Ten

Jamie rested on his back, his long frame bracketed by two plump redheads, a pretty pair who looked so much alike they might have been twins. He yawned, stretched, and spread his arms wide, bringing his hands to rest on full, firm breasts. He laid there, eyes closed, a smile on his lips, as he captured nipples to his left, and his right. The girl on his left—Lucy, if he recalled—rewarded him by finding his shaft with her stubby little fingers, stroking and squeezing him back. He moaned and turned his head to kiss her partner. Daisy… Dolly? Whoever she was, she was an angel, and her intrepid little fingers joined Lucy’s, playing expertly with his scrotum and chasing all his cares away. He released plump breasts and chuckled, ruffling both their hair, pulling one and then the other to his mouth for a hot, slow kiss before guiding them down his chest and abdomen to the thrusting erection that strained and twitched for their attention. “Sweet, sweet angels,” he murmured, before losing himself in a haze of warm flesh, clever fingers, and hot seeking mouths.

Some time later, sated and already a little bored, he leaned across Dolly… or Daisy, patting her on the rump as he pulled the bell cord. “Up you get, my darlings,” he said, planting a kiss on the back of Dolly’s neck before trapping Lucy’s foot and planting one there as well.

She shrieked and kicked, laughing and giggling, “That tickles, my lord!”

He grinned and released her. They were sweet, accommodating lasses. Their tender ministrations had eased his night, letting him sleep, banishing, if only for a short while, all his troubles, but the light of day was cracking through the thickly draped window, and it must be nearly noon. His creditors would be at the doorstep soon if not already, and it was time for the girls to leave.

“Ah, Sullivan! Good day to you. Ladies, this is my man Sullivan. There’s no finer fellow in all of London. Sullivan, would you be so kind as to have Cook send us some chocolate? Oh, and bring me my purse if you please.”

Lucy squealed and clapped her hands with excitement. “Chocolate, my lord? They say it’s wondrous good!”

“Aye, bloody marvelous is what I’ve heard,” Dolly chimed in. “Never tried it, though. It’s only the quality can afford that.”

“Well, my dears, it’s criminal ladies as wondrous fair as your sweet selves have never tried it. Have no fear, we shall soon set all to rights,” Jamie said, rising from the bed.

“Milord, if you please! Put some clothing on! I’ve no mind to watch your private bits dangling about. The ladies may not object, but I most certainly do,” Sullivan huffed as he returned with the purse.

Jamie leaned into Dolly’s shoulder. “He’s Irish, my dear, up from the country and a prude. Pay him no mind. Hand me my breeches, will you, love?”

Giggling, Dolly handed him his breeches and he hopped over to the fauteuil, pulling them on as the ladies searched for their discarded dresses and hose. They hurried over to join him by the fire, squealing with excitement when a footman arrived with an ornate chocolate pot and elegant porcelain cups. It was an unheard-of luxury to them, and they crowded around Jamie, leaning over his shoulders in awe and delight as they watched him prepare it and pour.

“Ladies?” he said, offering a delicate cup to one and then the other. “This is a magical beverage brewed for a mighty God of fertility on the far side of the world. Only the richest and most favored there may drink it. Savor it, my loves. Sip it like so, and enjoy its aroma as well as its flavor.” He showed them how, and they gravely followed suit, gasping in astonished pleasure.

“Oh, my lord, ’tis better than anything! It’s even better than fucking!”

“For shame, girls! It might be better than coupling with the dour Mr. Sullivan, but surely not with me,” he said, pretending to be affronted and sending them into gales of laughter. “Sullivan? Would you care to join us?”

“Er… no thank you, milord,” Sullivan said, eyeing Jamie’s bounteous half-clad companions and backing away.

Jamie took his time with his chocolate, teasing his companions and enjoying their obvious pleasure and excitement as they savored the unexpected treat. When they were finished, he tossed them the purse and they scrambled for it, wrestling and giggling.

“Thank you, ladies, for your gracious company. I do apologize for cutting our visit short, but I’ve a great deal to attend to, I’m afraid. Mr. Sullivan? Would you kindly take the young ladies to the kitchen for a meal? I can attest to their appetite.”

“Of course, milord.”

“Thank you, and when they’ve finished please arrange a carriage to take them home. Ladies?” he said, bowing and taking their hands one by one for a lingering kiss. “Adieu.”

