Lord Carey's Inheritance

Gus, my swag-bellied keeper, has been torturing me – a torture not of the body but of the mind. On that day, weeks ago, when he lengthened the chain that shackles me and allowed me the sweet release of sitting at my desk and writing, he told me his intention was to 'school' me – "to teach me to govern my passions," he said. Good behaviour, he told me, would be rewarded with further freedoms, but its opposite would result in the with-holding of the liberty I sought – the simple liberty to write.

I believed him. I governed myself. I did not rant or rail. I sat quietly on my bed, awaiting the moment he would bring me pen and paper to allow me to continue my story. But that moment did not come. Each morning after I woke, when Gus had unlocked the door and brought my breakfast slop in, I would look at him enquiringly. And each morning I was sorely disappointed. The paper, pens and ink did not appear. When he took my plate away, the door clanged shut behind him with never a word of my reward, leaving me to yet another day's incarceration, with nothing to distract me from the dull prospect of this cell and the even drearier view of the dank marshes beyond my window.

I held my tongue for a week, then could stomach it no more. On the seventh day of this treatment I screamed at Gus. I flung my plate at his head. I would have kicked and bit him if he had been close enough. And, in return, he merely smiled – a twisted lifting of the lip in quiet triumph.

I knew then that this torture would continue. In that scant few seconds of rage I had earned a punishment of I-knew-not-what duration. But I knew it would be long. And I understood that his plan is not, in fact, to 'school' me. It is to punish me instead, with the ever more distant promise of a moment's liberty to write.

So why now, today, after so much time, has he finally relented? How is it I sit here at this moment, at this poor wooden table, with my papers returned to me and the pen in my hand? I do not think it is charity that moved him. I believe it is the reverse. He wishes by this one act of apparent kindness to increase my desperation a thousand-fold! For after today – after however many hours he gives me leave to write – how long will it be before that privilege is conferred on me again? A week? A month? A year? Gus wishes me to know I am at his mercy. He indulges me today to deny me more sharply tomorrow. It is as if a starving man were given a plate of meat and allowed to taste just one morsel – or a man dying of thirst could drink only a drop of water!

It would be almost better not to write at all, knowing as I do that my time with pen and paper may be cut off at any point, at my keeper's whim. But I cannot help myself. I must write when I can. Today I shall endeavour to complete my sad history, in the sure knowledge that it will be long before I am able to write again!

I must make haste to begin! I cannot tarry!

*

After the duel with Lord Frobisher, I passed my remaining time in London accepting the plaudits of the crowd for my signal victory. There was no whisper of the fact that it had been Captain Dennis and not I who had faced Frobisher in the duel – or that Dennis, not I, had been the man who shot him down. As far as the Town was concerned, I was the hero of the hour – the conqueror of the mighty Frobisher. Gentlemen bowed low before me; the women smiled. And a single glance of irritation on my part could make any insolent fellow tremble in his boots and back away.

Since we were now affianced, I also spent some time with Pamela Leduc, Viscount Algernon's nubile sister. We drove daily on the Mall in my carriage, and sometimes walked in the Park. And, for all that time, she continued as she had when I first met her – excitingly demure, a chick just ripe for plucking. Pamela rarely spoke on those occasions, though she listened attentively to anything I cared to say. From time to time, however, I discerned a dash of colour in her cheek – the bloom, I thought, of rising, insistent passion. At those moments, she avoided my eyes. I wondered how it would be when I finally came to fuck her. I planned to make her gasp and writhe and moan – and to teach her every curious act of lust a woman is capable of. First I would make her my wife, I thought; soon after, she would become my whore.

In the evenings, when my social duties were completed, I repaired to Mother Goose's House and used her ladies for my many and varied pleasures. I discovered a delight in performing before an audience, so took to having them four or five together. Every night, I would select each one in turn – to first beat, then fuck, while the others looked on with excitement and trepidation. In the course of an evening I could have every one of them – sometimes twice or three times over. And it was a bad night indeed if any of those women did not hobble away afterwards with a rueful smile on her face. At Mother Goose's, I was cock of my own sweet dunghill. All my chickies clucked around me. I gave them all their just deserts.

