Part 4 of 8
Richard stiffens in surprise and almost denies it but then looks down at himself. Breeches, I'm wearing breeches. AND hose! He runs a hand over his torso. Velvet. Brocade. Silk. He huffs a defeated sigh. Oh, god, I'm still in the show. My brain must be demented! How do I wake up?
Another rustle makes him look up. The shape in the bed is now wrapping itself in some sort of shawl or robe before it begins to sway slowly towards him. Oh, great, he thinks, now I have to face that red-headed actress and defend myself against squandering the family fortune once more. His lips part and the words swarm up but then he gurgles into silence as the faint candle-light gleams on dark hair, dark skin, dark eyes. She's just a shadow but she seems to be taking shape right before his eyes.
One thing is certain, this is most definitely NOT Lady F or Featherington Manor. His eyes dart about once more as the light continues to brighten, taking in the room's sham elegance and a word pops into his head, a word he's never had to say outside of his job and certainly a word that could never be associated with the habits of one Richard Poole… and that word is 'brothel'.
He takes a step back from the questing hand before him, "Er, oh, um, hello, Miss…?" he says as the woman halts and gazes at him in puzzlement, her scanty covering slipping dangerously low.
Then she smiles as if at a joke, "Ar-chee, you have forgotten my name? Why do you play games with your Catia? Come here, my sweet English favour." She reaches for him again and with every second that passes she looks more and more like Camille… except for the accent.
Why does she sound Spanish?
He side-steps and puts a worn leather chair between them, "I'm not playing games, I just don't know why I'm here." At her arched brow he adds, "I mean I know why men come here but I… I don't… um…"
She studies him for a moment then sinks into the chair, "Ah, with you always the duty first, yes? You are here because I summoned you, sweet man. I have vital words about the bad moneys."
He stiffens again but in curiosity this time. "The counterfeits, you mean?" She nods and he whispers, "So, I was right! This whole scheme involves Napoleon's counterfeit plates." He sinks into another chair magically appearing beside her, "Tell me more."
She sighs tiredly, "I will but pour me some Madeira, please? I am parched."
Richard looks about, sees a dimly glowing bottle on a shabby sideboard. He crosses the room and pours a glass, thinks about it then pours a second. He's feeling a bit wobbly and could use a stiff drink. He's never had Madeira before. Just as he picks up the small glasses, slim arms encircle his waist, running expert hands over him as he gasps and jerks and spins to face her.
Dark knowing eyes gleam up at him, Camille's eyes, so beloved yet so strange.
He shoves a glass at her, "Here, your Madeira." She takes it upon reflex and a bit slops over the rim, splashing onto the exposed tops of her breasts. She steps back and stares at him as he blurts, "Sorry, I seem to have filled the glasses a bit too much. Um, do you have a towel?"
She smiles then, sips her drink, lowers her covering another killer half-inch, and coos, "Towel? No need for such. Come, shy one, give me your tongue."
END – part 4