glare, saying, ‘I know you. Weren’t you a stable lad at Lairdland?’