I had agreed with Algernon that I would stay a month in London to observe the proprieties of courtship with his sister. I was eager to return to Mountjoy Hall, however. It had been arranged that Algernon would bring Pamela there just two weeks later. Our nuptials were to be celebrated the day after they arrived.

When the time came, therefore, I was not unhappy to leave London. I had one final night of delight at Mother Goose's – a night, in fact, which stretched into the early hours of the following day. Then, calmed and fully sated of my lust, I climbed into my carriage and began the journey to Mountjoy. I whiled away the hours perusing my favourite book – Theresa Berkley's Exhibition of Female Flagellants, - whose illustrations never failed to arouse me. When I reached my destination, my prick was achingly hard.

The servants and my family came out on the steps to meet me. My father's widow, Lady Arabella, was there, with my tutor, Dr. Meecham, bumbling drunkenly behind her. And my sisters Julia and Juliet were there too, beaming with pleasure at the news of my engagement to be married. Preoccupied by my prick, however, I merely grunted a cursory greeting, then hurried to my chamber and called for Dottie, Arabella's maid. When she came, I fucked her soundly, then fell asleep. I did not rise until the following day had dawned.

When I awoke, it was still early. I thought first to call Dottie again, then decided to visit Arabella – whose bed Dottie would undoubtedly be sharing – but, as I passed along the passage to her chamber, I heard faint squealing and gasping from my sisters' bedroom. On the instant, I was reminded of the fine set of leather dildoes Dr. Meecham had brought for them as a present from Italy. I assumed those engines were the cause of their current pleasure, and my prick stiffened in my breeches. I felt a powerful urge to see my sisters at their play.

I went, therefore, to my late father's cabinet and drew aside the screen that covered his peephole into my sister's room. But, when I put my eye to the hole, I saw something very different from what I had imagined. To be sure, my sisters lay together on their bed – Julia to the left and Juliet on the right. But Juliet lay prone and all I could see of her were her legs and feet, and her golden curls bouncing in violent motion. And atop her, covering her, I saw the broad and brawny back of a dark-haired man, his buttocks heaving as he fucked my sister!

I drew back, first in shock and then in anger. Then I snatched up a riding crop and went straight to their room. Bursting in upon them without the courtesy of knocking, I strode to the bed – the scene of their iniquity.

The man – I saw it was Peter, the Under-Gardener – was still fucking Juliet with considerable application. He seemed oblivious of my entry, transported by his pleasure as he was. Juliet's face was buried in the pillows. Only Julia, the onlooker, looked up at me – with a smile of pleasure on her lips and her fingers working in her open cunt. But her smile faded quickly when she saw my fierce expression, and her fingers froze.

I brought the crop down smartly on Peter's arse. The impact cracked through the room like a thunderclap. He cried out and looked back at me in horror. I hit him again. I was in a frenzy. I belaboured the youth until, finally disengaging from my sister, he twisted over and tried to defend himself with his arms. But still I beat him – though now both sisters were screaming imprecations. I only desisted when Peter wriggled away and scrambled to the far corner of the room. And there he crouched, quite naked, with his hands held up. I went to him and raised the crop again.

"Out! Out!" I thundered, and pointed to the door. He hesitated, naked as he was.

"Out!" I repeated, and this time the rogue stood up, seeming to look about him for his clothes.

I lashed at him with the riding crop to urge his exit, and he jerked aside – trying, I thought, to press himself quite through the wall behind him and away from my slashing blows.

"Brother!" called Julia from the bed. "At least allow him to dress himself!"

But I refused her. "Never!" I cried. "He'll leave now, just as he stands!"

So I chased the youth from the room and along the passage. "Get out of my house instanter or I swear I'll beat you beyond endurance!" I screamed at him. Peter did not look back. His privy parts barely covered by his hands, he ran naked down the stairs, across the hall and out into the chilly morning air. I followed him and stood at the top of the steps to watch him scamper away across the park. Then, when he had disappeared into the distance, I returned to my sisters' chamber.

If I had expected contrition from them it was not forthcoming. They stood at their door defiant, not letting me in. Both regarded me with utmost hatred.

For my part, I was still shivering with rage. I shook the crop at them and could not speak. We faced each thus for several seconds, looking daggers back and forth. But I was the first to break silence.

