Deceived and Enslaved (3 page)

'Yes?' she said slightly embarrassed as Everton's eyes roamed along the untidily discarded silk and lace.

'May I suggest formal dinner-wear this evening? Lord Willingham normally insists.'

'But you told me that I was dining with Mr Hyde-Lee.'

'Even if Lord Willingham will not be present, there are still certain standards that he would wish to maintain.' Everton gave Lillian a chilling glance.

'As you wish.'

Ludicrous though the figure of Everton seemed, there was something striking about him; his starched formality offered a tantalizing temptation to discover the human and the intimate behind the stern demeanour. She tried a flirtatious smile that she thought might at least melt the cold, disdainful manner. Everton ignored her attempt at warmth, slightly tilting his head in her direction before disappearing out of the door.

Lance Willingham had been informed of Lillian's arrival as soon as he had returned home. He certainly was not happy with Hyde-Lee for agreeing to the interview, and worse, agreeing to have it in Forte Dei Marmi. If he had been consulted before Hyde-Lee had acquiesced to the interview, he would not have permitted such a thing in his own house. Not only did he not want her snooping around the place, but also he hadn't had a chance to send Magda, the Polish girl, home.

'Two days and she'll be out of our way,' Hyde-Lee had said. He was the older of the two men by some years but it was Willingham who was the more domineering.

'I still don't like it,' Willingham countered. 'It could all go terribly wrong.'

'But it's probably the best thing we can do. If I don't agree to this she's going to keep on pestering me, she might start snooping around and god knows what she'll find. She's been writing this thing for a year, she told me. Speaking with me, it's only the final touch. Better to keep her on our side, get the authorized out of the way and have done with it.'

Still Willingham was not convinced. It seemed an unnecessarily risky business to him, but maybe his brother had a point: better to take a young innocent they could easily manipulate than somebody who would be more prone to discover all their closeted skeletons.

Willingham had bumped into her in the grand hall after he was returning home on the train to Viareggio from Rome where he had been concluding some business buying antiques, and also checking up on one or two of the women he had recently trained.

He was particularly happy with Isabella, a late developer, a stunning thirty-four year old Roman housewife who he had recently 'educated' for an art-dealer friend. Isabella had been more reluctant than most, but Willingham had persevered with her and had that very afternoon had the pleasure of seeing her crawling around his friend's villa on all fours on a lead. Willingham himself had dangled her from a chandelier and spent a pleasant afternoon with her and his favourite riding crop.

Maybe if he hadn't had the image of the raven-haired Isabella in his mind, he might not have noticed how beautiful Lillian was. She had one of those angular English faces with very stunning clear green eyes. Her full breasts pushed out the black polo-neck sweater she was wearing, and her shortish skirt revealed a pair of very shapely legs. But it was most definitely the hair that Willingham noticed, parted in the centre, jet black, wavy and shoulder-length, just like Isabella's; and maybe something in her countenance suggested that she might be of an equally submissive nature.

'You must be Lillian?' Willingham asked cordially.

'Yes, and you're Lord Willingham.'

'Please, call me Lance. Could we have a brief chat?'

'Of course.'

Willingham was an imposing figure, a bulky but solid man, tall with a firm chest and thick broad arms. He could have passed for a man ten years younger.

He ushered her in to his impressively decorated private study on the first floor.

'So, you're writing James's biography?' Willingham asked seating himself on an armchair while Lillian sat on the sofa.

'Yes, I am.' The room was as stunning as all the others she had seen in the house. The walls were painted terracotta and the high coves had delectable carvings of exotic birds and fruit.

'What attracted you to writing about James?' Willingham continued, his tone curious and polite.

She had known something about Willingham of course. He had gained his peerage for being an outstanding patron of the arts and for the various scholarships and grants he had awarded to young artists. There had been one or two questions raised about dubious share dealings but he had weathered all scandals without any great taint being attached to him, and he had a reputation for being a man of high intelligence and admirable wit. Lillian also knew that Hyde-Lee had abandoned his Roman apartment and gone to live with his wealthier brother after the death of Lucille Clifton, Hyde-Lee's wife.

