Fate's Victim

by Roxane Beaufort

  ‘I merely brought to the surface that which lay in your heart of hearts,’ he replied, and smacked her bottom before rising and covering his lithe form with a dressing gown.

  Fennes was there. ‘My turn,’ he demanded, banging on the floor with his cane, then raising it and poking Angela.

  She drew up her legs and curled into a ball, trying to hide her nakedness, her expression one of abhorrence. Aidan drew himself up to his full height and looked down his nose at Fennes. ‘No man makes demands on me,’ he drawled, very calm and cool, but Angela knew that when he was controlled, then he was at his most deadly. ‘I regret, my lord, that the deal is off. I have withdrawn the merchandise from the auction.’

  There were shouts of, ‘I say, that’s not fair!’

  ‘You’re a poor sport, Driscol!’

  ‘You can’t do that to a chap, not when his todger is in full spate!’

  But Aidan ignored them, saying, ‘She is going home now, gentlemen. Valerie and Maude and these two noble savages will take care of any little duties you want performed. Goodnight to you all.’

  They grumbled but Valerie soon had them smiling, performing a dance during which she removed her garments one by one, and permitting the intimacies they cared to lavish on her, providing they paid in hard cash. Maude took the money.

  Angela could not believe that Aidan was being merciful, but she did not question his motives, dressing quickly and allowing him to bind her eyes again and lead her to where a cab waited. He gave the driver Mrs Morrison’s address, paid him, and removed the blindfold.

  ‘Shall I see you again?’ she asked from the darkness of the interior while he stood on the step. She hated herself for her weakness, but could never resist him. ‘Will you come to the theatre?’

  He shrugged, once more the suave aristocrat in his superbly tailored evening suit. ‘You won’t know, will you, my dear?’

  ‘But you won’t stop me acting?’

  ‘No, I promise you that. I shall be with you again when you least expect it.’ And he leaned forward and brushed his lips across hers, the chilly night air filled with the personal scent of his hair, and the musky odour of his body.

  ‘What happened? Bit of all right, I thought, that Lord Alfred. Did he wine and dine you?’ whispered Elsie, round-eyed as a fluffy barn owl when she answered her door to Angela’s hesitant tap.

  ‘No, he didn’t,’ Angela replied, still reeling from the night’s experiences.

  ‘Why? Look here, you’d better come in. I told Mrs Morrison what you said and she was fine about it, but we don’t want to wake her up now, do we?’

  ‘It wasn’t Alfred’s idea to take me out… well, not exactly. He’s keen, but there was more to it,’ Angela said, loosening her cape and taking off her hat.

  ‘You look as if you’ve seen a ghost,’ Elsie said, and slipped on her cotton negligee. ‘Wait here and I’ll pop down to the kitchen and make us both a nice cup of cocoa. Shan’t be a moment.’

  Angela sat in the pink basket chair and wondered how much to tell Elsie. She needed to talk to someone badly, but was not sure if this was the right choice of confidante. Maybe Elsie was too innocent to understand. She’d tone it down, she decided. Embroider the truth.

  But when Elsie returned with two mugs from which rose wisps of fragrant steam, she found herself delving more and more into her past and the present situation. Elsie listened, eyes rounder than ever while she dunked biscuits in her cocoa and made little comment.

  ‘Deary me,’ she said when at last Angela had talked herself to a standstill. ‘Well I never.’

  ‘Are you shocked?’ Angela asked anxiously.

  ‘No, not shocked. I’ve been around, you know, worked my way through shabby music halls and had to say no to many a roguish stage director who thought himself in with a chance,’ Elsie said, and her colour deepened. ‘No one knows this, only you, but I’m courting.’

  ‘You are?’ Angela expressed surprise, and was a trifle envious. ‘And who is it?’

  ‘Ewart Reynold. He’s in the male chorus. I expect you remember him. He’s got red hair and blue eyes and is ever so handsome. We keep it a secret though, for Mr Carte is fussy and doesn’t like the cast consorting, as it were. He’s afraid he’ll lose the girl if she marries, for chances are she’ll want to start a family.’

