BY HIS COMMAND
Justine Elyot
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
More from Mischief
About Mischief
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter One
‘I’m sorry, but you really mustn’t touch the rocking horse. I know it’s beautiful, but if everyone who wants to gets their hands on it, it will soon fall to pieces.’
A nine-year-old girl in a beret stepped back, disappointment written over her face.
I felt sorry for her, but what else could I do? The Victorian House Museum had to operate a strict no-touching policy or the curious little fingers of twenty-first-century children would ruin the legacy of their nineteenth-century counterparts.
I waited a few minutes until the group had had their fill of the dolls’ house and the lead-painted soldiers, then took my place at the doorway.
‘So that’s the nursery,’ I said. ‘And now I expect you’re wondering where the bathroom is? Well, I’ve got something a little bit shocking to tell you. Victorian houses didn’t have bathrooms.’
The predictable chorus of ‘No way!’, ‘Gross!’ and its traditional accompaniment of vomiting noises was like an old friend.
‘We take plumbing for granted nowadays.’ I spoke over the dying protestations. ‘But when a Victorian person wanted a bath, they had to boil up the water, just as we boil a kettle, and pour it into a tub – usually in the kitchen or, if you were posh, the bedroom.’
‘So they did wash then?’ The bereted girl’s tone was dubious.
‘Oh, yes. But a proper bath wasn’t as regular an occurrence as it probably is in your life. As for the toilet …’
I grinned. This was always every school party’s favourite subject. Discussion of Victorian waste disposal took us back down the stairs and out through the hall until we were in the backyard with the coal-hole and the privy.
I let them run amok out there for a few minutes, the more sensitive flowers screeching about spiders while the sturdier plants teased them, until their teacher decided it was time to put a lid on their exuberance and lead them to the picnic area for lunch.
They were lucky. The late October day had not brought the threatened rain, although a gusty wind was whipping up even as they ran to the clearing, scarves flying, football-themed lunchboxes swinging from their hands.
‘Thank you,’ the teacher said before hurrying along in their wake. ‘That was really interesting. It makes such a difference to their level of enthusiasm when they’ve seen the past brought to life like this.’
‘No problem,’ I said, smiling after her, partly from pleasure at the compliment but mainly because I wasn’t the one having to herd her charges into some semblance of order.
I went back inside the house where June, Rob and Lucy were changing out of their Victorian gear back into student fatigues. One of the great draws of the Victorian House Museum, setting it apart from its competitors, was its dramatic renditions of Victorian life – a supper for two, the maid dashing about in the kitchen, a discussion of the Queen’s Golden Jubilee in the drawing room.
Rob tore off his fancy-dress-shop mutton chops and passed a hand across his reddened skin.
‘Ouch, again,’ he said.
‘You should just grow a pair,’ I suggested.
‘Yeah, cos that wouldn’t make me the object of mockery, would it?’
‘Say you’re a big fan of Bradley Wiggins.’
‘Yeah, yeah. Sarah …’
His voice lowered and I began to regret entering into this conversation. I thought I could sense what was coming next.
‘Robert?’
‘I don’t suppose you’re free tonight, are you? There’s a film I fancied seeing, but I don’t want to go on my own, like a sad case.’
‘Sorry, mate,’ I said, biting the inside of my lip. ‘I’ve got other plans.’
‘There is a man, isn’t there?’ Lucy’s light, musical tones joined in. ‘Or a woman? Go on, Sarah, tell us. You’re such a dark horse. You’ve been here three weeks and none of us knows anything about you.’
‘Is it a woman?’ asked Rob, perking up as if this might be the perfect explanation for my serial rebuffing of him.
‘No, it’s … nothing. OK then. All right. I’ll come to the cinema with you. But it’s not a date.’
Rob clapped his hands and so did Lucy.
‘No, of course not, not a date,’ he said. ‘Pizza afterwards?’
‘Whatever. I’m easy.’
He winked a hope so kind of wink at Lucy, who giggled back at him.
‘I’ll meet you at the multiplex, then,’ I said, desperate to get away now for some reason. My heart was pounding and my throat had closed up.
‘Yeah – sevenish?’
I nodded, unable to say any more, and escaped up the stairs.
This is not a date. It’s not infidelity. It’s just called having a life. He wouldn’t object to that, would he?
In the Victorian master bedroom, I sat down – against the rules, but I was a bit beyond caring – in the frilly, flouncy pink armchair by the dressing table.
I shut my eyes and took a deep breath, the smell of old fabrics and mothballs calming my senses. I loved this room. I even loved its name. ‘Victorian master bedroom’. It reminded me of Jasper and the heady, intense summer we had shared.
Jasper Jay. My lover, my master, my addiction.
But he had stayed in France while I came back here to take up my new job at the museum.
He would be wrapping up filming any time now and there would be parties, perhaps on the beach in Nice where we had spent three glorious September weeks. What a different world that had been, waking up in the villa at whatever hour of the morning, wound up in sheets, Jasper already at the set hours before. I would mooch and eat fruit and drink sparkling water and swim in the pool and wait for him.