Starry-eyed and blushing, they followed Mr. Sullivan from the room.

Jamie watched them leave, then closed his eyes and sighed. He felt bored, restless, and tired, all at the same time. He should have let them stay to wile away the afternoon. They’d not have minded. They would have been glad for it. But he was in a foul mood and he hadn’t the patience to be kind, nor the inclination to be cruel. He finished dressing, went to the mantel, stirred the fire, and poured himself a drink. Sitting down, he crossed booted feet against the windowsill and tossed the brandy back.

“Rather early for that isn’t it, sir?”

“A pox on you, Sullivan. Mind your own business.”

“You are my business, sir. The… ladies… have left.”

“Yes? So? What of it? You have something to say? Spit it out, man.”

“Very well. How is it you can afford to be so generous to these young women when you cannot settle the household accounts?”

“What? Have I forgotten to pay the staff again? Have no fear. I’ll be in funds again this evening.”

“That’s not the point, milord.”

“Then what exactly is the point? I’m losing patience.”

“A carriage? Chocolate, breakfast, and a purse? These are luxuries we can ill afford, milord. Yet you bestow them on strumpets, treating them as if they were the finest ladies of the court.”

“Good Christ, man! Since when do I need to justify myself to you or anyone else? Do you begrudge them the chocolate? You saw how pleased they were. They’re good-hearted lasses, their life is hard, and it’s likely the first and only time they’ll enjoy such a treat.”

“It’s the purse I begrudge, milord! It’s not you who’ll be turning creditors from the door all day. It’s not you who has to go to the market or tell the servants they must wait for their pay. You gave then two guineas, milord!”

“Ah… did I? Well, you’re right then, Sullivan. It was far too much. Why didn’t you say something sooner? You might have warned me. Isn’t that your job?”

“If you will excuse me, milord.”

“Don’t scamper off in a snit. You’re worse than a wife with her courses! I shall be in funds tonight. Enough to settle the household accounts at least, and pay you and the staff.”

“You’ll play cards then, milord,” Sullivan said with marked disapproval.

“Yes, I will, and then I’ll play with the lovely Lady Beaton.”

“And what if you lose, milord? There was never a bad situation that couldn’t be made worse.”

“Damn it, man, I won’t lose!” Jamie growled, finally losing his patience. “And if I wanted Granny O’Sullivan’s advice I’d have kept her here in London. What do you suggest I do? My ever-loving sire left me properties without the funds to manage them, and my king has turned his back on me, stripped me of my commission, and forbidden me the court. Would you have me join Gervaise and his men and traipse about Europe killing and maiming? Because I promise you, the thought grows more appealing by the day!”

“You might beg an audience with the king, milord. If you present yourself humbly and explain the circumstances he—”

“Enough, Sullivan! You go too far! I’ll not be lectured on humility by a stiff-necked Irish rebel who’d have hanged with his poor old mother rather than bend the knee! You’ve no talent for it yourself, so don’t be thinking to teach it to others, and try to remember you’re my servant, not my schoolmaster!”

“I most humbly beg your pardon, milord,” Sullivan replied with a sniff and an exaggerated bow. “It’s still a great pity you’re not free to marry the heiress he chose.”

“As opposed to my Scottish wife, Kieran? She was a waspish little ragamuffin, wasn’t she? But I confess I found myself somewhat taken with her.”

“I’ve never known you not to be taken with a young lady, and as I recall she was not a little thing but rather more of an Amazon.”

“Oh, well, perhaps you’re right. At least she would have seemed so to you. In any case, it was deuced uncivil of her to have me bashed on the head and trundled away like some press-ganged sot.”

“Indeed, milord, a proper lady would have waited meekly for you to abduct her.”

“One doesn’t abduct one’s own wife, one retrieves her. She is in effect my property now, mine to command.”

“It might have been useful, milord, had you found fit to share that with her. Better half hanged than ill married, as they say back home.”

“As always, Sullivan, I’m deeply indebted to you for your wise and pithy comments, but I don’t need you to remind me. Shall I hire an army and go to collect her? Hire a witch to curse her to death and make myself a widower? Perhaps send her a gift of poisoned gloves or sweets? What would you have me do? If you’ve no practical suggestions, might I suggest you find some suitable task with which to occupy yourself so I’m reminded just why it is I’m supposed to pay you?”

