The Bane Of Men

Chapter 1: Long Time No See

She watched from the deserted gallery, looking down on the rows of middle-aged and elderly men below, sat in rows of red leather seats in the opulent Chamber. Her vision was not impaired by the heavy mourning veil she still wore over her features, the heavy silk gown clinging to her slender limbs. Beneath the veil, sharp green eyes watched with interest and suspicion on the heads of the Lords below.

Her eyes searched the inhabitants of the Chamber, searching for one in particular.

Where was he?

She had heard he'd only recently returned from China, on a diplomatic mission for her Majesty. She snorted derisively behind her veil.

That man never did anything for Queen and Country unless he had something to gain by it.

Finally the Speaker for the House of Lords stood, and the chatter died down.

"First order of business, my Lords, is the report of our esteemed friend, Lord Rathbone, who has recently returned from a diplomatic mission to China," the old Chamberlain said, his voice carrying clearly over the cavernous hall.

She refused to acknowledge the sudden pounding in her chest as anything other than anticipation, as a young man stood in the crowd of Lords below.

Lord Nelson Rathbone was a handsome fellow of about thirty years old, with dark eyes that glittered with intelligence and cunning, messy black hair and sculpted features. He straightened the lapels of his fitted coat of Bath superfine, before beginning his report, his powerful voice easily reaching even the distant gallery.

"My fellow Lords," he began, stepping into the centre of the Chamber, oozing arrogance and self-assuredness. "I'm afraid I bring disturbing news from the Orient. The Opium Wars have ravaged the lands and the Emperor's enemies are organising. The most vicious are the Boxers, a band of Godless rebels who murder without discretion. China is not well,"

At the rise of uncertain and disturbed voices, the veiled woman smirked and shook her head, clapping her hands slightly. "Bravo, Nelson, bravo. You've got them eating out of the palm of your hand," she murmured quietly. Her attention was drawn back down into the Chamber, as Rathbone spoke once more, gesturing with his hand to the doormen.

"Given to Her Majesty Queen Victoria by Emperor Keung Hsu in recognition of her fifty glorious years on the throne. Long Live the Queen!"

The veiled woman drew her breath at the lethally beautiful animal that had been wheeled in, in a cage, growling and snarling ferociously. The tiger snarled and struck out with its claws at its captors, as she saw a small, contemptuous smile dawn on Rathbone's austere mouth.

A mouth she remembered too well. Recollections of it had haunted her for years.

Cries of outrage and distress from the Lords rose in a cacophony of noise, just before the beast was taken back out. Seemingly in protest to the mutinous mutterings of his fellow Lords, Rathbone's smile turned urbanely charming as he turned to return to his seat.

"I apologise for the dramatics, but I have presented the Emperor's gifts as it was presented to me. My report is concluded," he said, sitting back down. The muttering died back down as the Speaker tried to reclaim order.

Turning away, the woman descended from the gallery, taking a small folded note from her purse. It was nothing but a plain card of embossed white, a ruby red seal displaying a coat of arms to the world. Once she was back in the main foyer, she called one of the liveried footmen over to her.

"Deliver this to Lord Rathbone once the session has adjourned. With my compliments," she murmured softly, holding out the note alongside a gold crown. The footman's eyes widened, before he bowed over her hand.

"Of course, Lady Sinclair," he muttered obsequiously, before he backed away. A satisfied smile dawned under the impenetrable black veil as the lady turned and ascended a staircase to one of the offices above the Chamber.

Perhaps it is now time to introduce our mysterious Lady Sinclair, no?

A high-born lady of rank, but she is not your conventional noblewoman. Our heroine spent most of her life in the Orient, or Japan to be precise, and she was no wilting English Rose.

Belinda Sinclair was looking forward to her first meeting with Nelson Rathbone for ten years.


Rathbone smiled in satisfaction as he rose from his seat in the House of Lords. He let himself be pulled along in the crowd of noblemen rushing for the door, all talking feverishly of his little stunt with the tiger. He chuckled to himself, fielding question after question with charming ease. This was the life he'd lived for ten years, and it fit him like an old glove.

But he craved more.

The raid in China had been just the first step. Soon, he would have it all.

