She pressed his hand against her face, once again the loving, completely trusting child.
“I do love it so, Uncle. It's just awful to have to do without and I'm not very good at what you showed me to do with my hands. Oh, it's nice and I like it, but it isn't the same-not even nearly.”
Robert cupped one high breast and squeezed gently. If it weren't for the servants and the necessity of keeping up appearances, he would have taken her again right then. His penis was already hard again, and he could feel the unscratchable itch spreading through his groin.
“Don't worry, child. You shall have all you can handle-and maybe more.”
Belinda looked up, blue eyes round and frank.
“Oh, no, Uncle. I could never, never have too much.”
CHAPTER SIX
Sir David Cassen was decidedly ill at ease. This was not a condition in which he often found himself, but the reason was grave enough. Lady Marion was missing, and missing in such a fashion, that it was extremely difficult to make too many inquiries.
Contacts were being established with a man in the French embassy that could prove invaluable. It was essential that Sir David would not be connected in anyway, and it was even dangerous for him to use Robert as a courier. He had debated every possibility with himself, but the contact was much too valuable to risk. The only person whose discretion could be relied upon completely was his wife. She had no really clear idea of just what or who he was working for, and asked no questions, but she had carried delicate messages before, and it seemed that she would have to again.
She had left the house three days ago, for London. She should have been back the night before, or at least that morning, but as the soft greys of twilight darkened into night she had still not appeared. Since they had told no one that she was going to London, she certainly wouldn't be staying with any of their friends there. Nor had she sent a messenger, which would have been the logical thing, had she been delayed in any normal way.
As he paced the floor of his massive study, Sir David's uneasiness increased. In as far as he was capable, and years of rigid control had tempered his nerve to fine steel, he was thoroughly worried. The two things dearest to his heart, his wife and his work, should never have come in contact. He now damned the necessity that had brought them together this time. If word leaked out of his work for Walsingham, his usefulness to that gentleman and to his country would be ended. On the other hand, if anything happened to Marion, he would raze all London in his grief and rage.
The servants had long been abed, and he was debating the possibility of sending Robert to London to make what inquiries he could, when he heard the French doors in the morning room open and close.
Walking quickly down the hall he pulled open the door to the cheerful little room and stepped inside.
The room was dark, but Sir David could hear soft breathing. Lighting a candle, he looked around, being careful to keep his back to the wall. At first he saw nothing. The French door still swung back and forth in the chill breeze, and for a moment Sir David thought that whoever had entered had slipped out again. Then he heard the breathing again and looking down saw his wife lying beside a chaise lounge, just to the right of the door. Her eyes were half closed, and she was dressed in some ragged garment that he had never seen before.
“Marion! My God, are you hurt?”
As he kneeled and took her in his arms, she rested her head against his shoulder. He lifted her up and carried her into the study, then lay her down gently on the broad couch.
She smiled up at him, brushing her wildly disordered hair out of her eyes.
“I'm not hurt. Just weary. I got the message through. Robert will be sent a gift of wine. There will be a message inserted in the cork.” She stopped, her heavy breathing choking off the words.
“Rest first, my darling. The news will wait.” He brought her a full cup of brandy and held her head while she sipped it. Her breathing slowed, and she seemed to grow a little stronger. “Where have you been? What in God's name happened to you?”
“A dream. The wildest nightmare any woman could ever have.”
She leaned her head back against the pillows and started to talk.
Arriving in London, Marion had taken a room in a quiet, but fairly large inn. When evening came, she had dressed in the clothes of a middleclass London woman, perhaps a small shopkeeper's wife, and gone out into the city streets.
She kept the arranged appointment in a busy tavern near the French embassy, but it had taken much longer than expected. Her man had been exactly on time, but they had been joined by two friends of his before they had a chance to exchange messages. Since, obviously, nothing could be discussed until they were alone, it had been quite late before Marion had been able to complete her business and start back to the inn.
The streets were crowded and no one seemed to take any notice of the woman hurrying along with the crowds. Two people, however, had taken notice.
As Marion passed two filthy beggars standing in a doorway, one of them looked up. Her plain attire made her look less prosperous, but it did little to dim her seductive beauty. The men leered after her.
“'Ow'd ya like t' wet your bone in that, hey?”
He was tall and thick set, his matted ginger hair falling almost to his shoulders. A rag, covered the gaping socket of his left eye, and a scar ran in a livid, half-healed track from high up on his cheekbone to just under his chin. He might be anywhere be'ween thirty and forty, and color and smell would indicate that it had been as many years since he had bathed.
His companion was much older, a gaunt, tattered, relic of a human being. His twisted leg and humped back probably assisted him greatly in his profession, but they added nothing to what was already a wretched, disgusting appearance.
“Righto, Big Red. It's been such a time since I 'ad my prick up a bit like that, that's it's not much more 'n a memory.”
They started walking after the hurrying figure, watching the quick nicking of her hips and the arch of neck and shoulder. She bore little resemblance to the Lady Marion of Elizabeth's court, but she still looked a high cut above her present surroundings.
She turned down a side street, and Big Red quickened his pace, his friend half-running to keep up.
“Maybe we'll snatch her, eh? I bet those tits are white 'n soft as bread dough.” His eye burned hot and his breath quickened. “We could take 'er t' Freddie's, an' when we 'ad all we wanted of 'er, we could watch the other boys 'avin' a go.” He laughed. “Nuffink, I like much better than watchin' chicken get done over by a crowd. Gives me a right 'orn. Throw it up 'er again afterwards, I would.”
“Cor, me cock's just wastin' fer it, but I don't know about snatchin' 'er. She looks the sort someone might come lookin' for.” He slowed down. “Get us inta real strife.”
Big Red shrugged. He knew Gimp had little stomach for anything that might bring the authorities down on them, but by now he didn't care much. He had been drinking all evening, and wine and lust were making him reckless.
“Well, we'll wait 'n see about the snatch, but we can 'ave a bit of a giggle wiv 'er, anyhow.”
By this time they were almost abreast of her, and in a couple of long strides, Big Red was beside her. She looked up as he spoke.
“Out a bit late, ain't ya, lady? Better let me 'n my mate walk along wiv ya. Wouldn't want ya t' come t' no harm.”
Marion said nothing. The huge, leering man sounded sincere enough, but the look in his eye told a different story.
As she hurried to out pace him, he caught her arm.
“'Ere now, don't rush off. Why not be friendly?” Marion was really frightened now. She screamed and tried to break away. The inn was only a short distance further, and if she could get loose, she had a good chance of making a run for it. Big Red grabbed her in both arms, and when she sunk her teeth into his chest, he slapped her across the head so hard it made her ears ring. Half crying, half dumb with panic, she tried again
