Infernal Devices - KW Jeter [69]
"Some of the more Puritanical elements of Cromwell's forces," said Mrs Wroth as she playfully wound a lock of my hair around her forefinger. "They heard about what sorts of things the noblemen in the Royal Anti-Society were getting up to – all sorts of… mmm… deviltry, they probably thought it was."
Her last few words were whispered in my ear, as she leaned close to me. I drew away, seeing in her intent gaze the same disturbing expression I had spotted there before.
Voices, shouting but incomprehensible, came from downstairs. "Perhaps… we'd better–"
She brought her hand down, caressing my neck. "So you've got one secret organization," she went on, "and another secret organization combating it. They've both rather declined in number over the years – I'm afraid those… old passions… die out after a while. Like old families – the blood gets thin." She levelled her disconcerting stare straight into my eyes.
I slid away against the bannister. "Are – are we safe here?"
Taking my hand, she drew me to the next flight of steps. "We don't want to be disturbed," she said, smiling.
A musty odour of long-shut-off rooms greeted us on the next storey. In the dark, Mrs Wroth pulled me along. "Quickly – they won't find us in here." Enough moonlight filtered in through an uncurtained window for me to discern her fumbling about at a small table. A safety match flared, then the warmer glow of a candle cast about us. A cloud of dust blossomed as she sat down on the side of a bed. "Now let's see." Her smile grew as she grabbed me by the wrist.
"God in Heaven! What? Mrs Wroth–" Clasped to her bosom, I tumbled back with her full-length on the bed. Her arms, as slender and delicate as the rest of her, were imbued with the fierce strength of her desire. I struggled vainly, scarcely able to breathe, by the force of her embrace. "Please – what are you doing–?"
She rolled over, pinning me against the bare mattress. I looked up into eyes glittering with a lust bordering on madness; her gown had become disarrayed in the sudden assault, revealing an expanse of pearl-like flesh shining with perspiration. "Tick-tock," she said, and giggled as she bent low to bring the sharp points of her teeth into my chin.
"What?" I managed to wriggle one arm free, but only for a moment until she had bound it with hers again.
"You clockwork confection, you." Her bite, going lower, brought a yelp from me. "Tick-tock, mmm." Her hands busied themselves at my clothing. "Let's just see if we can find the key to wind you up."
"Madam – good God–" I gasped for air. Somewhere far off, voices were shouting. "Don't… most improper–"
"Just a moment – what–" She suddenly reared back, pushing herself away from me. She gazed down at me, her eyes wide. "What's the meaning of this? You're not clockwork at all!"
I caught enough breath to speak. "No… no, I'm not…"
"You're flesh and blood!" she shouted angrily. "You're no Paganinicon!"
I pulled my shirt. together. "I'm afraid not, madam." The back of my head bumped against the wall as I pushed myself away on my elbows. "I'm sorry…"
"That bastard." Mrs Wroth's face darkened, her eyes narrowing to slits. "He told me…"
"Pardon?" I was relieved that her attention had turned elsewhere. "Who's that?"
"Sir Charles," she muttered. "My husband. I'll pay him out for this. He informed me that there would be a clockwork replica of Paganini here tonight. An exact duplicate, in every detail." She gnawed furiously at one of her fingernails.
"Well… I'm afraid I can't play the violin." I looked past her to the door; the shouting sounded louder.
"To hell with the bloody violin. It was the other thing I was interested in. That blackguard…"
"'Other thing?'" I inquired.
She glared at me, as if I were the general representative of the gender that included her perfidious husband. "You know very well what I'm talking about. The great Paganini… he has a reputation for virtuosity in more areas than just music. He's cut a swath through the rich and titled ladies of every country in Europe. Some of them