"My Lord Rathbone!" a voice called him from behind. Rathbone turned to find a footman come scurrying up to him, bowing at the waist before holding out a card to him. Intrigued, Rathbone took it, absentmindedly acknowledging the footman's disappearance.

He turned it over and felt his heart pound at the coat of arms sealed in red wax on the other side.

Her.

She whom he hadn't seen for ten years, because of her blasted father. He had died a few years ago, if he recalled correctly, of consumption. Serve the blighter right, in his mind. Rathbones did not like to be told no.

He vaguely recalled catching glimpses of Belinda Sinclair, in the gossip and rumours of London's elite. After the death of her father, Belinda had become nothing short of a hermit, hiding her considerable beauty under a mourning veil, and refusing all invitations. She had to be…..twenty five, twenty six by now?

His curiosity piqued further, Rathbone broke the seal and opened the missive, his eyebrows rising a few seconds later.

An amused smile crinkled his smooth lips as he turned towards the Parliamentary offices, crumpling the note in his hand a moment later.


Rathbone strode along a dim hallway, its high windows looking out on the bustling Parliament Square below. His shoes echoed in the deserted hall, before he paused outside a carved mahogany door. He inhaled deeply before opening it.

Within, the room was darkened, but he soon spotted a slender figure standing over by one of the windows, veiled in lace and mystery.

"My Lady Sinclair," he murmured, inclining his head as he closed the door and stood before it, watching her intently.

She turned towards him, the sunlight haloing her form. She was gowned in sombre black, the long sleeves and draped bustle skirt hiding skin he remembered felt like satin to the touch. The veil hid the skin of her collarbone and neck, but he could see a glimpse of gleaming mahogany curls poking from behind the veil. Her hands were gloved.

"Hello, Rathbone," she murmured, her voice a gentle caress, but he could detect the smile in her voice. "Your performance in the Chamber was entertaining, I must say. My congratulations,"

"Thank you. I did not think women could enter the House of Lords," Rathbone said, strolling forward, holding his hands behind his back, but smiling easily. He could just imagine her smirk when she answered.

"Oh, how you underestimate women, my Lord. There are other ways into the Houses of Parliament other than the front door," she told him cryptically.

"And as the daughter of the previous British Ambassador to the Japanese, you are well-known here," Rathbone retorted. She inclined her head.

"There is that also," she murmured laughingly.

"How long has it been?" Rathbone suddenly asked, stepping closer to her, "Ten years?"

"Yes, it has been. Much has changed," Belinda replied, almost sadly.

"Much time has been wasted, you mean," Rathbone corrected her, sliding one arm confidently around her waist and pulling her forward. At her gasp, he surmised she wasn't expecting his forwardness. "Oh what is a little impropriety amongst old friends?"

"Your arrogance is one thing that is unchanged, my Lord," Belinda replied coolly, yet the honorific pricked him. He smirked condescendingly, one hand rising to her veil. He sensed her eyes flare.

"Don't you dare!" she snarled, and he was taken aback by the vehemence in her voice. He sighed impatiently.

"You've been hiding your beauty behind a mourning veil for too long," he whispered, grasping the edge of her veil and pulling it up slowly, but not all the way. He conceded to her wish, and just uncovered her lips.

Those lips that he'd dreamed about nightly for the past ten years, that had tortured him with their innocence and naïveté, and renewed his hunger for her with a vengeance.

He kissed her voraciously, pulling her hard against him. Belinda moaned into his mouth, sliding her hands up the lapels of his coat to his hair, twining her fingers with the raven mess. Rathbone pressed her back against the wall, uncaring if he was frightening her, just needing to reassure himself that she was still his, after all this time. Belinda yielded her mouth with a sigh, pressing it back on him as she kissed him aggressively. One of Rathbone's hands slid up the nape of her neck, holding her head still as her re-asserted dominance of the kiss, claiming her mouth in a devastating invasion. The feel of her soft body pressed to his once more was almost more than he could take. He left her lips, the pair breathing raggedly in unison.

"God, how I have missed you, Belinda," he murmured against her lips before placing a taunting little kiss at the very corner of her lips.

"I had heard you've been too busy to spend much time pining over me, Nelson," Belinda replied coldly, pushing him away slightly. Surprised, Rathbone straightened, but could see her façade was exactly that: a façade.

