The Sherbrooke Series Novels 1-5 (155 page)

“I have heard that some people, men mostly, like that sort of thing, particularly if a woman metes out the blows. If there is a desire for anything at all, you’ll find it in the fleshpots of London.”

“I believe that is where poor Colton ended up.”

“I hope you are not confusing that sort of strange sexual fervor with the application of good clean discipline?”

“Oh, no,” she said, her eyes twinkling wickedly at him. “I’m not a fool. At eighteen I realized I was on to something. Certainly whipping is part of it, but there is so much more, don’t you agree?”

He would have her explain that to him in great detail, later. “You told your father that I was a medieval manuscript scholar here to translate your leather from the iron cask to help you find King Edward’s Lamp?”

“Oh, yes. He just looked at me and finally said, ‘Lord Beecham has the look of a man with too much knowledge crammed into his head. I do not know just how ancient that knowledge may be. He is dangerous as well as valuable to you, my girl, make no mistake about that. He is bound to want something other than some dented, hoary lamp.’ ”

Lord Beecham laughed. “Not so much crammed in my head anymore.”

“I believe he was commenting on your current state of knowledge, my lord.”

“Fleshpots again.”

“Very probably. Do you think you will require something of me other than the lamp?”

He looked thoughtfully between Luther’s ears. The road ahead was straight and flat. On either side of the road, the fields were laid out like rich green and yellow squares on a nicely sewn quilt. Yew bushes lined the stone fences that marked the boundaries. It was a warm, breezy day. Every once in a while the strong scent of sheep wafted through the air, just to remind you that this wasn’t a beautiful painting or an idealized setting.

“Actually, truth be told, when I first saw you, I wanted you in my bed by early afternoon. It was sunny that day, and I had a very clear picture of you lying naked on your back, your arms out to me. However, when it did not happen, I was not cast down. I decided it would be all right to have you in my bed by nightfall. When that did not happen, I was forced to forgo poor Jerome’s remarkable smoked oysters, else I would have become quite mad with unfulfilled lust.”

She was laughing so hard that Eleanor whinnied in response and took several side steps.

“You find that amusing, Miss Mayberry? My physical discomfort doesn’t make you regret not complying with my very understandable man’s lust?”

“I am on the shelf, Lord Beecham. I beg you not to make such jests at my expense.”

“I really don’t believe you had the gall to say that. You, my girl, know very well that you are quite the most magnificent woman to grace three counties. Your pretense at old age makes me remeasure your level of guile.”

“I have no guile to speak of. I am straightforward. I will not give you coy speeches about bedding you at noon or at twilight or at the rise of the moon. No, I will tell you very honestly exactly what I thought when I first saw you, Lord Beecham. I saw you standing in front of me. I stripped off every article of clothing covering your doubtless magnificent self, beginning with that very artfully arranged cravat of yours. I was all the way to your boots before I was pulled from my very pleasant fantasies.”

His eyes were nearly crossed.

“Where is your father’s carriage?”

“Not more than twenty feet behind us.”

“There are quite a few maple trees off just to my left. We could find privacy.” Then he sighed deeply; he shook himself. “No, this is ridiculous. I am a man with a man’s control. I will not be drawn into your damned woman’s fantasies. I will enjoy my own. I can control them more readily.”

“Very well,” she said, her voice as demure as a school-girl’s. “Goodness, if I just close my eyes a moment, I see myself now bent over in front of you, and you are sitting down. Your left boot is in my hands and I’m nearly ready to pull it off. I’m looking over my left shoulder, smiling at you, and—”

“You will hold your tongue or I will send Flock out to ride with you and immure myself with your father.”

“Victory over a man is nothing at all,” she said, and began whistling. “You are such a simple species. Paint you one small picture and you are slavering and shaking, ready to swoon.”

He laughed, there was simply nothing else to do. Then he turned in the saddle and gave her a very slow smile. “Trust me, Miss Mayberry. When I have you away from your fond parent, I plan to introduce you to a very intriguing course of discipline.”

It was his turn to see her eyes go vague and watch her swallow. He picked a small bit of lint off his riding jacket. “I have always thought that ladies were such easy creatures. They think of me mastering them and I invariably find myself with a very excited female in my arms, begging me to do my worst.” He smiled at her. “You may be the discipline mistress of Court Hammering, Miss Mayberry, but I am the master of London. Don’t try to compete with me. You will lose.”

“I will compete with you,” she said slowly, “but just not yet.”

“Very well. I agree, not yet. Now, let us see where this ancient leather scroll leads us, Miss Mayberry. As to the rest of it, I will let you know what I wish to do with you, and when.”

“Men love to be mastered more than women do.”

A dark eyebrow shot up a good inch. “Where did you hear such nonsense as that?”

“It’s true.”

“We will doubtless see. Someday. If I wish it.”

He had routed her. Helen had never before in her life been routed. She had never before met his like, either. He had reduced her to an idiot. She couldn’t think of a single thing to say that would improve matters, so she pulled Eleanor back until she was riding beside her father’s carriage.

Lord Beecham heard Lord Prith’s booming voice asking Helen what the devil she wanted with an old man like him when she could torment a handsome young devil like Lord Beecham. He didn’t hear Miss Mayberry’s reply, but he could not imagine that it was very complimentary to him.

He began whistling. It took him a good mile before he could get his brain back in harness and focus it away from Miss Helen Mayberry’s sublime self.

King Edward’s Lamp.

What was it? He had little doubt that some lamp somewhere once existed. Hanging about for six hundred years, however, was a vastly different matter.