He was always worth waiting for.
I got up and toyed with some of the items on the dresser. I picked up the heavy silver-backed hairbrush and thought of Jasper brushing my hair with it. Or perhaps he would find another use … no, scratch that. He would definitely find another use for it. My bottom clenched at the mere thought.
I picked up the cut-glass perfume bottle and squeezed the tasselled bulb, spraying lily-of-the-valley scent on to my wrist. Not hundreds of years old – we refilled the bottle on a weekly basis. Jasper smelled of Russian leather and spices. To fill my nostrils with that again … oh, just the memory of it sent me back to the chair, my knees shaky with sensual longing.
When would I hear from him again?
After I left France, we had Skyped several times a day in the first week, then the frequency had declined, bit by bit, until now the last communication was some days ago. I’d made allowances for the mad dash to wrap up filming on schedule – after all, he’d already had to factor in one serious delay when his star broke his leg – but even so … four days.
I should be glad of the opportunity to experience life as a Victorian girl would; having to wait for the post to hear news of her sweetheart. How awful it must have been for them, especially with lovers and husbands at the front of some war. It was pathetic of me to pine over four days without a Skype call or text. Honestly, Sarah. Get a grip.
I could hear the others’ chat and laughter, muffled, from downstairs, then the doorbell jangled.
I opened my eyes. We didn’t have any other parties bo
oked in, as far as I knew, until well after lunch. Had the office staff forgotten to add one?
Rob answered the door. I couldn’t quite make out what he said but it was something to do with the next performance being at three.
The responding male voice made me shoot to my feet. It sounded like …
I heard my name mentioned.
I had to grab hold of the chair arm.
‘She’s upstairs … hey, don’t I know you from somewhere?’
Footsteps, creaks on the stairs.
I ran to the pier glass and tried to ensure that I looked halfway presentable in this stupid Victorian ruffled dress with a bustle attached to my backside. Honestly, talk about an impractical uniform!
Breathe, Sarah, breathe. Don’t faint. I wasn’t wearing an actual corset, but I had a pretty tight Lycra girdle around my waist, to make the dress look properly period, and I was reminded of it now as I fought to swallow my gasps.
I wasn’t going to let him surprise me. I would go to him.
I strode over to the bedroom door and swung it open. He was there, right before me. It was him.
Now what?
‘Oh,’ I said, and my crushed ribcage and wobbly legs and panicking breath and fizzing head closed in on me, a wall of blackness rising up and taking me over, away, away …
‘You can take role-playing too far, you know.’
I opened my eyes and saw, through a blur of coloured spots, Jasper’s face close to mine while he dabbed a cool, scented handkerchief across my brow.
‘Mm hmm?’
I wasn’t sure where I was but I thought it was the sofa in the best drawing room. If Colin caught us on it … The idea was too irrelevant to take root. I had far more pressing ones swirling round and about.
‘Just because you’re dressed like a Victorian lady, you don’t have to go getting fits of the vapours,’ he said.
‘I …’ I tried to sit up. Jasper’s arm was tight around me and I couldn’t. ‘Why?’
‘I’m sorry?’
I tried again, but my mouth was dry and my lips too quivery to work effectively. ‘Why? Are you? What? Here? Why?’
He fumbled in a bag and took out a bottle of water.
‘Here,’ he said, uncapping it and putting it to my lips. ‘You need to drink.’
I swallowed a few gulps and felt the stirrings of revival. Better than sal volatile.
‘Why didn’t you email? Or text? Or anything?’ I demanded, able now to struggle to an upright position against the tension of Jasper’s arm.
‘Sorry, work’s been absolutely manic. Besides, I wanted to surprise you.’
‘Surprises are overrated.’
‘Oh, no, no, no,’ he tutted. ‘You don’t mean that.’
I could see where I was now. It was the best drawing room and Rob and Lucy were lurking in a corner as if ready to dash for first-aid assistance.
‘She’s fine,’ Jasper said to them. ‘You don’t need to hang around. But thank you.’
Rob hesitated, but Lucy dragged him away by the elbow.
I groaned and hid my face in Jasper’s shoulder.
‘I’m going to get fired,’ I wailed. ‘My dream first job and I lasted three weeks.’
‘Don’t be daft. They can’t fire you for fainting, especially when they make you wear … are you wearing a corset?’
He prodded my stomach. I could tell by the way his breathing deepened that he was starting to feel turned on.
‘No,’ I said. ‘Sorry to disappoint but, as you said, you can take role-playing too far. Damaging my ribcage and crushing my lungs on a daily basis didn’t appeal.’
‘I’ll get you into a corset,’ he said. ‘Just you see if I don’t.’
I removed my face from his jacket lapel and tilted it to meet his eyes.
‘Is that a threat or a promise?’
‘Both.’
Looking into his eyes was a bad mistake. How on earth was I supposed to …?
There were things I ought to do. Think? Was that one of them? Or … breathe?
Kiss. Yes, of course, it was obvious. I was supposed to kiss. There wasn’t anything else I could do.