  Angela listened to this naïve chattering and doubted that Elsie understood a word of what she had been saying. Corporal punishment for the fun of it was outside her ken. She left shortly after and retired to her own room, and she had never felt more alone.

  The feeling of isolation remained and deepened and Angela threw herself into her work. This gave her the greatest satisfaction of all and she shielded her mind against thoughts of Aidan. As for Max? He had faded into the background, although one night he appeared in her dressing room when everyone else had departed. He carried a large box of fancy chocolates, and looked debonair in a mulberry velvet suit.

  ‘My dear girl, I’m so proud of you,’ he declared, and she flushed with pleasure.

  ‘Am I doing well?’ she asked, having been promoted to a small speaking part.

  ‘Top-hole, sweetheart,’ he enthused. ‘You’re getting there, girl. Carte is delighted with your progress.’ Then he stood behind her where she sat at the dressing table and placed a hand on each of her shoulders, staring at her in the mirror. ‘And you? Do you miss me? Has anyone else stolen your heart?’

  ‘I can’t imagine why it is of consequence to you, Max,’ she chided gently. ‘After all, you are married to Carlotta. My love life has nothing to do with you. But yes, since you ask, I have seen Aidan, but only once. There is no one else. I keep myself to myself. It is wiser that way.’

  ‘Wiser, perhaps, but not half as much fun,’ he chuckled, his handsome face lighting up. ‘And did he treat you with respect?’

  She half turned, gazing up at him. ‘Aidan is Aidan. Nothing more and nothing less. He beats me, uses me as his slave, and I love him for it.’

  His strongly marked brows drew down in a frown. ‘I can’t understand you, Angela, but accept that this is a matter between the two of you. I am willing to enjoy what is left.’ He bent and kissed her full on the lips and she enjoyed it.

  ‘Carlotta?’ she reminded as his hands pushed aside her kimono and closed on her bare breasts.

  ‘Has gone to supper with several members of the Carl Rosa cast. She’ll be touring again soon, and so shall I.’

  ‘With her?’ Angela relaxed under his touch, almost purring with pleasure.

  ‘No, we’re off up north for the autumn season, and then there will be pantomime, of course. I’ve been offered the part of the villainous magician in Aladdin. I shall get booed and hissed and it’s quite delightful, with a standing ovation at the end of each performance.’

  Max was looking at her intently and nature had not only endowed him with a beautiful voice, but the most arresting and eloquent eyes. Angela stopped questioning his motives, or her own, as he lifted her from the stool and sat her on the dressing table, scattering the boxes of dusting powder, greasepaint sticks and jars of rouge. She did not resist as he placed a hand on each of her knees and prised them apart. She wore nothing under the kimono. She closed her eyes and leaned back on her hands and felt him stroking her inner thighs and then touching the curls that covered her mons. He caressed her slit, coaxing her to wetness.

  His trousers were open and his large member jutted forth. She supported herself on one arm and used her hand on that warm, silky-skinned object. He stood between her widespread legs and continued to rub her clitoris, easing back the little hood, leaving the tip bare, wetting his fingers with her juice and massaging it delicately, taking her to the top of the mountain and letting her fly.

  ‘Oh, Max,’ she gasped, needing this desperately.

  He pushed her back and eased her hips towards him, then thrust his cock into her and she cried out again in her extremity. Her inner muscles gripped his hugeness, the glans jarring against her womb as he gr
ipped her and pumped steadily.

  He was already close to coming and she saw his eyes glaze and felt that extra force as his semen gushed from him, filling her to the core.

  He sighed deeply and held her close, legs locked around him, his cock still sheathed in her depths. She laid her head against his chest and was filled with regrets and what-might-have-beens. If only he wasn’t married. If only Aidan hadn’t acted like a cad of the first water. But she checked these thoughts; life couldn’t be made of ‘ifs and buts’.

  ‘Shall we go to supper?’ Max asked, slipping from her and wiping his cock on a make-up towel.

  ‘You don’t have to invite me out because of what has just taken place between us,’ she said sensibly, slipping off her robe and beginning to dress. He helped her with the stay-laces, as competent as any ladies maid.

  ‘That isn’t why I asked you,’ he said, standing back to view her in her corsets. ‘I enjoy your company.’