'Well, I love his work and he's such a respected writer,' Lillian said enthusiastically, turning her attention to Willingham's question.

'You do realize that you have a hard task on your hands. Just about everything that is really interesting about James, he has already written about,' Willingham said nonchalantly.

His eyes rested uncomfortably on her, making Lillian feel nervous.

'Well, it's my job to find other angles, other viewpoints, to write my version of events,' Lillian answered, picking up on the slight dismissiveness of Willingham's comment.

Willingham paused momentarily, then leaned towards Lillian. 'There is just one thing, Miss Simpson...'

'Yes?'

'I hope you will respect my brother's privacy.' His eyes were smiling now, but his words were forcefully clipped, almost strident. His hands clenched tight as he spoke.

'I know my obligations,' Lillian responded with a defensive brusqueness. She did not understand why Willingham should be so suspicious of her intentions.

'I'm sure you do, Miss Simpson, but people like you have it in your power to sully many people's lives. I wouldn't like to see James...' Willingham paused momentarily, his penetrating gaze staying firmly on Lillian.

'You talk about him as if he has lots of secrets,' Lillian interrupted, annoyed by Willingham's insinuations.

'No, it's only that we live in an age where personal privacy no longer seems to be private property.'

'I'm not that sort of writer,' Lillian said indignantly picking up on Willingham's inference.

'I'm sure you're not, but just remember...' Here Willingham hesitated.

'Remember what?'

'That a man's reputation is at stake here.'

'I only want to write something to illuminate the work.'

'I'm sure you do, my dear, I'm sure you do.' Willingham paused before continuing. 'Well I think we understand each other,' Willingham added, reverting to his usual charm.

'I think we do.' Lillian wasn't sure that she understood him at all. Why would he be so over-protective of his brother?

'Anyway, my house is at your disposal,' Willingham said politely but his manner was less than inviting.

'Thank you very much, Lord Willingham.' Lillian had no desire to call him by his Christian name.

Lillian nodded and got up to leave.

'I knew you're father,' Willingham said, lighting a slim cigar, as Lillian was at the door.

'Really?' She feigned surprise, because it was hardly surprising. Her father had mixed in that artistic world of bohemian London, first as a young novelist and then as a respected critic. It was the world in which she had been raised. Her father's house had always been full of writers, academics and artists of one sort or another. She knew that he had had a passing acquaintance with Hyde-Lee before she was born, and that this had partly increased her interest in writing his biography.

'A wonderful man.'

'That's very kind of you...'

'I remember you as a child, Lillian, a curious child, looking up to me with those big beautiful eyes, wondering who on earth I was. I knew then that you would grow up to be a beautiful woman. We all did.'

'I'm sorry, I can't remember you.' Her voice was kindly, not vindictive.

'I used to call at your house when you lived in Kensington. It seems like an age ago.' Willingham looked wistfully at the beautiful English woman. 'You know you have your father's eyes.'

'I'm told that we have a lot in common.'

'Oh, I hope so, I hope so!' he said chuckling to himself, a lewd sneer breaking through the laughter.

She didn't know what he meant, what he was inferring, Lillian only knew that there was something terribly sinister in what he was implying.

'What do you mean?'

'Oh nothing,' he answered, smiling at her with a seeming cruelty that Lillian didn't understand. 'If you'll excuse me I have rather a lot of work to do.'

His face looked gravely pale, and he moved his hands and arms feebly, almost falteringly; his voice was moist and weak; it was only his eyes that betrayed the intelligent vitality for which his work was famous.

She answered his questions about her travels and family with an assured confidence that was at odds with the sense of tense unease that Willingham had planted in her mind.

Lillian was sitting in Hyde-Lee's private third-storey apartment, a magnificent affair of antique wood and renaissance paintings. He was sitting on a comfortable leather chair, a cashmere shawl covering his legs; she was perched on an ancient chaise longue.

'I suppose, my dear, that you want to get down to business,' Hyde-Lee said, after dinner had been finished.

'If you are well enough.'

'You are never well enough at my age. Today, I'm not too bad. If I get too tired we might have to stop. Where do you want to begin? Nowhere, I hope, as boring as my childhood.'