And there it was again, Russian leather, spice, some kind of vintage aftershave, coiling into me and binding my senses to it. I had lain awake night after night trying to capture this feeling, but when it came it was so much bigger and denser and more all-consuming than any memory.
And something had been missing from my memory, something that came right back to the forefront of my mind within seconds of our lips locking. I had tried to remember the feel of it, the smell of it, the all-enveloping nature of it, and had some success, especially in my dreams. But I had forgotten the pulse of uncertainty that beat through the sensation. What’s going to happen next?
Because that was the one thing you could never know, not when you were with Jasper Jay.
In the sensual rapture of it all, I lost my grip on where we were and who I was and what I was supposed to be doing until the sound of a footfall on the gravel outside the window reminded me.
I pinched his cheek, and the surprise of it ended our kiss and made him frown rather thrillingly down at me. He’d get me for that later. Not now, though, because now was in working hours.
‘I think the boss is outside,’ I whispered.
‘No, the boss is inside,’ he answered without missing a beat. I flapped a hand at his shoulder.
‘You know what I mean. He won’t be happy to catch me with a personal visitor.’
‘So?’
‘So let me up.’ I tried to wrench myself out of Jasper’s grasp but he wasn’t having it.
To my considerable horror, he laid me flat on the sofa and hovered over me, a menacing leer on his face, so close to mine that it blurred.
‘Jasper,’ I squeaked, and the door opened.
‘I do beg your pardon.’ Colin Cutts’ voice was frosty to say the least. ‘I seem to be interrupting something.’
‘Oh, don’t apologise.’ Jasper’s tone was airy. He straightened himself and stood, holding out a hand for Colin to shake.
I remained in my supine position, unable to think of anything to say or do that might improve this situation.
‘Sarah?’ Colin looked between me and Jasper, apparently at a loss.
‘Yes, you did interrupt something, but it doesn’t matter,’ said Jasper. ‘I was working on blocking a scene, you see. Trying to establish where I need my actors to be and how they should move.’
‘Blocking a scene?’ echoed Colin.
‘Yes. I’m so sorry. I haven’t introduced myself, have I? Sometimes I get a little above myself and expect to be recognised, which is terribly arrogant, I know.’ He produced a card from his inner jacket pocket and handed it over. ‘Jasper Jay.’
‘The director?’ said Colin, turning the card over in his fingers.
‘That’s right. Sarah and I are … good friends … and when she told me she was working here, I decided to come and visit, for location scouting purposes.’
Colin’s ears pricked up at this.
‘Really?’
‘Yes. I’m working on a Victorian-set project and I need authentic period locations. This would be absolutely perfect … of course, you’d have to put it to your trustees …’
‘Why don’t you step into my office, Mr Jay? I’d be very interested in discussing this further with you.’
‘Of course.’
I watched, barely able to comprehend how the hell Jasper pulled this one off, as the two men left me to my own devices on the chaise longue and disappeared to the reception area.
I was grateful of the opportunity to catch my breath, for all sorts of reasons, but one really stood out from the crowd.
Jasper was back.
Jasper was back and he still wanted me.
Did I still want him?
My body thought it knew the answer to that one.
I paced about the room, unable to keep still until I saw Jasper emerge from the reception build
ing and run over to the Victorian house. I went outside to intercept him. He was wreathed in scintillating smiles.
‘What have you made poor Colin agree to?’ I asked, once he was within earshot.
‘He’s going to lend me the Victorian house every evening until Christmas,’ he said.
‘So you really are making a costume drama? That wasn’t a fib?’
‘Are you calling me a liar, Ms Wells?’ His voice was low in his throat and he took hold of my fingers and squeezed them before returning to dazzling-beam mode. ‘Actually, I haven’t decided. I might well do. There’s a script that interests me.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. And it’s quite a racy one, although I haven’t told your man that. I thought that you and I could spend a few evenings … going through it …’
My jaw dropped.
‘You mean you’ve talked Mr Cutts into letting you turn the museum into your private depraved Victorian sex den?’
He laughed.
‘Exactly. We start tonight. Just me and you – and perhaps I might bring along my box of tricks. What do you think?’
‘I think you’ve got the nerve of the devil,’ I said.
‘That’s not all,’ he whispered into my ear.
* * *
Rob was not best pleased at losing his cinema companion but I think he accepted that he stood slightly less than no chance against Jasper Jay. I had to spend a wearying afternoon fielding endless questions about Jasper and our relationship, not quite knowing whether I should present us as a couple or keep it to myself.
In the end, I opted for the latter, explaining the official version of the story, which was that I’d spent the summer cataloguing his collection of antiques and we had become friends, bonding over our love of a finely turned rosewood table leg.
I don’t think anybody believed me, but it didn’t really matter what they believed.
What mattered was that it was eight o’clock and I was here, alone with Jasper; Cutts having entrusted me with the museum keys after cautioning me to keep an eye on our film director friend and make sure nothing got broken.
‘So, where do you want to start?’ I asked. I was wearing jeans and a fleece, having been home in the interim, and he was similarly dressed.
‘Where’s the dressing-up box?’ he asked.
By His Command Page 1