"How dare you," I cried at last, "allow yourselves to be fucked by a servant! By a mere labourer no less!"

Juliet laughed in my face. "He was buggering me, not fucking!" she replied with scorn. "Do you imagine, brother," – she pronounced the word with venom – "that I or my sister would risk falling enceinte by employing the other hole? You must be even more of a fool than we took you for!"

And with that she slammed the door in my face. I was suddenly at a loss at this interruption of our interview. But my rage had not abated. I tried the door, then hammered on it – but to no avail. Whereas my sisters had previously taken no precaution against intruders while they satisfied their lust, they now – belatedly – had turned the key.

I stood there for some moments. My rage still boiled within me, but was lessening now. And, as my anger abated, my prick hardened. Ignoring the stares of the servants, who peeped and peered from corners, I went directly to Lady Arabella's room.

She, of course, had heard all the commotion. Nevertheless, she remained calm. Lounging on her bed en déshabillée, with Dottie sprawled beside her, she greeted me with a smile.

"And so, what is your pleasure this fine morning, Lord Jonathan?" she purred.

I did not reply, but, divesting myself of my clothes, made haste to answer her question in another way. That morning I enacted on them both all the lessons I had learned at Mother Goose's. I had Arabella beat Dottie upon the buttocks, then told Dottie to lash her mistress until she screamed. And, when I finally tired of merely watching, I beat the pair of them myself with tawse and crop and cane. Then I fucked and buggered both, until I could swive no more. But, even then, I still felt anger at the scene I had witnessed earlier in my wicked sisters' chamber.

When I had finally had my fill of the women, I went downstairs and sent for McCallum, the Steward of my estate. It was some time before he arrived and, when he did so, I berated him for his tardiness. Then I asked him about Peter, the violator of my sisters.

"Where does he live?" I asked.

"Why, my Lord," McCallum answered, "in the tied cottage where he was born and bred. He lives there with his agéd parents. His father, you will remember, was Under-Gardener before him, when your grandfather was alive."

"Put them all out!" I told him. "Put them out today! They must be gone before dawn tomorrow and entirely away from Mountjoy."

The man's mouth fell wide open. "But, my Lord – " he stammered. "Peter's father is nearly eighty, and his mother is of a similar age. Where will they go? How will they live? All their sustenance comes from the plot of land around their cottage – from that and Peter's small wages. If I put them out, I fear they will die."

I dismissed that empty fancy with a shrug. "Are there not workhouses?" I asked him. But still he hesitated.

"McCallum," I said at length, "if you do not take steps to remove those people from my land within the hour, I will do it myself and send you after them. Is that understood?"

He swallowed and hung his head. "Yes, my Lord," he murmured.

"So it will be done?"

"It will be done," he said, more loudly.

I sent him away and told him to be about his business. I felt a little better then, knowing I would be revenged on Peter. I felt, in fact, as I had when Lord Frobisher died. A soothing glow spread though my body. My satisfaction was almost complete.

The fortnight that intervened before the wedding was not entirely happy. My sisters were frosty to me and kept much to their room; the estate people muttered after me as I rode past; even the house servants were as surly as they dared be. Only Arabella and her maid were truly pleasant, so I passed my time with them, in luxurious, inventive sport.

At last the day arrived when Algernon and his sister came. I had the household gather on the steps of the Hall to greet them. Even my sisters were there. All raised a rousing cheer when Pamela – who was attired to rival Venus, all in rosy silks – alighted from her brother's carriage.

Algernon strode up the steps, took me by the hand and shook it warmly. Pamela, for her part, bobbed a curtsy to me with her eyes cast down. My prick grew hard and straining when I saw her, and I wished to carry her off to my chamber to fuck her then and there – for what difference, after all, would one day have made, when we were destined to be married on the morrow? But my sisters interposed themselves and, linking arms with her, conducted Pamela into the house and up to their private chamber. I did not see her again until the wedding.

Baulked of my desire, I spent the day with Algernon. We rode out across the estate, and I acquainted him with its features. That done, we passed the rest of the day in drinking. At some time before midnight, I bethought me I should sleep, to be ready for the ceremony to be held some few hours hence. But Algernon would have none of it. He insisted we drank on, so we continued thus until the early hours. When I finally stumbled to my chamber, my head was in a haze. I collapsed on my bed fully dressed and lost consciousness instantly.