Belinda's lips were as red as he remembered, swollen and bruised from his attentions; her skin flushed a gentle rose. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Belinda," he whispered, raising one eyebrow arrogantly.

"And I'm sure you know exactly what I'm talking about," she whispered back, smiling smugly, as Rathbone felt uncertainty sweep him. Could she know of his plans?

"My dear, let us not argue over trivialities," he said, reassuming his confident mien, hauling her back into his arms once more and kissing her senseless. Heady compulsion rose under his skin, licking like flames, making every touch of their fully-clothed bodies a pure agony of want and desire.

Belinda felt him take her mouth again, and she was unable to resist, arching into his arms instinctively.

Damn the blasted man! Couldn't he keep his hands to himself for one minute!?

Regardless of what her mind was shrieking at her, Belinda slid her hands into his hair, relishing the silky strands back under her fingers. The harsh, hungry communion of their lips sent fire coursing through every vein she possessed, molten lava flows of passion sparking under her skin.

This was not the gentle, tender suitor of ten years before, but a hungry, dominant savage, intent on fraying any sanity she possessed into shreds.

Wait, she had a point she'd come here to make. She hadn't come for this, no matter how pleasurable it was. She had to stop it now, in its prematurity, before it went too far.

She felt Rathbone's strong hand caress up from her waist, possessively exploring a figure that had changed a lot over ten years. It was sleeker now, more refined, having lost all its childish plumpness.

The body of a huntress, as Orchid would say.

Recalling herself from the mindless passion he'd dragged her into, Belinda raised one hand to her hair, pulling out a long dagger/hair pin that anchored her curls. In a flash of movement, she brought it up and against Rathbone's throat, pressing against his jugular. They paused in their embrace, Belinda finally able to breathe and to think.

Both activities threatened to descend back into breathless chaos at the fires in his dark eyes.

"Beware, Rathbone. I am not the girl you once knew," she said warningly, pushing him away slightly.

"Evidently not," he murmured, swallowing. His Adam's apple rode against the cold, wafer-thin blade. "What did you call me here for, then?"

To Belinda's surprise, he was utterly cool and calm, as if they were merely discussing the weather, not standing in a parliamentary office, her with a knife to his throat, heated and flustered after their passionate kiss.

"I know you're planning something, Rathbone. Something to do with the Queen, and I warn you now, I will find a way to stop you," she said shortly. Rathbone's brows rose incredulously. "Don't even go there with the innocent act, Rathbone. It doesn't suit you!"

His brow lowered, and he shrugged, moving away from under her dagger. "I have never been innocent, but then you always found that…alluring in me, did you not, Belinda?" he said, suggestively. Her eyes narrowed as she flicked her veil back down.

"Oh get over yourself, Rathbone!" she snarled.

"Oh touchy! I seemed to have inadvertently grazed a nerve," he said, folding his arms and leaning against the window frame, his eyes on her veiled face.

Belinda inhaled deeply, digging for patience, before she faced his Arrogant Lordship once more.

"What are you planning, Rathbone?" she asked coolly, determined not to lose her temper and let him win. He cocked an eyebrow, smirking as he prowled predatorily towards her.

"You don't know, do you? But you were always clever and cunning, Belinda. See if you can work it out," he said suavely.

"Then you admit you're planning something?" she asked, surprised he hadn't denied her accusation at all.

"Did I ever deny I wasn't, Belinda?" he retorted evasively, as Belinda rolled her eyes. "You have not changed. Still the same fiery, impatient girl I remember so well,"

"I will find out what you're planning, Rathbone, and when I do; I'm going to stop you," she said quietly, sliding her dagger/hair pin back into place as she went to walk out the room.

Moving quicker than a panther, Rathbone snagged her wrist and drew her back to him, one brow raised superciliously.

"Now that's no way to bid goodbye to an old friend," he murmured, taking advantage of a gap in the folds of her glove to plant a hungry, open-mouthed kiss on her pulse. He could feel it leap beneath his lips, as he smiled smugly, before he raised his head.

Belinda snatched it back; her breathing noticeably strained and strode from the room.

"I will stop you, Rathbone," was the final whisper over her shoulder as she left, and Rathbone was left standing alone.

A predatory grin spread across his lips.

"I look forward to it, my Belinda," he murmured, before he too left the room.