Chapter 23: Business is business

I spent the entire day after the Twelfth Day of Christmas in bed, comatose, and it was only in the afternoon of the next day I summoned sufficient energy to rise from my bed and wash and shave.
I recalled what the veterinary in Stow on the Wold had said when Rambo, the regimental mascot, had over extended himself in the tupping of ewes:
‘Rams are like men, they fornicate until exhausted, and then continue fornicating until completely and utterly exhausted’.
Like Rambo I had over reached myself, and suffered complete exhaustion as a result of my carnal excesses. I also ached in every sinew, muscle and limb, and John Thomas was red raw from the extensive galloping carried out over the past eight days. My back, neck, groin, and chest, bore the livid marks made by two rapacious females out of their minds with lust, and frenzied with lechery.
Nonetheless, despite my fatigue I kept my appointment with John Stafford, for although I no longer needed employment any information he might have concerning Becky would be something for me to follow up after my arrival in Italy.

“By Jove, Jack, you look completely enervated, like someone who has had no sleep for several days. Have you been struck down by some ague?” John Stafford said.
“I suspect it due to the winter illness, John, nothing to worry about.”
“You best look after your health, as I have been authorised to employ...”
“I have been reassigned by the army, and am now unable to take up a position with MI6. The new orders came as a complete surprise to me when I reported to Horse Guards. I apologise if my refusal upsets any planning you had already carried out.”
“Naturally I am disappointed you and I will not be working together, Jack.” He gave a slight laugh, “but man proposes and Horse Guards disposes. I know the main reason for you wishing to join MI6 was to track down Eloise de La Zouche, and your sister of course. Knowing your sister’s last reported sighting was in Ravenna I have dispatched my man Cameron to the Foreign Office, with orders to pick up the reports from our consuls in the Italian cities of Milan, Florence, Venice Naples, Rome...”
I gave a great beam of delight, and cut him short. “I am bound for Italy at the end of the month, and will be based in Leghorn. It seems fate moves in a mysterious way its wonders to perform.”
If John Stafford, a Godly man, had noted my alteration to the well-known saying nothing showed on his face.
“Well, that is serendipity at work,” he said.” Accompanying the official reports from our consuls will also be the tittle-tattle type of letters from those of our countrymen, although more often than not our countrywomen, who like to inform those in London what mischief their compatriots have been up to.” He paused, and pondered aloud. “Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?”
I had enough Latin to mentally translate the saying, and he the good manners not to translate it for me.

While we waited for the return of his man Cameron from the Foreign Office I asked John how his Christmas had been at Muscovy House in Somerset.
“We had a most enjoyable time, Jack. The Crossleys certainly know how to celebrate Christmas. Lara was happy to see her brothers and uncle, although not so enamoured to see her sister-in-law. Lara does not approve of Rulenska’s somewhat rakish and disreputable life style. While she turns a blind eye to her brother Boris’s extra marital behaviour Lara is a traditionalist, and believes a wife should be chaste and demure, other than with her husband of course.”
He gave a slight flush of embarrassment, and I smiled inwardly. It appeared the Staffords still maintained a loving physical relationship after ten years of marriage, and two children - and good for them, say I.
“Did Boris return to London with you?” I asked.
“No, he is staying in Somerset for a few more days. Lara insisted we leave before Boris carried out his duties as Archangel. You know what...”
I spared his blushes. “Yes, Ivan Crossley gave me a full and frank insight as to what the production of Angel Nectar entails.”
“So you know what happens on Twelfth Night?”
“Yes, when the Stogumber Angel’s five handmaidens are...”
“Quite so. As you would imagine there is a lot of salacious talk about the place before the ceremony, and young William, our nine years old son, was asking some awkward questions. Lara thought it best we left Stogumber before Twelfth Night, you know how children are quick to pick up on those things they should not?”
I nodded, but of course had no idea; my children had perished before I had time to really know them.

John Stafford, a kind and thoughtful man, must have sensed my sudden pang of grief. He took a bottle of Madeira from a cabinet and offered me a glass. I declined, and he poured himself a large measure. He had finished the contents of his glass, and was having a refill, when his clerk Cameron entered the office with a large number of manila files.
“These are all the reports you asked for, sir, and among them was this letter addressed to you.” He handed an envelope, bearing the seal of the Foreign Office, to Stafford.
“Thank you, David. You can cut off home now, back to that pretty little wife of yours.” Cameron gave a wide smile, and gleefully left the room.
“He is a decent enough fellow, but I think he has reached the pinnacle of his career, although his wife might give him the impetus to do more with himself. She has aspirations.” Stafford had torn open the envelope while talking, to find another envelope within.
“‘Pon my soul, this one is addressed to you!”
He handed me the envelope, which I quickly opened and scanned the sentence written on the enclosed sheet of paper.

John Stafford’s jaw dropped when I relayed the contents of the letter to him.
“Room 101 is in the Treasury’s area of the Palace. What would the Exchequer want with you?
“I have no idea, unless they wish to take back some of my pay. Between the time I left Somerset and the time I reported to the Adjutant General’s Office at Horse Guards I was technically on half pay. I assume I received full pay during that period, and now the bean counters wish to recoup the balance.”

I had a week before reporting to Room 101, and apart from visits to Madam Whipcrack’s establishment little else to do in the meantime, although there were several letters I needed to write.
All my friends, family, and colleagues had written expressing their condolences on the death of my family. I had not replied in full to them all, due to my lapse of memory, or mental breakdown - take your choice - plus the matter of training a militia battalion, and then marching to Somerset.
I was surprised, and rather disappointed, to have received no letters from Mimi Renoir for several months. We had kept a regular correspondence during my time at Taunton, but I had no news from her since moving to Bridgewater in November. However, the severe winter the continent was suffering had severely disrupted travel and communications, and I assumed, hoped, her letters were en route but delayed.

I gave Madam Whipcrack’s a miss for several evenings. Truth to tell I needed the rest. My stamina, and powers of recuperation, had been severely diminished by the wanton and passionate pair. Several nights of unbroken sleep would fit me for further tussles in the lists of love. My lance had been blunted, and now required tempering and re-sharpening. Nevertheless, I fully intended renewing my orgiastic relationship with Paloma and Lillian. Nothing mattered, and nothing existed when I was with those two harlots, other than the female writhing in pleasure above, and/ or below, me. I immersed myself in their avid flesh, pouring my essence into their every portal, with no thoughts of Caroline, the deaths of my family, my missing sister, Eloise de la Zouche, the army, or my existence. Even my demon was stilled.
I simply luxuriated in unfettered fornication and the carnal delight of being completely consumed by two eager young females and rampant lechery. I lived for the moment, and the moment had seduced me.

I cannot recall how the subject arose, but one evening at Madam Whipcrack’s I related the tale of how my family had met their end.
We, that is myself, Paloma, and Lillian, were lying, sated, in a post coital cluster on the large bed in Paloma’s room.
Naturally, both girls were shocked and horrified by the tale. Lillian’s tears fell like rain as she clung to me, sobbing. I could see Paloma was shaken at the thought of a family being burned to death. She had witnessed deaths by fire in Brussels. Eventually the tears ceased, and the girls comforted me in the best way they knew.
This was first a gentle gallop with Lillian, followed by a more robust rogering from Paloma, then, after some restorative beverages, the evening developed into something that surpassed even the wantonness, debauchery and depravity of the Stafford Knot concerto.