Dewey Lambdin: The King`s Coat

In retrospect, perhaps, getting into his half sister's mutton was not the brightest idea that Alan Lewrie had ever had. Not, he told himself later, that it had been his idea at all; Belinda had been the initiator and he merely the recipient of her favors, which were ample. That she had been the object of desire for half the blades in London, both old and young, made it imperative that he try her at least once, just for the sake of comparison, much like a book critic would sample some Gothick fright and flummery so he could say he had read it. That half those blades had already preceded him really didn't bother Alan.

After all, Belinda never dallied with anyone less than aristocratic (unless one counted the odd stable boy, ostler, shop clerk, tinker or tradesman who happened to be in the immediate vicinity when her blood was up), and since Lewrie knew half of them anyway, he could be fairly sure she wasn't poxed.

Admittedly, he had suffered some pangs of concern that they were related, but since he was a Willoughby by blood if not by name, they had submerged wherever guilt pangs go when faced directly against Willoughby nature. Run shrieking for the nearest window, he surmised to himself, if they have any sense at all.

Belinda was a fetching girl right enough, an auburn beauty with creamy skin, breasts that threatened to spill over her bodice, and bold eyes for any man of comely proportions. And, being a Willoughby, hot as a pagan Hindoo with the morals of a monkey.

Alan was seventeen, two years younger than she, but already sure of his abilities to please at what he thought was the I Prime Sport of Kings, a well-knit young man of middling height who could turn heads at a ball or on the Strand even without his "Macaroni" clothing. With the Christmas season over, and the City Season pace dying down, he had little to look: forward to until spring and invitations to country houses, and had wearied of maids and mop-squeezers. It was looking to be a damned dull year, 1780, until the last explosion of parties in spring, so what could be more delightful than a dalliance at home, where one did not have to brave the elements, the Mob, mud, dead cats and streets full of garbage, or a shower of night soil from some window? This wiH cut down on my gambling debts, and my clothing bills, so everyone should be grateful.

He had been surprised that Belinda would show interest in him at all, since he was the younger adopted but natural son born out of wedlock, usually referred to as "that filthy little bastard" by everyone, including his father, and Belinda herself. But suddenly, instead of irritable toleration, there had been a week or two of sultry looks, some covert fondling, seductive conversation and deep breathing that led up to this night when all the servants were out of the way. Gerald was off chasing fellow sodomites so he could scratch his particular form of Willoughby itch; Sir Hugo and. his manservant Morton were both away, most likely drinking and wenching themselves into the gout again, and no one to interfere. Alan had pinched a silk condom from Sir Hugo's travelling kit (half sister or not, he was only fairly sure of her latest amours) and had finally succumbed eagerly.

They were gloriously engaged, and Belinda was trying to emulate the sound of a pack of hounds after the fox had gone to earth, when he thought he heard a scuffling noise in the hall, which he thought damned odd, odd enough to put him off stride, which didn't seem to affect Belinda's squirmings and View Halloo much. He knew servants never came upstairs after dinner, not if they knew what was good for them, and everyone else would be away 'til dawn at the earliest.

Then he heard the door latch snap open "Suffering Christ," he breathed, his passion cooling precipitously. "Belinda, leave off, quick!" She grappled him even tighter to her, yelping aloud now, her transports of joy turning into full-fledged yells which he took for dumb lust. "Not now, you silly mort, someone's here. ’

‘Merciful Father in Heaven," a voice quavered as the bed curtains parted with ajerk, spilling candlelight on the scene. Alan gulped at the sight of their parish vicar. Now what's the "amen-curler" doing here? God, is he up next with her? Belinda pitched into a screaming frenzy as Alan disengaged and crawled away from the scene of the crime. Then, he saw the others; his brother Gerald, grinning wickedly; his father's catch-fart Morton, who had a pistol in his fist; his father, even redder in the face than his usual brandy-induced hue, exercising his thick fingers on a walking stick; God help him, even their family solicitor Pilchard was there, bringing up the rear and trying to peek over their shoulders for a better view of Belinda's charms as she screeched her way up a full octave. ’Your own sister!" The vicar appropriately shuddered. ’You godless… animal!’

‘Half sister," Alan corrected as coolly as he could, clad only in a silk sheath condom and kneeling about as close to flagrante delicto as one could. ’He raped me! Help!" Belinda screamed. ’I'll see you hang for this," Sir Hugo said, advancing with the walking stick swishing the air. "Rape, hell," Alan shouted in defense, thinking it a poor one even as he said it. "The jade was the one invited me!’

‘Lying hound!" Sir Hugo took a swing at Alan's head that barely missed the vicar, and, if Alan had not gone flat on his back, would have half beheaded him. "I'll kill you for this, you little bastard.’

Alan did the sensible thing at that point; he ran. He leaped from the bed and made for his clothes. Morton came for him, but he was a well-fed slowcoach, and Alan had retrieved his breeches and was well on his way to freedom past Morton's outstretched arms when Sir Hugo's cane came down like a thunderbolt from on high and strock him on the shoulder, which caused him to draw his length on the parquet. ’There, there, girl." The vicar pawed Belinda's bare anns and back and reluctantly allowed her to draw a sheet up over her magnificent young breasts. "You're safe from him now!" Sir Hugo got the toe of his shoe in, spinning Alan about on the bare boards like a top before he fetched up against a table which came down with a crash, but allowed him space to rise. Belinda went into another paroxysm of wailing as the vicar slobbered over her. ’Vicar, I swear before God this was not totally my doing," Alan shouted, dodging about the room from Morton and his father. Gerald and Pilchard huddled in the doorway, unwilling to get too involved, but ready to form a blocking force. "I don't know you well, and I doubt if you know this family well, either, but if you did.. ‘. ’Take him, Morton," his father said. "Take him now!" The one safe road was not another lap of the room. Alan vaulted a table and dove back into the bed, rolling to his feet by the vicar. ’If you would only listen to me, sir…" he begged. Belinda's feet flew into action, pummeling him around the groin and up against the quavering old churchman. "You… you… Absalom!" the vicar finally managed to say, just before hitting him inexpertly in the chin with a lean and birdlike fist. It was enough, however, to put stars in his vision and brought with it the odd urge to sneeze. As the others rounded the bed to lay hands on him, he sank to the floor once more, feeling the thump of the vicar's foot slamming his ribs. ’Here, that's not quite… cricket," he protested.

As he was jerked to his feet and hustled out of the room, he got a chance to lay eyes on Belinda once more, and she was staring at him with a curious smile on her lips and a crinkle to her eyes, the sort of smile he had seen her deliver to a particularly tasty stuffed goose at remove, after she had had her fill and was quite satisfied.