Waving Sullivan away, Jamie slouched down comfortably, threw back his drink, and tossed the glass in the fireplace. Something else for Sullivan to wring his hands over as he tried to prevent his errant charge from going to hell. He was too late though. If any place was hell it had to be the endless succession of dreary days in the choked air, filth, and tedium that was London. Jamie had been to heaven once or twice, though, for a fleeting second, in the warm and willing embrace of one of his whores. A pox on Sullivan and his miser’s ways! They deserved their chocolate if only for that.

He’d always had a soft spot for serving maids and strumpets. They’d been his only source of comfort and affection as a child. It was the cook who’d told him stories, the washerwoman who bandaged his knee, and the maidservants who hugged him when he’d felt frightened and alone. As he grew, some offered comfort in other ways. At fourteen, when he’d been caught in the stables with a maid who warmed his father’s bed, he’d suffered a vicious whipping without flinching or making a sound. He’d stared straight ahead, his eyes black with hatred and contempt, but when his father turned the whip upon the girl, he’d torn it from his hands, thrashing him until he begged for mercy on the ground. The man had never raised a whip or fist to him again. It was years in the past, but the memories remained as clear as if they’d happened yesterday.

He’d been sent to school immediately after that. It was nearly as savage as his home, but he’d grown up tough and resilient and he’d thrived. Unlike most of his friends who devoted themselves to the pleasures of drink and fucking, he’d been captivated by his studies and the world of ideas. Enthralled with the philosophy of John Locke, he joined in impassioned discussions in taverns and in coffee houses, excitedly arguing that a man should use evidence and his own reason to search for truth, rather than accept the pronouncements of family, church, and state. It bordered on sedition, smacked of heresy, and was heady stuff to a cynical, angry youth who had to defy his father’s judgment or accept himself as something misbegotten and of little worth. His friends mouthed the words, but he’d lived them and used them to cut himself free.

Hated by his sire and abandoned by his dam, he’d left to try his fortunes in the court of the restored King Charles II, where men like Sedly, Buckingham, Rochester, and Charles himself, set a glorious example of sin and dissipation no callow youth could ever hope to match. He’d done his best, though, trying to make a mark in a court and an age where treachery and adultery were the fashion, and cynicism, cruelty, and barbed wit were the qualities most admired. He played at intrigue, cards, and mistresses, and when his father disowned him, he made himself useful to both the king and his younger brother, the Duke of York, playing at soldier, diplomat, and spy.

He acquitted himself well, made a name for himself in mercenary engagements, and showed he could be trusted with delicate matters concerning England’s dealings with the Netherlands, France, and Spain. He’d proven himself useful in matters of internal security as well, and five years ago, after a plot to assassinate the royal brothers on their way home from the races ended before it began, Charles named him Earl of Carrick and rewarded him with an Irish estate that had once belonged to Sullivan.

Though the principal conspirators were minor figures, Charles used the incident to dispose of several of his enemies in the Whig party, including its leaders, Lord Russell and Algernon Sidney. Even John Locke, with his questionable views, was dragged into the net, though he heeded a friendly warning and escaped to Holland. Of those arrested, only Charles’s bastard son, Monmouth, the congenital conspirer, had been allowed to wriggle free.

The whole business had left a foul taste in Jamie’s mouth and led to a growing disenchantment with Charles, the Stuarts, and kings and politics in general, but it hadn’t stopped him from accepting the reward. Charles was tight-fisted with everyone but his family and his mistresses, and it was the only tangible reward from him Jamie was likely to get. It didn’t help that Kieran O’Sullivan was one of the few truly principled men he’d met. He’d made him his steward, leaving him to manage and care for the people and property that had once been his.

When Jamie’s older half-brother died suddenly, followed by his father less than a year later, he’d become Earl of Carlyle, too. He couldn’t help but smile at the thought that his father’s worst nightmare had come to pass. The demon seed, the bastard son his wife had foisted upon him as she cuckolded him over and over, had inherited it all.

He’d thought he didn’t need the Irish properties anymore, and he’d entered into an arrangement with Sullivan, keeping half the income and leasing him and his future heirs the lands in perpetuity for one pound. He’d slept a far sight better at night, and when he’d learned his vindictive father had left him mortgaged properties, crushing debts, and no funds, he hadn’t worried overmuch. He was young and strong and the future looked bright. He began a small breeding operation with Sullivan’s Irish mares and a champion stud he’d acquired from Charles, and when the man died almost two years ago, he’d continued to serve the Stuart cause.