So it was with a sore head and an unsteady hand that I rose to meet my bride. My people bathed me, fed me, changed my garments – but I remember little of it. My brain throbbed so hard in my skull that I thought it would break.

Even in the chapel, I felt no better. I remember Pamela at the altar, with Algernon beside her, and the Parson, that pompous fool, mouthing his platitudes – but I recall little of the service. When the time came to place the ring on Pamela's finger, I know I fumbled it and the ring was dropped. I saw it roll away across the flagstones – and a scramble ensued as Algernon and half a dozen guests strove to retrieve it. But at last the thing was done. I took the ring again and slipped it on Pamela's finger. Then she raised her veil and I kissed her. I pushed my tongue into her mouth.

"Come, we are married now," I whispered to her. "Let us go out and fuck for the rest of the day." But Pamela drew back, as if alarmed, and Arabella came to lay a hand on me. She and Algernon conducted me to the house and we sat down for the wedding breakfast. And, though I strove for some time to entice my bride away, they kept us at the table with songs and toasts and speeches for many a weary hour. At last, I swear, I nodded off. When next I woke, the guests were gone and Pamela too had disappeared.

I wished, of course, to go straight to her, but Algernon restrained me. He plied me, again, with wine. I could not refuse. My head had been hazy all day, but now it cleared. As the wine took hold I grew merry. Soon we were laughing together, surrounded by many bottles. It was only in the small hours of the morning that I finally took my leave. I lurched away up the staircase, in search of my waiting bride.

I found her in my chamber, on my bed, surrounded by candles. She was lying on her back with her eyes wide open. She did not look at me as I entered but continued staring at the ceiling.

I was shivering hot and cold with my long-harboured lust, so I fumbled my breeches down, cast the sheet that covered her aside, and fell upon her. I pulled her nightgown up and tore the bodice open. Her breasts were small and pale, like sweetmeats topped with cherries. Her belly quivered as she breathed. Her cunt, I remember, was a dusky shadow. Without ado, I dragged her thighs apart and stuck my prick in.

But her cunt resisted me, though she lay still. I pushed in harder. The hole was dry but I entered her at last. I forced myself in to the root and fucked with gusto.

Pamela cried out just once, then lay there rigid. I rogered her 'til I spent, then rolled aside. I remember nothing more 'til morning came.

When I opened my eyes, bright sunlight assaulted me. A pulse beat in my head – a dull tattoo. But my prick was hard again. I rolled over and reached for my wife – but she was not there. Her side of the bed was empty.

I sat up and looked about me. Pamela, already dressed for the day, sat demurely beside the window. I called to her. She rose and came to me.

"Look, my Lord," she said. "Look carefully."

I had no idea what she wished me to look at.

"Look here," she said again, and pointed to a place on the bed where the impress of her body still remained. Puzzled, I peered at it. There was nothing to see.

"Here!" cried Pamela, as if vexed. This time I looked where she pointed. The sheet bore a small, pinkish stain. It seemed of little import.

"That," said Pamela, "is the remains of my maidenhead. Do you remember last night? Our marriage is consummated. I am intact no longer."

"I am heartily glad of it," I told her, with impatience. "Now come to me!" I reached out to grasp her, but she backed away.

"Come, Wife," I told her, "and perform your wifely duty. I would have you now, this instant. You know you may not refuse me."

But Pamela retreated to the window. I rose from the bed and crossed the room to her.

"Do not be coy!" I told her. I took her by the arms, but she struggled and cast me off. She ran to the bed again.

"Oh, ho!" I said. "So this is the game now, is it? You wish to be chased and conquered, if I read you right!"

Still she did not reply, but sat high on the bed with her knees drawn up, pressing back against the headrest. Her arms were clasped about her; her eyes wide open.

It came to me that this was not play at all, but deadly earnest. It moved me to instant rage.

"Would you deny me my right?" I roared at her.

Her face was white. She shook her head.

"You would not deny me?"

She shook her head again. Her meaning was plain. She would not yield.

