The Secret Chronicles of Henry Dashwood, Vol. 2

Incidentally, there was no dining car on your train was there. You must be ravenous. I'll ask Fletcher to call us in for dinner at seven and skip tea. If all goes according to plan, we'll need to have worked off our evening meal by the time Harriet clocks off.' I raised my eyebrows and asked Julian if he had already made any firm arrangements with Harriet. He gave me a sly wink and answered: 'Have patience, Henry, all will be revealed in good time. It's possible that she might not be able to sneak off till quite late so I'll challenge you to five frames of snooker after dinner if we have to wait an hour or two for her.' Fletcher the butler may have had to press Harriet into service to help him serve dinner, but there were no signs of any problems in the kitchen. Mrs. Sawyer (the cook at Clayton Towers since Julian was a small boy) produced a mouth-watering dinner of Hors d'Oeuvres Variee, Noisettes d'Agneau aux Primeurs; Pommes Mozerre;

Epinards au Beurre; Salade Vosigienne; Tarte de Framboises et Groseilles; Compote de Peches, Glaces Vanille et Chocolat and I should record that the lovely Harriet proved herself an adept waitress.

After this magnificent blow-out feast, which we washed down with two bottles of a very decent hock (a '99 Niersteiner Pettenthal as Julian later informed me) we retired to the drawing room where Fletcher was waiting to pour out coffee and liqueurs for us. 'I think I'll skip the port,' I said as I flopped into an armchair. 'As it is, I'm feeling rather tired and I need to sharpen up if we're planning to remove to the games room afterwards.' 'I'll also forgo my usual cognac. I need to keep my aim steady,' said Julian meaningfully. 'So just a small black coffee for me, Fletcher. Henry?'

'I'll have the same, please,' I said and after the butler passed us two Crown Derby dessert cups, he retired from the room. A few sips of the strong Mocha coffee swiftly cleared my head and I heaved myself up from the chair, prepared to challenge Julian to the frames of snooker. 'Game for it?' he said carelessly, putting down his coffee cup on a side table. 'Personally, I'd much prefer a bloody good fuck! I might have sounded blase when I told you that Harriet was tiring me out, but talking about how she seduced me in the bathroom has made me feel so randy that every time she sidled up to me at dinner, my prick shot up like a bullet out of a gun. By gad, Henry! I can hardly wait to slide my stiffie back inside her tight juicy pussey.' He sighed and glanced up at the clock. 'You're right though, old boy, we could both use a little warm-up to work off Mrs.

Sawyer's delicious dinner. Marvellous cook, isn't she? Trouble is, she tends to spoil me and I always put on weight when I come home during the vacations!' 'Well, if it's any comfort, the latest medical opinion is that a five minute fuck is the equivalent of putting yourself through a one hundred yard dash or a good brisk country walk,' I remarked. Julian rubbed his hands together and chuckled: 'Then let's hope that we'll run a mile or two tonight, eh? Come on, let's walk up to the games room, that's where Harriet will expect to find us.' Sir Talbot Clayton, Julian's father, is a keen devotee of snooker and billiards and has recently purchased a full-size twelve foot table. Frankly, there was little excuse for poor shots on such a magnificent table with its low, last cushions and a bed of superfine baize cloth. But after forty-five minutes play, neither Julian or myself had managed to make a break of more than twenty, for we were finding it impossible to concentrate fully on our game. 'Damn! I'm playing like a one-armed drunkard,' I muttered softly after I missed potting an easy red. Julian looked up for the umpteenth time to see if there was any sign of Harriet and he also fluffed his shot. 'Isn't it about time she made an appearance?