Page 21 of Burying Venus

The witchfinder’s partner was of another make entirely. An older, portly gentleman who wore his ridiculous hat with severity. His outfit was black and plain, matching the young man who marched a few paces ahead.

‘My sons are eager to meet you,’ Lord Stanley murmured, seeming to ignore the young man and go straight for the older.

‘You are mistaken, Lord Stanley. My partner is the witchfinder you sent for. I am but his faithful assistant,’ the gentlemansaid. He spoke in the affected manner typical of the upper-class. Keen eyes falling on them as if in scrutiny, he at last glimpsed Dermot raking his eyes over the young man, and an outrage so unmistakable afflicted him that Dermot stepped back until he was obscured behind Robert.

‘What…’ Lord Stanley said. He was uncomprehending, lost in some trance he couldn’t quite escape from.

‘Indeed! I welcome you to our island and my family’s home. Was the journey fair?’ Robert said, practically pouncing on them. He offered his hand to the witchfinder, making the young man flinch as he was all but crushed in Robert’s firm grip.

‘Quite long, in fact. I have travelled by boat before but this is our first overseas expedition together. We are eager to get to work,’ the older gentleman said, eyes flitting to Dermot with a frown.

‘Mr…’ Robert said, trailing off.

The witchfinder sneered and looked to his companion, who gave a brief nod. ‘Thorne,’ he said.

‘And the crossing?’ Robert said.

Thorne stared at Robert, eerie and expressionless. For a man in his twenties, he hadn’t one wrinkle to show for it, and his skin was pale and faultless. ‘Tolerable,’ he said finally, fixing those strange eyes on the stone beneath their feet.

‘Well,’ Robert said, for even a man so well-trained in courtesy couldn’t feign interest when met by such aloofness. ‘The servants have prepared a veritable feast in preparation for your coming. We do, after all, intend to lavish our thanks on our most esteemed guests.’

‘That is much too kind,’ the older man said. Still no one thought to ask his name.

‘I was remiss earlier. Do pardon me. I am Lord Robert, eldest son of Lord Stanley, and beside me are my dear brothers,’ Robert said, gaze fixed on Thorne despite the man’s tepid introduction.

Thorne frowned at Robert, looking to both Tristan and Aubrey in turn before again casting his eyes to stone. ‘A pleasure,’ he murmured.

‘And I am John,’ Thorne’s assistant said and, at a slight tilt of the head from his companion, said again, ‘Weston. John Weston.’

‘Indeed!’ Robert said. His voice, usually reserved for cruelty and vice, strained at these niceties like a discordant string. He moved seamlessly towards the castle, indicating the rest of them to do the same.

Dermot, trying to keep from Aubrey, went instead to Thorne. Their witchfinder was a dark beauty, clad in black with a cloak draped over one shoulder that lingered attractively at the edge of his trousers. What made him yet more beguiling was an error on the part of his tailor, trousers being tight enough to reveal a particularly pert bottom. Dermot could not avert his eyes as the witchfinder moved, hypnotised by the billowing of the cloak, the soft sway of his hips. His mind went at once to some imagining, that of himself as the inquisitor and Thorne bound and at his mercy. Were he at liberty, he’d have gone straightaway to the nearest privy to stroke his prick raw.

‘Have you had many women?’ Tristan said. That spurred Thorne to turn from examining the carpets to look at Tristan, who, between scarcely concealed laughter, said, ‘They’re usually women, aren’t they? And you interrogate them?’

Thorne’s shapely lips drew into a pout. Dermot feared he would spill as he walked, so captivated was he by this puritan.

‘Of course. If we did not and went instead by baseless assumption, we would be violating the principles a witchfinder adheres to,’ Thorne said. This, Dermot guessed, might’ve been the truth, for it was the most he’d said since meeting them.

Tristan’s hands traced his braid as if in contemplation. ‘Principles? What do you mean? A country girl wandering alone, is that not suspicious?’

‘Not particularly. You will find the majority of these cases stem from a grandmother, for instance. How else are the children supposed to learn, should they not come from a family of those who are likeminded,’ Thorne said. He spoke softly, and Dermot strained to hear him, fascinated by how he inched away from Tristan.

At this, Tristan muttered under his breath and spoke no more. His fantasies must’ve been doused as his comely young maiden morphed into an old woman. But Dermot was even more heated; shy and quiet, Thorne was certainly his preference.

‘Oh my,’ John Weston said. ‘What a feast, Lord Stanley. I don’t quite know what to do with it.’

Dermot knew precisely what he wanted the simpering buffoon to do. The man already suspected him, clearly, and whether it was Dermot’s lack of status that perturbed him or his keen eye on Thorne, he wasn’t certain, but evidently he was disliked.

‘My son…’ Lord Stanley called meekly.

‘Let us sit. Weston, Thorne, you are my guests of honour. I must request you sit directly opposite me so I can observe your reactions as my most trusted manservant relays the events of the day to you,’ Robert said, striding into the room and taking the seat nearest the head of the table, where Lord Stanley was still obliged to sit. ‘Come!’

Weston signalled for his partner to follow and reserved his place opposite Robert. If he noticed Robert’s frown, he wisely ignored it.

‘This seat is for Dermot,’ Robert said as Tristan threw the chair a foot from the table. ‘He is to tell the tale. How can we expect him to shout from across the room?’

Tristan looked askance at both Robert and Dermot. ‘He is but a servant! Where am I supposed to sit, right of Aubrey as if I am the youngest? Or should I take mother’s chair?’ Lady Stanley had died a few years before, and still Lord Stanley refused to remarry. It was perhaps the man’s only admirable quality.