Hyde-Lee told her little that she didn't already know, although one or two anecdotes about his contemporaries and his own life at Oxford would nicely personalize some of the academic detail. She knew, for example, that Hyde-Lee had been part of the bohemian scene in Soho in the late fifties and early sixties; that he had first gone to live in South East Asia before settling on Italy. She knew that his wife had been a leading authority on renaissance art. She also knew that he had never had children and that he had apparently traveled to some of the most far-flung corners of the world, and that he was a keen yachtsman and angler.

'Well, I'm afraid I'll have to stop there. It's all a bit exhausting this reliving of one's life. How did I do?' he said after ten minutes, seemingly growing bored with Lillian's questions.

As he spoke, he pushed a button on an electronic gadget that he had been holding throughout their interview. She noticed how wizened his hands were, and as she met his gaze, how tired his eyes had become.

'More importantly, how did I do?' Lillian replied. She had listened attentively. Not wanting to be too intrusive on their first proper meeting, she had asked little, merely prompting him occasionally where she felt it necessary, and where his fading memory had stumbled.

'I think you are going to be a splendid biographer. You have your father's intelligent eyes. If your mind is half as sharp as his, I will be honoured.'

She hadn't mentioned her father to him before, although she knew that they had been acquaintances at Oxford. 'You knew my father well?'

'Yes, very well. I was a great admirer of his.'

'It's strange, he never talked about you or Lord Willingham much.'

'Maybe he had his reasons.'

She was intrigued now. 'What reasons?'

'Let us not rush things. All in due course,' he said, his voice sounding weary and irritated.

'Did you fall out?'

'You certainly have your father's inquisitive mind,' Hyde-Lee answered, a hint of admonition in his tone.

As he spoke the maid entered the room, a prompt for Lillian to leave.

Willingham stood over the naked girl, her left arm handcuffed to the four-poster bed. She was kneeling on the silken sheets.

'Magda, I am very angry with you?'

'Sorry, sir,' the Polish girl whined.

'How many times have I told you that you must have respect for Mr Everton?'

'But he hurt me, sir. He made me wear these beads inside of me all day and I just couldn't take it.'

Willingham was aroused by the girl's Polish intonation. Part of him felt sorry to have to part with such an arousing woman, just because his brother had invited that idiot English woman.

'Quiet girl. You know that Mr Everton is allowed to do anything he wants with you.'

'But, sir, it was impossible, I cannot eat or sleep without thinking about the beads, sir. They make me feel sexy, sir, all the time. I had to take them out.'

'Do you want to be a good girl for your Mistress or not?' Willingham asked forcefully.

'Yes, sir, I do.' Willingham looked into the stunning cool blue of Magda's eyes. 'Then you have to accept that we who are your masters are allowed to do anything we want with you, and it doesn't matter how much it hurts you, you have to accept.'

'Yes, sir.' Magda's shoulders drooped in defeat. She knew that the Master was right.

'Or you know what is going to happen to you?' Willingham's voice was kind, almost tender with her.

'Yes, sir.'

'We'll send you away and you'll never get to see your Mistress again.'

'No, sir, I don't want that to happen,' Magda sighed.

'Well, Magda, the choice is yours.'

'Yes, sir, I want to stay. Please let me stay.' Her voice was moist, pleading. She loved her mistress so much that she would do anything for her.

'So, you do know what is going to happen to you now, don't you?'

'Yes, sir,' Magda said fatalistically.

'I am going to have to get Mr Everton to punish you very hard for your wretched disobedience.'

'No, sir!' Magda exclaimed involuntary. 'Not him. Can't you punish me, sir? Mr Everton is so hard on me. I couldn't sit down for a week the last time he whipped me, sir.'

As he contemplated the situation, Willingham ran the palm of his hand over the smooth skin of the blonde's slender back. She really was astonishingly beautiful, the way her blonde, wavy hair cascaded down. He gazed along the length of her slender back down to her pushed-up, round bottom. He could not resist trailing the tips of his fingers between the cleft of her buttocks, resting them lightly on the tiny crater of her anus. He heard Magda give a little sigh of pleasure.