"If you will not have me willingly, you must be schooled," I told her. I went to a corner and snatched up my riding crop, then crossed swiftly to the bed again. I grasped her by the shoulder and forced her over, then raised the crop to strike her on the arse.

But she burrowed a hand beneath the pillows and, twisting suddenly, faced me again before I could bring the crop down. There was a small, bright dagger in her hand. She jabbed at me.

"If you lay one hand on me," said my new-wed wife, "I will cut your throat as soon as I am able. I will do it now if I can, or later if I cannot – when you are drunk and snoring like a pig. Do not doubt me, my Lord. I mean every word."

I was aghast. My sore head spun. I imagined the point of that dagger, suddenly pricking against my neck.

I stood back from her. "Put the whip down," she commanded. I did as I was told. She kept the dagger in her hand.

"Now, my Lord, you will dress and go downstairs. There you will instruct your servants to prepare a chamber for me. Then you will give me the key, so I may lock the door when I sleep. You will never enter that chamber. Do you understand?"

I was dumbfounded. I thought I should rush her again – but the sight of the dagger dissuaded me. So, instead, I mumbled: "Yes."

"And now," said Pamela, "I will go to your sisters' room. I will wait there 'til my own chamber is ready for me."

With that, she left me. I sat down on the bed. I was trembling. A sudden understanding overtook me. I had thought I had wed a sweet virgin, but had married a termagant instead.

I sat there in a daze for several minutes, then went downstairs and ordered the servants to prepare a room as my wife had demanded. I did not wish to do it – I did it with bad grace – but I saw no other course. I believed Pamela when she said she would kill me. Better, then, to sequester her in a chamber of her own, than to spend every night in fear of the woman lying next to me!

Afterwards, I went out and rode about the estate. I wished to calm myself, but the mood abroad was ugly. The people scowled as I passed them, and more than one spat on the ground. Soon I gave up and retreated to the Hall again.

Coming in, I passed the parlour. The door was open and I heard the voices of Algernon and Arabella. I did not wish to see them, so walked on past – but, as I did so, I caught a little of their conversation. Algernon was saying: "... but, Theresa, you have no idea of the trouble that young fop put me to in London!" And Arabella answered, soothing: "Never fear. All will be well. All will be over soon!"

I wondered fleetingly of whom they could be speaking, and why Algernon had addressed Arabella by another name – but soon I had other thoughts to occupy me. Passing my sisters' room upstairs, I heard excited noises – breathy moans, low grunts and little, girlish squeals. The door was just ajar; I stopped to peek – and saw, to my astonishment, Pamela on the bed with her thighs spread wide apart, while Julia delved between them with a dildo!

But they saw me instantly. In fact, I believe they had left the door thus open of-a-purpose, to snare me with the sight; to mock me too. Both women looked up at me now, and the door swung fully open. Juliet had been behind it. She spoke to me.

"What, brother, peeping again? But it is best that you know the truth, so we will not condemn you this time. Be assured, your new wife, Pamela, is not for your arms. She is wholly of the Sapphic persuasion, as you can see. So that piece of meat that dangles between your legs – that thing you are so fond of – is of no account to her. How does that make you feel, my brother, knowing your wife is not for your enjoyment? You must return to your whores again, I fear!"

There were many things to say, but I said nothing. I had turned on my heel before she slammed the door. Nevertheless, their laughter followed me. I went to my room and called for Dottie.

But Dottie did not come.

*

Now my sad tale comes to its mournful close. I had been blind, I know, but in one short hour all became clear to me. The thing was as plain as daylight; as obdurate as stone.

In my chamber, I waited for Dottie for some moments. Then, in a rage, I rose and went to find her. I shouted down the corridors but she did not appear. Nor, in fact, did anybody else.

I ran downstairs. I could see nobody. All the servants had disappeared. I searched the lower floor, but to no avail. Finally, I entered the Great Hall and stopped there, seething.

And, while I stood there, three men entered. Two were unknown to me, but the third was Peter. I looked at them askance, but they made no answer. They came on towards me, though, as grim as death.

I took a step backwards. They came on. Then, realising my peril, I turned to flee. But there was nowhere to go. I was caught in a trap! They laid hands on me, pushing me hard against the wall and forcing me to my knees!