  ‘No, my dear Max, but thank you anyway. You mustn’t make Carlotta jealous or she’ll give you hell.’

  ‘I’m willing to risk it,’ he averred with a wide grin.

  ‘No, Max,’ she repeated. ‘I have a hectic rehearsal tomorrow morning. I’m understudying for the lead soprano in the production due to open in December. I’ll take a cab back to Mrs Morrison’s and have an early night.’

  He hugged her and said, ‘I love you, Rose Trelawney.’

  She laughed at him and replied, ‘And I love you, too, Maximillian Devere, but…’

  He sobered. ‘There’s the mysterious and perverse Aidan.’

  ‘Not forgetting Carlotta,’ she said, turning it into a joke.

  ‘But we’ll always be friends, eh?’

  ‘I hope so,’ and he accompanied her to the cab rank outside and even shared one with her, dropping her off safely in Woodgreen.

  An event occurred that is the dream of every understudy. It was not a broken leg or twisted ankle that laid the lead singer low, but Mother Nature in all her wisdom deciding that this was the time when she should become pregnant. She was a respectably married woman, but nonetheless, was now troubled by morning sickness that made it impossible for her to carry on. So, as luck would have it, Angela was offered her role.

  Nothing mattered any more but putting on a first-rate performance, and she practiced and perfected her art till the first night, when the thunderous applause told her that not only was The Gondoliers an outstanding success, but that she had become a star.

  Her name and picture was in all the newspapers, on posters, in magazines and the stage door was swarming with well-placed suitors, all jostling for a glimpse of her and leaving flowers and cards that begged Rose Trelawney to accept their invitations. Angela thanked them politely but let it be known that she was something of a recluse. She had decided that she wanted nothing more to do with men; thrilled with her career and the standing it gave her.

  Carte was pleased with her progress and modesty, but did suggest that it would be wise to indulge any truly influential person who might wish her to sing at a soirée. This was always beneficial to an actress’s career, if carried out with dignity and professionalism. Angela took his advice and did just that, and very soon a duke was courting her. At the same time she heard down the grapevine that Aidan had announced his engagement to an American heiress. This news entered her heart like a poisoned barb, and she accepted the duke’s invitation to entertain his guests after the show one evening.

  He was staying in his stately town house in the West End, and sent his carriage to convey her there. It was a freezing January night and Angela wrapped herself in a fur stole. She had brought a pianist with her, and Elsie to act as chaperone. The mansion was brightly lit, distinguished guests arriving, and the door standing open with footmen ready to usher them in. Randolph, Duke of Thorndyke, grey-haired patrician and widower, greeted them in an entrance hall that was as large as a ballroom.

  As an honoured entertainer Angela was welcome by the duke, who had his butler show her and her companions to an anteroom near the music saloon. There she took off her furs and prepared herself, with Elsie fussing round her and the pianist tugging at his shirt cuffs, running a nervous finger round the inside of his stiff collar and fidgeting generally. Before long the butler came to tell them that the guests were seated and it was time to begin. Angela walked to the front of the salon under the full blaze of chandeliers. She was applauded and stood by the black grand piano, while her accompanist shuffled music and set it on the stand.

  The duke made a short announcement and a faint rain of applause met this. Angela wished the room were dark, like the theatre always was. There was just too much distraction – evening gowns that were the last word in fashion, men in uniforms and tailcoats, the flash of priceless gems and orders. They sat and stared at her and some raised their lorgnettes. She lost her nerve for a second, and then glanced at Elsie who was standing at the side, and at her stalwart pianist. When he struck up the opening chords of her first song she forgot everything except giving the best rendition she could.

  As Elsie said later, ‘You went down a storm!’

  It was true. The elite audience loved her, white-gloved hands coming together and clapping. Because the D’Oyly Carte productions were so popular they requested that she give them songs from the Gilbert and Sullivan light operas, and she was only too happy to oblige. Her nerves were steady now and her ego blossomed under their praise. She was happy and at home, leaning against the shiny piano in a beautiful new dress, its deep pink complementing the name by which she was known – Rose Trelawney.

