Authors: Lulu Taylor
‘This way,’ she said quietly, steering Ali through the double doors at the far end of the ballroom and out into the hall. She opened the door into another large room. ‘The drawing room,’ she announced, letting him pass her. Ali handed her one of the champagne glasses. ‘Thank you.’
They chinked flutes, their eyes meeting as they sipped from the cool crystal.
Jemima broke the silence. ‘After Daddy died, Mother did a little bit of redecorating, so you must excuse her rather Madame de Pompadour style. She was very fond of eau-de-Nil silk and porcelain snuff boxes. Bit too chi-chi for me.’
The drawing room was almost aggressively feminine, with tables draped in taffeta and covered in ornaments, cut glass and silver-framed photographs. The furniture was mostly eighteenth-century antiques with two ormolu cabinets taking pride of place. Somewhat out of place was the modern armchair, a pile of
Country Life
magazines stacked on the floor next to it, that stood beside a startlingly new white lamp. Jemima remembered how her mother had liked the way it directed its strong beam right on to the book or magazine she was reading at the time.
‘We didn’t use this room much. It’s too big really. We girls spent most of our time in the back sitting room. It always felt so cosy.’
‘The back sitting room.’ Ali raised his eyebrows.
‘There or the nursery. We had a television in the nursery, and our nanny would light the fire on cold winter afternoons and let us make toast on it. Have you ever toasted bread over an open fire? It’s just delicious.’ Jemima smiled. ‘I’d like to do that again one day. I can’t think why I haven’t.’
‘Maybe it’s because a toaster is just that bit more efficient.’ Ali ran his fingers over one of her mother’s favourite Meissen shepherdesses.
‘Maybe. But where’s the romance in that? Come on.’ She led him back to the hall and opened the door to the dining room. ‘Only used for Sundays and Christmas after Daddy died.’ Ali went in and walked slowly around the vast polished oak table. ‘It does look impressive when the silver is out and the candles are lit, I must admit. That’s the Stubbs there, over the
dresser.
Known as “the horsey picture” when we were children, but apparently it’s one of the finest examples of his work.’
Ali looked round at her, almost frowning. ‘You know, when I was a boy, I thought only the Queen lived like this. I didn’t imagine that ordinary people could or would.’
‘Funny, isn’t it?’ she replied carelessly. ‘Everyone I know does.’
They looked into the library and the study. Then they returned to the hall. Jemima stopped him in a dark corner by a green baize door.
‘I won’t show you the kitchen, they’ll be manic in there at the moment.’
‘What about the upstairs rooms? I was hoping for the
full
tour.’ Ali leaned in to take her empty glass, stroking the back of her hand as he did so.
Jemima dropped her voice to a husky whisper. ‘Actually, there’s one more room downstairs I’d like to show you first.’
‘Yes? Where?’
‘Here,’ she purred, and pushed open the door behind him, startling him by thrusting him backwards into the darkness.
‘Where are we?’ he asked as she entered the room and pushed the door closed behind them.
She tugged the light pull and revealed what was the downstairs loo, a large room wallpapered in red damask and with heavy green velvet curtains closed at the window. The walls were covered in family photographs and old prints and the lavatory itself was built
into
a vast wooden bench that ran along the length of the far wall, so that it looked like a throne.
‘Jesus.’ Ali gasped. ‘Even the bog is the size of my bedroom.’
‘Funny you should say that, darling.’ Jemima pulled at the light again, plunging the room back into darkness. She heard the clink of their champagne flutes as Ali put them down. Then the sound of his breath coming closer and harder. She curled her arms up round his neck, pushing him back against the wall. He moaned appreciatively. ‘I thought we might get to know each other a little better,’ she breathed.
Jemima pressed her mouth up against his, feeling the scrape of stubble against her face. He responded immediately, as hungry for her as she was for him. They kissed fiercely and deeply. He tasted of champagne and the faint mild tang of cigarette smoke.
She felt him bulging against her, a sensation that made her tighten with anticipation and she felt her own rush of arousal. He pressed his hand up to her breasts and she quickly unbuttoned the front of her jacket to allow him access to her. She sighed as he touched the lace on her bra and then slid a cool finger inside to rub a nipple.