He’d taken pains to maintain good relations with both Charles’s Catholic brother and his Protestant bastard son, but he knew the Duke of Monmouth was rash and ambitious, and he’d stood well to the side when, three months after his uncle James ascended the throne, Monmouth raised an army and declared himself king. James wasn’t the sentimental sort. Nephew or no, the duke’s handsome head had rolled, coming to a stop as a decoration atop Tower Bridge. Though it took several swings of the axe to accomplish the task, the duke was more fortunate than his followers, many of whom had their guts ripped out and their bodies quartered before their heads joined him there.

Jamie had chosen correctly. A quick conversion to Catholicism and his star was on the rise again. He’d made himself as useful to the new king as he’d been to his brother. He served and charmed and maintained a presence at court, and the king, anxious to build and strengthen his Catholic support, had sponsored a match that would provide him with the funds he needed to secure his position and his lands. He’d been so close.

And then the mouse had come along and he’d made a terrible mistake. By marrying the girl, he’d ruined himself. After his bride had disposed of him so precipitously, he’d returned to London to find Father Francis and Gervaise had been stirring up trouble with the king. Father Francis had trumpeted to all and sundry that he’d mocked the king’s gift of an heiress by marrying a battlefield whore as a drunken prank, in a ceremony that had been witnessed, consummated, and was valid in the eyes of the church. Gervaise had accused him of abandoning his post to chase after her.

He’d defended himself strenuously, arguing that the girl was well bred one of His Majesties loyal subjects whose family was useful to the king. He maintained he’d been protecting her the only way he could, but his protest had fallen on deaf ears, and without her presence to show them, his cause was lost. Despite his best efforts, hard work, and years of loyal service to the Stuart cause, his erstwhile patron was inclined to believe the worst. The king turned his back, withdrew his favor, and Jamie was no longer welcome at court. He was suspect now—at best a disreputable lout who’d behaved irresponsibly, failing in his commission and insulting his king, at worst a rebel sympathizer, and either way, a fool.

He might have groveled and begged, pleading his case and reminding the king of his past service. He knew it was expected, and given his usefulness he might have been forgiven, but he was far too proud. And so he sat, abandoned and disgraced, exiled from the glittering court that had been his livelihood and promised him a future. There’d be no quick and easy annulment, no rich heiress, and no further commissions or postings from His Majesty James II.

Well, that was almost a year ago. With a useless wife and an unforgiving monarch, rich mistresses and cards were among the few sources of reliable income he had left, unless he wished to return to selling his sword on the continent, a thought that grew more appealing by the day. He still had hopes for his stable, though. His old drinking partner, Buckingham, had sent two of his mares to be covered, and where Buckingham went, others would follow. He allowed his mistresses to give him gifts and settle some of his debts, a time-honored tradition amongst the young gallants of London, and he invested every penny he could in his horses.

Jamie shifted in his seat and looked out the window. The afternoon was almost gone. The dark would be descending on him soon. He rose and poured himself another drink. The fire had gone out and a dank chill permeated the room. He considered calling Sullivan, but decided against it, not wanting another lecture about chocolate and whores and the price of coal. Besides, he was rather enjoying feeling sorry for himself while sitting in the dark. The last time he’d done so was in that blasted cave in the north of Scotland, with his prickly ragamuffin wife.

He ran his fingers lightly over his nose, tracing the bridge and feeling the slight indent with a wry chuckle. Better half hanged than an ill wife. It was she who’d brought him to this pass. Catherine… Cat… hellcat… She’d been a ferocious armful, his little mouse, with her feline eyes, her knife and sword, and her sharp little teeth. He dreamt of her sometimes. Dreamt she was tight beside him, silky smooth and as sweet and delicious as the hot whiskey and honey drink she’d fed him. It was hard to remain annoyed with her when he had dreams like that.

He grinned and tossed back his drink. The jade had been quicker than he was, he’d give her that. Clever girl, she’d beaten him fair and square, tossing him out on his arse before he could plan her abduction… before he could even stand! He lifted his glass in a silent toast. Long life and good health to you wherever you are, Cat Drummond. There’s never been a man or a woman to cozen Jamie Sinclair as neat and as thorough as you did. Ah, well. She’d proved entertaining and his admiration was genuine. It was too damned bad that the things that afforded him amusement were always so bad for his health.