I swore at them at first, then pleaded, but they kept their silence. They held my arms and forced a stiff garment on me. I had not seen one before, but I know it now. It was a strait-waistcoat – a jacket made of canvas. The arms were very long. Once it was on, my own arms were folded before me and the sleeves were buckled behind. I could not use my hands! I was in their power!

I remember the coarse stuff of that cruel garment and the noxious smell it gave off. I sensed it had been used on many poor wretches before it came to me. It encased me in their terror. It reeked of their fear.

The three men stood around me when they had finished. I, on the floor, looked up at them wordlessly. I wondered if this was the start of a Revolution. I wondered if they had come to murder me.

But then there were sudden voices at the door. First I saw Dottie, then Hodge, then Meecham, then Arabella. Viscount Algernon was there as well, as were my sisters. Then Pamela came in. My entire family, it seemed, had come to save me! I was mightily relieved. I greeted them warmly.

"There has been a mistake," I cried. "These men have taken me for a malefactor. Identify me to them! Tell them to release me!"

My family crowded closer but no-one spoke. I tried again.

"And why is Peter still here? I have put him out."

I heard Julia – or was it Juliet? – laugh. "Peter is the least of your troubles!" she said. The others around her shared her mirth.

I lost all patience then. "What," I cried, "is happening to me?"

And so they told me. And my life and hopes were dashed.

Arabella was first to speak.

"Lord Jonathan," she said. "What we do now, we do for your own good. You are a danger to yourself and others. You are to be confined."

I gasped at that. I shuddered. I could not believe my ears. "How ...? Why ...? What ...?" I stuttered. But she went on calmly.

"I said you are a danger." She turned to the door. "Doctor," she called, "perhaps you would join us now?"

A man came in – a man I had never seen. He was a short, round personage, dressed as a gentleman. He wore gold-rimmed spectacles and his face was florid. All this I remember as if from an evil dream.

"Perhaps, Doctor," said Arabella, smiling, "you could inform his Lordship of your diagnosis?"

The man came to me, bent down and peered into my face. He spoke as if to a child.

"Jonathan," he said, "you are very ill. You suffer from a disease called satyriasis. Some term it priapism. It makes you do things you would not otherwise contemplate. You must be treated, or the illness will destroy you."

"He means," explained my sister Julia, drily, "that you are governed by your prick and cannot help it."

The notion was absurd. I laughed in the doctor's face. The man retreated as if offended. I dismissed him from my mind and addressed the others carefully.

"Understand me," I told them grimly, "if you are all involved in this, each one of you is guilty of the commission of a crime. A grievous crime, no less – the crime of kidnap! You have no right to treat me so. Not any of you! I am the Master here. You will release me instantly or face the consequences!"

Arabella spoke again. "But you forget yourself, my Lord," she said. "You are not yet of age. You are two months short of your majority."

She was speaking arrant nonsense. Age bore no relevance in this. I knew it. I told her so. But she looked towards Meecham and the old man blushed.

"Pray, tell him, Doctor Meecham," Arabella said. "Please tell Lord Carey who really wields the authority in this house."

All eyes turned to Meecham. He looked at the floor. He shuffled and hemmed and hawed. But finally he spoke.

"You will remember, my Lord," he mumbled, not meeting my eyes, "that your father appointed me to be your tutor some two years ago."

I nodded at that, though I could still see no relevance.

"You may also recall," he said, "that he conferred his power of attorney on me at that time – regarding you, that is. I was placed, in fact, in loco parentis, as it were. And since your father died, that power has not been rescinded. Because you are not yet twenty-one, I still act, in short, as your father, as far as the law is concerned."

Understanding hit me like a hammer. It was then that I saw my doom. There was no escaping it, but I railed at him.

"So, you have authorised this travesty!" I cried. "You, you lecherous sot, would have me confined!"

"I fear so, my Lord," he said quietly. And looked up at me. And smiled.

He waved a paper at me.

"I have, in fact, signed this document this very morning. It commits you to an Asylum for the Criminally Insane until such time as you are deemed to be well again."

"And that, I suppose, will be never!" I spat back at him.

He shook his head in a mockery of sadness. "That may be so, my Lord. It may be so."

