She shivered. The house was silent. She closed the book and laid it down, next to a small stone urn which had, by some chance, appeared in her room.
As Phryne stared at this intimation of mortality, Gerald whispered at the half-open door, ‘Can I come in?’
Phryne admitted him and then closed the door, jamming the Sheridan chair back under the handle. He watched this with some amusement.
‘Are you expecting an enraged husband?’ he asked.
‘In this house an enraged elephant is quite possible. Well, dear boy, this is what you wanted – an assignation.’
He came towards her, the shirt front gleaming in the soft light.
‘Oh, yes,’ he whispered, touching her cheek. ‘That is what I wanted. Most beautiful Phryne.’
He drew her down to sit on her bed and the slim hands dropped to the belt of the chrysanthemum robe. He had clearly had some practice at extracting a lady from her clothes.
She undid the soft shirt, noting that he had changed his clothes so as to be easier to undress, which, she thought, demonstrated experience. He smelt of Floris woodbine scent as the soft mouth kissed down from her lips to her throat and thence to the bared breast.
As Phryne allowed the robe to fall away and embraced Gerald’s waist as he stood to remove the rest of his clothes, she had a vision straight from the learned Sir Thomas: she and her lover as dry skeletons lying together, pelvic bone to pelvic bone, bare tibia and fibia crossing as grinning skull kissed grinning skull in the coffined embrace of the long dead.
Perhaps Lin Chung was right. The presence of death was an aphrodisiac. Gerald, naked, threw himself into her arms, his hands light on her skin, his mouth urgent, demanding. She tasted something like desperation in his kiss.
She wrapped her thighs around his waist, clutching the curly head to her breast. Opposed to death there was always life.
The living skeletons melded together, hard flesh sinking into yielding flesh, and the young man gasped aloud.
‘Oh, Phryne,’ he sighed, lying next to her with his head in the curve of her shoulder.
‘Gerald, my dear,’ she said absently. The vision of the bones had not reappeared, and her body was satisfied and slumping towards sleep.
‘You’re so beautiful.’ He ran a soft hand down the curve of her breast to her hip, cupping the bone.
‘So are you,’ she replied, stroking the curly hair, her hand resting on the entrancing delicacy of his nape. He was a boy, too young, perhaps, even to shave.
‘I’d better go, though I’d love to stay with you all night.’
‘Hmm,’ she murmured.
‘You will help me, won’t you?’ he asked, kissing her shoulder.
‘Of course. Help you with what?’
‘Jack, of course. My chum. I mean, I might have to marry Miss Fletcher, but I can’t do that until he’s settled.’
‘You might
‘Why, would you mind?’ he asked defensively.
‘No, no, dear boy, but it seems unwise if you don’t want to marry her,’ she commented, wondering how on earth he had managed it with Mrs Fletcher watching her daughter’s every move. ‘I mean, is she really the person with whom you want to spend the rest of your life?’
‘Well, no, perhaps not, but I have to marry, and she’s in love with me.’
‘That is not a good reason,’ said Phryne severely.
‘You don’t have to marry yet – you’ve got time.
Look at Letty Luttrell and the Major. She married in haste and the poor girl is repenting in sackcloth and ashes and has been for years. You might find it hard to get rid of a wife, Gerry, and in any case it’s messy and expensive.’
‘You don’t know everything,’ muttered Gerald.
‘No, I don’t,’ agreed Phryne. ‘Do you feel like telling me?’
Gerald shook his head and felt for his clothes. Phryne watched him dress, feeling a certain disappointment as the flannel bags slid up over the delicate loins.
She accompanied him to the door and he kissed her. She slid the chair away and looked into the corridor.
‘No one. Good night, Gerry.’
He smiled his entrancing little-boy’s smile and leaned his forehead, for a moment, on her shoulder. Then he was gone.
Phryne, suddenly awake, read three chapters of
CHAPTER NINE
For those two which are smooth, and of no beard, are
contrived to lie undermost, as without prominent
parts, and fit to be smoothly covered.
IN THE blackest dark, Phryne awoke.
Someone was trying her doorhandle. It had a characteristic creak. Once, twice. Then the door squeaked as someone pushed against it.
Phryne leapt out of bed, seized the poker, and crept to the door. She could hear someone breathing on the other side.
She slipped the chair out from under the handle and pulled the door wide, poker raised.
She was confronted by a shocked young man who jumped back three paces as a naked, heavily armed and undeniably female fury occupied the doorway. Her teeth were bared in a snarl and she seemed perfectly capable of decapitating him with one swipe of the iron rod she was flourishing.
‘No, no, please.’ He raised his hands.
‘Jack Lucas, what are you about?’ demanded Phryne, lowering the poker to shoulder level.
‘I was looking . . .’ the young man blushed. ‘I was looking for Gerry.’
‘And he told you that he would be here?’
‘No, no, I just guessed that . . . I’m so sorry, Miss Fisher.’
He was staring at her. Her body was slim but muscular and with the raised weapon she looked like an
‘I think you’d better go back to bed, don’t you?’ she snapped.
‘I’m sorry, I’m really sorry. Please forgive me . . .’ he said. Phryne did not reply and he made an awkward bow and hurried away.
Phryne shut the door, replaced the chair and went back to bed, laying the poker within easy reach on her pillow in case there were any more alarms in the night.
Phryne awoke as Dot placed her cup of tea on the bedside table.
‘Dot, one thing must be done today, and I mean