  It was while she was beginning to give voice to one of these arias, that she saw a slight disturbance at the back of the salon as two late arrivals were shown to seats. Angela gazed to where the newcomers sat – an elegantly attired man and a rather plain but beautifully gowned and bejewelled woman – and thanked God that she was now a seasoned trouper able to carry on no matter what, for it was Aidan who was now staring at her relentlessly.

  The applause rang out when she finished and Randolph held up his hand for silence and said, ‘My thanks to Miss Trelawney. Perhaps she will be so generous as to entertain us on another occasion such as this. Now, supper is served,’ and he indicated the damask-covered trestles to one side of the room, where footmen hovered, having brought in a cold collation on silver platters. The cutlery was silver, too, and the goblets were of Waterford glass.

  Randolph offered Angela his arm and escorted her towards the tempting array. Everything was of the highest quality and she realised that she was hungry, yet dreaded approaching Aidan and his lady friend. Her progress was slow. It seemed everyone there wanted to meet her, but at last came the moment she’d been dreading; it had even occurred to her to feign a headache, make her excuses and leave.

  Too late. The duke stopped by Aidan and said, ‘So glad you could make it, Driscol, and your betrothed, too. How are you, Miss Symington? Enjoying your stay in England?’

  She dipped a curtsy, big-boned, dark-haired and, as far as Angela could judge, in her late twenties. ‘Sure, your Grace, I’m having a wonderful time,’ she gushed. ‘I just love your country. Everything is so old!’ She turned to Angela, eyes shining with admiration. ‘Your singing was angelic. I enjoyed it so much. Aidan must take me to see one of your shows.’

  ‘Of course, my love,’ he answered urbanely, and his eyes met Angela’s, amusement in their depths. ‘As my fiancée, your wish is my command.’

  ‘Permit me to introduce you,’ the duke continued, completely unaware of the undercurrents rippling through the ether. ‘Miss Rose Trelawney, meet Lord Aidan Driscol and his betrothed, Miss Penelope Symington. She is from New York.’

  Bully for her! Angela thought with a savage fury that amazed her. And for him, too. Was this the heiress he’d been seeking? God, she looked rich enough even for someone as greedy as him, but could he possibly be attracted to her? Had he fucked her yet, or whipped her, or shown her his secret vices?

  He was gallantly i
nsuring that Penelope was settled at a round table with the duke and several other notables with whom she was obviously very impressed, and that she had refreshments and a glass of champagne. Angela knew there was unfinished business between he and her, and she excused herself and made towards the ladies’ room. She did not have to look round to know that he had given Penelope some cock-and-bull story and was following her.

  The corridor was deserted and, as she reached the door he suddenly grabbed her from behind and propelled her further along till he wrenched open another, flung it wide and dragged her inside. He reached for the light switch. They were in a storeroom. There were shelves containing household equipment for the use of the servants – buckets, brooms, mops, a pile of newspapers. It smelt vaguely of cleaning fluid.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Angela hissed, furious at this cavalier treatment.

  ‘I’m about to enter you,’ he said, his teeth gleaming in the dim light of the single bare bulb.

  Her heart leapt and her treacherous body grew weak and lubricious. Even so, she put up a fight. ‘And what about Penelope?’

  He grinned wolfishly and fastened his hands round her breasts, giving her such strong sensations that she wanted to fall into his arms. ‘A nice woman… totally without malice and shrewd with it,’ he said, and nibbled her neck, sending shivers right through her. ‘She was introduced to me by a certain Mrs Smythe who specialises in flitting across the Atlantic Ocean arranging meetings between fabulously rich American heiresses and titled English gentlemen. Penny and I got on straightaway, and did a deal. We’ll marry. She’ll gain a title and her millionaire industrialist father will gain grandchildren to whom he has to give precedence when passing through doors. It will work perfectly.’

  ‘And she knows about you, does she? She’s willing to be your slave and submit to your desires?’ Angela’s heart was beating fast with anger and desire.

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ he murmured lazily, his lips traversing her throat, his fingers baring her nipples and his teeth gnawing at them painfully. ‘She will be a dutiful wife, present me with a couple of heirs and then busy herself with other things. She’ll run my household efficiently and spend much time in New York, I suspect.’