She returned to his mouth, attacking his tongue with hers, pushing deeper into him. Excitement bubbled up through her at the pleasure he was giving her as he teased her breasts and also at the illicit nature of their activity. She loved this: the handsome stranger, seduced by her beauty, ravished by her directness and as thrilled as she was by the naughtiness of
their
situation. She loved the way they were both clothed, reaching only for what they needed of each other, and the sense of urgency and desperation, the animal need that lay beneath their smart clothes and civilised exteriors.
She reached for his groin, pulling his trousers open with a practised flick and releasing his cock, which was iron hard and throbbing with heat.
‘I hate to do this,’ she murmured, ‘but …’
From an inner pocket in her skirt, she quickly removed a tiny foil packet and ripped it open with her teeth. In one swift movement, she took the condom out and rolled it swiftly down, sheathing him.
‘And here I was, thinking how delightfully unplanned this was,’ Ali teased.
‘I’m always prepared, darling. I like risks – but not
that
much.’ She kissed him again and then gasped as he clasped her round the bottom, picked her up and turned her round so that she was against the wall. Then, as he held her with one arm, he reached down, yanked up her skirt and felt for her panties. There was nothing there.
‘You see … always prepared … Oh God …’ She sighed and moaned softly as he pushed into her with his fingers, rubbing at her with the pad of his thumb. A moment later he took his hand away and she felt the hard head of his penis pushing against her and then the delightful sensation as he entered her, filling her completely, pushing her back up against the wall as he thrust strongly into her.
She panted as they began to move together, finding
a
rhythm that maximised their pleasure. ‘Keep doing that … Yes, just like that. Oh … my …
God
.’ She pulled in to squeeze him tightly as he reached the peak of his thrust, making him kiss her deeply. He broke away to bite at her neck and shoulders, overcome by the sensations she was giving him.
Their speed increased as he pounded into her and she bumped against the wall, dislodging some family photographs that fell to the floor. She was barely aware of it, knowing only the waves of pleasure that were building up inside her, pushing her towards the brink, and that Ali was going with her …
A moment later and they were both gripped by climax, Ali first and Jemima quickly following, propelled over the edge into a spasm of delight by the knowledge that he was coming.
He was still inside her when they heard the voice getting closer.
‘Jemima? Jemima, where are you?’
‘Oh Christ.’ Jemima pushed Ali away and pulled her blouse back together. ‘It’s my sister.’ She began to put her clothes in order as she shouted, ‘I’m in the loo, Tara. What is it?’
‘I’ve been looking for you.’ Tara came up to the door and called through it. ‘We’re being summoned to the library. The lawyers want to read Mother’s will.’
‘All right, all right, I’m coming. Give me five minutes.’
‘We’ll see you there.’
They heard Tara walk off down the corridor. They looked at each other in the gloom, their eyes now adjusted to the darkness.
‘Thanks so much,’ Jemima said with a smile. ‘That was exactly what I needed. Now, I hate to be rude, but I really must dash.’
Ali had already tidied himself up and was smoothing his hair and reknotting his tie. ‘Not at all. I’ve got to hurry myself.’
‘Yes, I meant to ask. Who are you, exactly?’
‘Me? No one important.’
‘Then why are you here?’
He grinned at her. ‘You’ll find out, your ladyship. Now, if you’ll excuse me. My guess is that we’d better not to be seen leaving together so I’ll slip out now. And thank you. It was a pleasure all the sweeter for being so unexpected.’
Then he opened the door and was gone.
Jemima opened the curtains and went to the mirror. Even in the grey daylight that lit the room, she looked flushed and her eyes were bright. She tidied herself up as best she could without her bag of tricks to hand, and smoothed her hair. At least she was a little more presentable. She knew she was considered the beauty of the family. She hadn’t been much to look at as a child but she’d grown into her looks. Now, in her late twenties, she was at her peak: a soft pink-and-white complexion, wide-spaced blue-grey eyes above well-defined cheekbones, a straight, narrow nose and lips full enough to guarantee she’d never be tempted by collagen injections. Her blonde hair was just above the shoulder with a long fringe falling prettily down one side. She shook her head a little to make her hair glint in the light.
