Authors: Tamara Lejeune
Abruptly, he closed the door, forced her up against
it, and kissed her, his hands buried in her thick hair.
It was a fiery, undisciplined kiss, his tongue leaping
wildly as he discovered her openness. Juliet welcomed
it, her heart beating wildly as again and again his
mouth closed over hers. When he was finished, he reluctantly released her but leaned his hands against the
door on either side of her head.
She reached up very deliberately and kissed his
mouth. Unlike his kiss, hers was gentle, savoring,
sweet. She touched his lips with the tip of her tongue.
"There is not the least need for restraint with me," she
whispered. "I'm yours if you want me."
The weakness she saw in his eyes made her feel allpowerful, irresistible. Slowly, she pulled the laces of
her ombre dress and shrugged out of it. As he
watched, stunned, the silk crumpled at her feet, and
she stood before him wearing only her white silk
drawers, stockings, and satin slippers. Her hair covered her breasts, but almost defiantly, she pushed the
long, dark curls aside ...
Even on the foggiest of London nights, there could
be no mistaking Mr. Cary Wayborn for any other
gentleman about town. In addition to a heliotrope
greatcoat with numerous capes and buttons the size
of copper pennies, Mr. Wayborn was known to wear
spectacles filled with lavender glass, high-topped
boots with silver tassels, and, most regrettably, an
aubergine tricorn hat twenty years out of fashion,
which even Miss Juliet Wayborn, his affectionate
sister, could not look upon without wincing.
It was, therefore, easy work for two shadowy underworld figures to follow that young gentleman from
his club on St. James's Street; wait until he parted company with Mr. Eustace Calverstock, his friend from the
City; then attack him from behind with short, heavy
clubs. Piccadilly was a silent trench of fog as they
dragged him into an alley and went to work.
Their victim, who was more than a bit tipsy when
the first blow cracked his skull, was unable to do anything to stop the rain of abuse that followed, being
sprawled facedown upon the cobbles in a semiconscious state. Cary's walking stick was kicked from his hand to join his hat a few feet away. His left arm was
very quickly broken, and it was only the unexpected
return of Eustace Calverstock that saved his friend's
Screaming for the Night Watch, Mr. Calverstock ran
back into the thick, woolly fog. As he approached the
scene, he heard one of the attackers unburdening
himself of a few words, delivered in a rough Cockney
accent: "There now, your honor! A present, if you like,
from my Lord Swale, and sure you'll not be driving
them chestnuts of yours to Southend in the morning!"
Giving Cary a final kick in the ribs, he followed his
cohort back into the misty stews of London, his
leisurely pace demonstrating a long familiarity with
the inefficiency of the Watch.
"Did you hear that, Stacy?" Cary cried from the
ground. Up until the moment his attacker had spoken,
Cary naturally had assumed that he had met with a pair
of footpads intent on stealing his purse and watch.
"Swale has done this! Swale!"
"He'll pay for it," Stacy Calverstock said grimly as he
helped his friend to a sitting position. The amount of
blood pouring from his friend's head was incredible.
"Don't try to talk," he advised. "Your arm is broken,
old man," he added, averting his eyes as blood always
had a most disquieting effect upon his digestion.