He was still half-asleep, so I just gripped him with my vaginal muscles. Soon he started to slip in and out. Ever so slowly and gently, we fucked the night away. As we made love so often, that our stamina was greatly improved and he was capable of staying inside me for half an hour without ejaculating. On this occasion, we semi-dozed while he stayed inside me, with him gently moving every now and again.
However, the slight movement brought me to orgasm and, as my muscles went into the spasms of pleasure, so too he came, and spewed forth his seed inside me. We slept, with him still inside me. My smile was fixed in place.
The next day saw my husband set off for London, so I decided to turn detective. The children were settled down, Katie and William with Mr Spurway, and Edward with Nanny in the Nursery. I put on my cloak and boots, set off for the market square and scoured the town for the stout companion of the man we had killed in Paris. I started at the house in Stert Street, and worked my way around the town. I was on the point of giving up, when I saw him in the bakers shop in the square.
I simply walked in and waited behind him in the queue.
He was buying two loaves of bread.
“Anything else, Mr Soames?” the baker asked.
“No, thank you, that’s all today,” he said, paying the few pennies and leaving.
“Ah, Lady de Lambert. Nice to see you, Ma’am. Cold out,” the baker said.
“It certainly is. Could I have a large white loaf, and some of those gingerbread men? The children do so love them.”
I paid for my purchases and went back out into the January cold. Mr Soames was walking rapidly across the square towards Bath Street with his head down and shoulders hunched up against the cold. I followed, watching as he went into a house in Bath Street. Number 14.
I would pay Mr Soames a visit.
I then visited my friend Josiah Smith, who had made me my wonderful shower. He was more than just a blacksmith, as he had a nice sideline in making sporting firearms for the farmers. As the Napoleonic war had changed the design of guns forever, one now had access to rifled barrels and vastly improved systems of ignition.
Josiah was not a gifted craftsman who would be able to ask ridiculous sums for his work, such as Holland and Holland or Mr Purdey, but his pieces were utilitarian and basic. There was no fancy scrollwork or engraving on his guns, but he made very sturdy and functional guns that were reliable without being fancy. I had given him some small order to construct certain metal components of a specific design. He was not aware of it, but he was the first man in the world to construct a working, six-shot revolver pistol, before the Colt was even invented. Using my down-loaded knowledge, the ammunition I constructed myself, using one hundred brass cases that Josiah had made for me. The powder was readily available, so all I needed was some space in the tool shed for my small amount of equipment, like the mould and press.
Josiah knew that he was making a pistol, but due to its size, and believing it to be a special design for a lady, he saw no future in it, as he found it too fiddly to be commercially viable. The local farmers wanted guns to kill game and vermin, so shotguns were more to his interest. As I may have mentioned, there were many robbers and thieves on the roads, a legacy of the wars, with so many ex-servicemen nearly destitute and resorting to wandering abroad and stealing from travellers. In fact, these men hastened the formation of the modern day Police, which would occur in 1839.
I then popped over to the saddler and collected Katie’s new saddle, as both she and Snowflake had out-grown the last one. I also picked up a belt and holster that he had made especially for me.
I went home and gave the bread to Cook, who shrugged, as she made all the bread we needed. With Oliver on the staff, who ate a vast amount, any extra was always welcome.
I went to my room to complete the outfit that I had been making over the last few weeks.
It was a uniform, but not one that anyone here would recognise.
With a pair of black breeches and a waist length black tunic with a high, roll-type collar, it was the nearest thing I could come to a quasi-police uniform. The Police in England would not be created until 1839, but if Mr Soames was one of the enemy, then I proposed to give him the fright of his life. I had even constructed a patch with TIME PROTECTION AGENCY, embroidered in white on a blue background, which I sewed on the left breast of the tunic.
I then opened the box from Josiah and assembled my pistol. It was very basic, so some of the parts needed a little filing in places to ensure a smooth fit, but it was of good quality steel, even if the workmanship was a little crude. I oiled it, loading it with six precious rounds that I had made. I knew that I was breaching every law of my own organisation, but I wanted to make a point. I felt a revolver was more sensible than a self-loading pistol, which is usually wrongly called an automatic.
He had also made for me a set of basic handcuffs, and a key.
Once the house was asleep, I dressed in the uniform, pinning my hair up. I’d have liked a beret or other more modern hat, but it wasn’t to be. I made up my face to look more twentieth-century, and pulled on my black riding boots.
With the belt and holster, I looked the part. I smiled, placing the gun in the holster. It felt very familiar and reassuring, but I hoped that I would not actually have to use it. I covered the uniform with my long hooded cape and slipped out of the house. I made my way across town, where I managed to gain entry to Mr Soames’ address. His single lock on the front door was crude and opened in moments. I had previously checked on this man, discovering that he was a bachelor and lived alone. He had a housekeeper, who resided in an apartment to the rear of the premises. He had been in Abingdon for six years, yet no one I spoke to was able to tell me what he did for a living.
I searched the house thoroughly first, his study first. In his desk, I found a time chart, with events up to 1840 written in the appropriate boxes and some events circled. One was Waterloo, as well as the date just before, when Roger and I foiled the assassination.
There were some in 1816, and then in 1822 in Washington DC, and others at various places in the United States. But I was interested in today’s date, January 8th 1816. Something was to happen this very day, and it involved this man. He had written, Oxford, 3pm. Last chance. I seized the chart, folding it and placing it in my pocket.
The house was an old one, so I was very conscious of every creak of the floorboards. The stairs were dreadful, so I moved very slowly up to his bedroom. His snores led me to his room, into which I managed to enter without waking him.
I took one of his hands, and very carefully managed to handcuff him to his bedpost, so then I searched under his pillow and found a contemporary pistol. It was loaded, but not cocked. Its twin was on the mantle piece, unloaded, so I simply switched the guns.
I lit a pair of candles and poured a glass of water onto the slumbering man’s face.
He woke up, coughing and spluttering. Then he saw me, paling visibly.
“Good morning, Mr Soames,” I said, with my American accent. It sounded very odd, even to my ears.
He sat up and suddenly found his hand attached to the bed.
“Who the devil are you?”
“I’m your worst nightmare, buddy, I’m a cop from the future. Your little game is over, and you’re busted!”
He frowned deeply. His waking brain was having difficulties with the information.
“You’re under arrest for breaching the time line code 4556.9. You, having no authority, have entered a time line in recognised history and illegally have conspired with others to alter said time line, by committing acts of murder, with a view for gain for yourself, or others, or to the detriment of others.”
He stared at me.
“This is impossible. You can’t be here!” he said, as one hand went under the pillow, coming out with the pistol. He pointed it at me, and the hammer made a very loud click as he cocked it.