‘Nothing like a good fuck to bring me out of myself,’ she murmured. She smiled at her reflection. ‘And now we’ll find out exactly what kind of revenge Mother has been planning all these years.’
3
TARA TREVELLYAN RAN
hastily up the carved wooden staircase and padded along the corridor, oblivious to the fine works of art and family portraits that lined the walls. They were so familiar she never noticed them now.
No one else was about. All the staff were downstairs serving the guests. She went to a door at the far end, paused for a moment to listen at it, and then shook herself.
‘Just who do you think is going to be inside?’ she whispered to no one. Taking a deep breath, she turned the handle gently, opened the door and silently slipped inside.
The room she now stood in was the grandest bedroom suite in the house, a vast chamber with a flat-fronted window of triple Gothic arches, each one festooned with pink taffeta curtains held back by tassels. A pink cream silk velvet chaise longue rested luxuriously in the niche of the window on the thick
white
carpet. Against the far wall was a 1930s art deco glass dressing table, covered in cut-glass scent bottles, jewellery cases and silver photograph frames – and, of course, a vast decanter of
Trevellyan’s Tea Rose
. A door at the side of the room led into the dressing room and another opposite led into a white and silver art deco bathroom.
Tara knew this room had been her mother’s pride and joy. It was strange to be in here without her. Tara could still picture her sitting at the dressing table, powdering her nose with a pink swan’s-down duster, wearing her favourite ice-blue silk robe with the mink trimming, or lying in the magnificent four-poster bed supported by twenty soft white pillows while she answered her correspondence and drank sweet tea from her favourite Sèvres teacup.
Now she’s gone
, Tara reminded herself.
The question is, what has she taken with her, and what has she left behind?
Of course it was impossible for a dead woman to take anything with her but there was no saying what arrangements she had made before she’d gone. After all, she’d had battalions of tame lawyers prepared to do anything she asked, along with a deep love of meddling with other people’s lives.
Remembering that there was not much time before they met for the reading of the will, Tara went swiftly to the dressing table. Four large jewellery boxes sat on the smooth glass surface.
Hell to clean. Poor housemaids, I bet she made their lives a misery. Now … which one?
A pink leather Asprey box looked most likely. Or
perhaps
it was the splendid enamelled Fabergé case bought by a Trevellyan in the 1920s from a poor Russian princess after the Revolution. The white Cartier box looked less likely but you never knew. Tara decided to start with the smallest, the Lalique glass heart-shaped case. Lifting the lid, she saw that it was almost empty except for a couple of dress rings in amethyst and aquamarine, only semi precious.
Quickly she moved on to the Cartier. It was almost the same as the first – strangely empty except for one or two pieces of little value. Here, it was some Edwardian paste: a parure of jet and marquisite. Worried now, Tara went to the Fabergé. The same again. Where had her mother’s jewels gone? Ever since childhood, Tara had seen her mother open her cases and reveal their sparkling treasure – diamonds, emeralds, rubies; exquisitely set in silver, gold and platinum. Jewellery was her mother’s weakness and even though her insurers had insisted that the most expensive pieces be kept at the bank, her mother had retained plenty to enjoy.
‘What the hell have you done with it all?’ she muttered. ‘Where is it?’
She turned to her last hope, the Asprey box. The lid would not open. It was locked.
‘Shit!’ she swore. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the triple mirror. Her face looked so slender it was almost gaunt but her cheekbones had spots of high colour along them and her blue eyes were anxious. She pulled a hand through her hair and licked her lips. She was used to running on adrenaline – perhaps
it
was what kept her so thin – but this was different. She could feel her sense of control leaving her.
‘Keep it together, Tara,’ she muttered to herself. ‘Don’t let it get to you. There’s bound to be a logical explanation.’
She quickly rearranged the dressing table so that it was just as she’d found it and then darted to the door, pausing only for one last look at the room she was leaving. Would she ever stand in it again when it was like this – as though her mother had only just left and would be back in a moment?
Tara shuddered, and then hurried back downstairs.