There was a silence then. I, in my impotence, could think of no words to say; the others, perhaps, simply did not wish to speak. But, eventually, Arabella suggested to the doctor that he might go outside to see if his carriage was ready. He intended, I understood, to convey me to the Asylum that very day.

After the doctor had left, the others became more frank. Whatever masks of solicitude they had previously adopted had been for his benefit only. With him gone, I saw their faces light up in triumph. I saw hatred, too, in their steel-bright eyes.

But I would not be cowed. I found words at last.

"Wife," I called. "Pamela! You owe a duty to me. Whatever plot these others have sprung on me, you must oppose it! Go to London. Hire lawyers. Arrange for my release. And when I am free again, we will expose these traitors together for the ravening wolves they are!"

But Pamela merely raised an eyebrow. "Why would you suppose," she asked me, "that I would lift a finger to aid you?"

"Because you are my wife," I said again.

Then Arabella moved closer to Pamela and put an arm around her. "Do not allow the silly ninny to brow-beat you, Daughter," she told her. "Remember, you are Mistress of Mountjoy now."

It took a moment to sink in. Then: "Daughter!" I exploded.

"Indeed, my Lord. My daughter," Arabella said.

"But what of Algernon?" I cried. "If Pamela is your daughter, is she not also his sister? Is he, perhaps, your son and no Viscount at all?"

Algernon laughed. "No, I am no imposter. I truly am a Viscount, though no relation to Lady Pamela, I fear. But I have known the person you call Arabella for some time now. She is, you see, none other than Theresa Berkley. I used to frequent her Flogging House in London – before she left to marry your father, that is."

It came to me in a flash why he had addressed Arabella as Theresa when I had passed the parlour earlier. Had I had a free hand I would have smitten my brow. And it was Arabella, then, who had written The Exhibition of Female Flagellants! She was the authoress of the book that had been my treasured companion these many months!

Arabella – no, Theresa – smiled at me. "You see, Jonathan," she said, "Lord Algernon is addicted to particular pleasures – to pastimes that I am well-equipped to provide. So, in return for my, er, constant favours, he consented to lead you astray a little, by representing himself as Pamela's elder brother.

"But now it is no matter," she went on. "Pamela is your wife and Mountjoy Hall is ours. For your part, you will live out your life in a place far away, where you can cause no further trouble. And everyone will be glad of it, I am sure!"

I saw my sisters nodding – it was like a dagger to my heart – and Dottie grinned, and Hodge had a smirk on his face. There were other servants gathered there as well. Not one of them piped up in my defence.

But Meecham, I realised, might be my saviour still. I addressed him now, imploring him to release me. But, though he dithered and blushed, he was unmoved.

I begged for my very life. I reminded him of his position as my tutor – of loyalty, of kindness, of his bounden moral duty. Then, when all else had failed, I appealed to his avarice. I offered first money, then land, but Meecham still shook his head. At last, in a desperate fit, I asked him what he wanted. I promised whatever he wished for. Was there anything he desired?

"I have it already, my Lord," he told me simply. "You remember Raimondi's etchings in your father's cabinet?"

I did, of course, and the images they portrayed – those stiff classic poses consecrated solely to Eros; those fantasies of depravity and strenuous Latin lust.

"What you may not understand, my Lord," said Meecham, "is that Raimondi's originals were all thought to be lost. The drawings now known as Aretino's – or, better, Raimondi's – Postures are later reproductions, by a different and inferior hand. But the ones your father left here are the true originals. They are worth a king's ransom now – and Lady Arabella has promised them to me."

He smiled in happy triumph. I saw my last hope was gone. I bowed my head and wept, and the tears obscured my sight. I saw the room as through a falling mist.

Quite shamed, I blinked and shook my head – but still the mist persisted. I could not help myself. I had no hands to wipe away my tears.

*

It has grown late but still Gus has not come. It does not matter now: my tale is almost ended.

Whatever small details remain are easily told. That day, my last at Mountjoy, the people took me up and carried me outside. They threw me into a waiting carriage, bound up like a tight-trussed pullet. Then they brought me here, and here I have remained.

I have, though, now, a warning for my enemies. Should you read this, be assured: One day, I will return and there will be retribution.

I am Lord Carey of Mountjoy. My inheritance awaits me still!

   ~

The end