King Edward’s Lamp was a specific lamp that a Knight Templar gave the king, telling him it would make him the most powerful man in the world. But the only thing that had happened was that Queen Eleanor had gotten well, and the lamp could possibly have had something to do with it.

The only other lamp Lord Beecham knew about was Aladdin’s Lamp, a magic lamp from a tale in the
Arabian Nights,
a collection of stories to come out of the Middle Ages. It was one of the thousand and one tales that Queen Scheherazade had told her husband to avoid being put to death after her wedding night. Lord Beecham believed that the royal husband was eventually so overwhelmed by the woman’s creative stamina that he canceled the death order.

When Helen rode beside Lord Beecham again, her equilibrium doubtless restored to its usual level of confidence, he spoke aloud what he was thinking. “If we are talking about Aladdin’s Lamp, historically it all fits. Back in the Middle Ages, stories like this one were immensely popular all over Europe. It is old, I know. I just don’t remember how old.”

“It’s Persian,” Helen said. “From the Persian
Hezar Ef san
or ‘Thousand Romances’. I think the magic lamp was based on a real story that had floated about for a good long time before it was ever recorded. And I suspect that the relic we know as King Edward’s lamp is the item that inspired the tale.”

He felt something deep inside him, something he had believed long buried, begin to unfurl. It was excitement, the excitement of discovery, of seeking something that wasn’t immediately available.

He leaned forward and scratched just beneath Luther’s left ear. The horse whinnied and shook his great head. “He likes that. I keep forgetting to do it. The real lamp, without the genie, the shiftless lad, or the evil magician, ended up in the Knight Templar’s storehouse of riches in the Holy Land, only to find its way into the hands of King Edward of England. It made a very long journey.”

“Lord Beecham, you are living proof that debauchery doesn’t necessarily rot the brain, at least until after you are thirty-three.”

“Miss Mayberry, are you mocking me?”

“No, not really.” And she was thinking that the slant of his right eyebrow, currently arched at her, was quite fascinating.

“For God’s sake, we are having an intellectual discussion here and I am showing off some of my remembered erudition. Did I tell you that I read
A Thousand and One Nights
many times because I set myself the task of learning Arabic?”

“Vicar Gilliam did not know that about you. Arabic? I am very impressed.”

“You are mocking me again. I had hoped that after your return from your father’s company, you would have dismissed your delightful thoughts of pulling off my boot while you’re smiling at me over your shoulder.”

“I’m trying.”

“Is my other foot set against your bottom?”

“Not yet. I will consider that.”

“Good. Now, Miss Mayberry, just perhaps there might be other things to life than simple lust.” He laughed aloud and rubbed his gloved hands together. “Bedamned, Miss Mayberry, I do believe I am enjoying having my brain stretched.”

She was giving him an odd look. “You really sound quite different. Splendid, in a way. I know all this, naturally, since I’ve slept with most of these facts under my pillow for a goodly number of years.”

Lord Beecham said, “I even find that I can consider that this lamp, whose origins we don’t know, has some sort of magic property. Why not? As Hamlet said, ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’ ” He continued after a moment. “I believe in the Holy Grail, after all, in its powers, even though it has been out of our experience since Joseph of Arimathea so carefully hid it.

“But there is a huge difference between the chalice the Lord passed around to his disciples at the Last Supper and a simple lamp that was supposedly hidden in a cave for a shiftless boy to retrieve. It is not cloaked in religious trappings, in the power of the Almighty. There is no higher magic with this lamp, none of the awesome might with which the Holy Grail is imbued.”

“Yes,” she said and sighed. “I cannot help but agree. Who in the world would make an old lamp magic? For what purpose? That is what I cannot explain.”

He found he didn’t like her to fold her tent so quickly. “On the other hand, perhaps it is based on something that is real, something that isn’t a lamp, but something else.”

“Oh, how I hope so.” Her voice was very serious. Then she thrust up her chin. “But what? Oh, the devil, I know it exists, and that is good enough for the present.”

He smiled at her. “All right. I will settle for that as well. Now, even if we prove the existence of the lamp, how the devil are we going to find it?”

L
ORD BEECHAM WATCHED Flock elbow Nettle out of Teeny’s path. He had never seen Nettle look so vacuous. He turned away, shaking his head, reached up and clasped his hands around Miss Mayberry’s waist and lifted her down, no mean feat.

He said close to her ear, “You are indeed a big girl, Miss Mayberry. But you know, I don’t feel a single twinge in my back. Is it happenstance that your weight didn’t drop me to my knees? Let me see.” And he clasped his hands around her waist again and groaned as he lifted her in front of him. He let her back down very quickly. “At least two inches off the ground. I will say that this time was perhaps more precarious for my poor back, but regardless, I am still smiling, still looking at your mouth, still not bowed like an old man carrying too many sacks of flour. Now, tell me if I will have to protect poor Nettle from Flock. Do you think Flock is going to challenge Nettle to a duel for looking like a half-wit at Teeny? I have never seconded a valet before. It would prove interesting.”

“Flock is not only very territorial, he is also desperately in love with Teeny, but she refuses to marry him.”

“Why the devil not?”

“Just imagine it, Lord Beecham. Her name would be Teeny Flock. She managed to say it aloud, although she shuddered as it came out of her mouth. I will tell you, she has a point.”

“She can change her name to Elizabeth. Elizabeth Flock sounds quite charming.”

“I suggested something like that. She said that Teeny was her dear old grandma’s name, and she swears that the old witch will drop a hefty curse on her head for the rest of her life if she dares to change it.”

“What’s her last name now?”

“Bloodbane.”

He could only stare at her, repeating slowly, “Her name right now is Teeny Bloodbane?”