The Shooting Season Read online

  The

  Shooting

  Season

  Isobel Starling

  www.decentfellowspress.com

  Copyright © 2019 Isobel Starling

  ISBN: 9781707700004

  ASIN: B081C6KP22

  First Edition:

  All rights reserved worldwide. This book may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the author, except for the purposes of reviews. The reviewer may quote brief passages for the review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.

  The characters and events described in this book are fictional. Any resemblance between characters and any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  The use of real-life locations is for fictional purposes. The plot, actions, and characters in this work are fictional and in no way reflect real-life occurrences at these establishments.

  The Shooting Season, Copyright © 2019 Isobel Starling

  Cover Art Design by Isobel Starling

  Many thanks to my family for their love and support

  Praise for Isobel Starling

  “Oh my gosh, this was a hyperintense erotic read. It's highly seductive. The eroticism dripped everywhere. It crackled with sensual electricity. But damn it made me cry and I never wanted it to end. This is what I call 'intense and sensual'” Review for “Silken” by Truus on Amazon

  “It has heat and sweetness, danger and anger, and a bad guy you can really scowl at. Hard. And mean. And then simper with joy at the lovebirds he detests. Ha! This is the type of series that has you back talking the characters. Out loud. And only being embarrassed that they ignored you. It fills you up until you're bubbly with the feels it pulls from within you.” Review of Shatterproof Bond Series Boxset by Paisley Rowan on Amazon

  “I found myself simply mesmerized by the exchange of words as Sam and Declan make the true depth of their feelings known. You can’t help but be moved by it, and I felt like my heart would just explode with the power of Sam and Declan’s love and devotion. I can’t wait for the next adventure; this series really has me hooked!” Review of “Return to Zero” by Carra, Making it Happen Book blog

  Contents

  Chapter 1 The Missive

  Chapter 2 The Collectors

  Chapter 3 Remembrance

  Chapter 4 The Viewing

  Chapter 5 In The Dark

  Chapter 6 The Night Light

  Chapter 7 The Marauder

  Chapter8 Truths & Untruths

  Chapter9 The Auction

  Chapter 10 Snowbound

  Chapter 11 The Visitor

  Chapter 12 The Gift

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  The Missive

  Monday 20th December 1897

  I stepped from my carriage into the frigid, smoggy London city night, and to ward off the biting chill, pulled the fur lapels of my greatcoat closed.

  Being of a somewhat reserved disposition I was content to do business at my offices during the day but did not commonly venture out in London after dark. I was not comfortable in crowds, I did not like to be touched, and the bustle of crowds caused me great anxiety. On the rare occasion I did endeavor for company I would attend my club where I could overnight should I require. But this night I had ventured into the filthy city and I was not attending my club. There was an errand I must undertake that was of such great import that I could not allow my irrational fears or misgivings to thwart me.

  A young uniformed porter stepped from the shadows and doffed his cap.

  “Here, boy,” I bellowed. “Take my trunk to the Caledonian Sleeper first-class baggage car”.

  He nodded subserviently and received my wheeled traveling trunk from the coachman. I tossed the coachman a sixpence, far too munificent for a tip, but it was the season of goodwill and I was in a generous mood.

  Hearing the warning shriek of the train whistle, I grasped the handle of my small overnight case, gripped my silver-topped cane, and then hurried into the mercifully vacant Euston Railway Station. I swiftly made my way to the ticket booth and on purchasing my first-class ticket with an additional charge for the sleeping compartment, I rushed toward platform one where the magnificent snarling steam engine stood. It was huffing and puffing like a beast on the bridle, desperate to escape its bonds and fly. I edged through the billowing clouds of smoke and steam to find an empty platform, free at this late hour, of the hubbub of people bidding adieu to their loved ones.

  The porter dragged my wheeled trunk to the train and awaited assistance at the baggage car to lift it aboard.

  “The first-class carriage is coupled at the front of the train sir.” The cockney porter called as I hurried past. I was most anxious to find the correct carriage, warm myself, and settle my nerves with a glass of mulled Port. The winds that whistled through the station threatened snow but the newspapers suggested we would be spared a blizzard until Christmas Day, five-days hence. I was traveling to Scotland and therefore, did not trust that forecast one bit.

  At last, I found my carriage. I removed my top hat and stepped out of the cold night and aboard the luxurious ten-thirty p.m. Caledonian Sleeper train from London Euston. I would arrive, well-rested, at Glasgow Central Station at seven a.m.

  My reason for making such an arduous journey during the coldest season of the year was contained in a letter that I’d folded neatly and placed in my breast pocket, not an hour before reaching the Railway Station. My errand was partly business in nature, but primarily it was to feed my obsession. I was traveling to Dunecht Hall on the Glenlair Estate near Fort William for the auction of the personal treasures of the late Lord Percival Ardmillan. The letter explained that Lord Ardmillan’s Last Will and Testament contained a clause stating that the most prized possessions from his personal collection were not to be left to his son and heir, Euan, but would be auctioned to a select group of art and antiquity collectors exactly one year from the day of his passing. Then a public estate sale would commence after Hogmanay to dispose of fripperies, such was the need to cover Lord Percival’s death duties. I would be long gone by then, snug in my London townhouse with a glass of Sherry and a wedge of stilton, marveling over my prized purchase.

  I have been a collector of art and antiquities since I was a boy, a passion fueled by my beloved uncle Barnard. He was quite the adventurer and traveled to the Americas, the Far East, and Europe. Having no children of his own, he brought me back all kinds of wondrous gifts and with each he had a story to tell. I have a gold doubloon coin dated 1711 which he told me he had fished from a pirate shipwreck, an ancient Viking ring honed from twisted silver found in the belly of a fish, and a set of eight ceramic marbles from Ancient Greece covered in the strangest of symbols. As a lad of ten, more used to wooden trains, books, and board games, I understood that what my uncle gave me were priceless treasures. He fired my imagination and in turn, I lost myself in books about ancient civilizations.

  Later, when I was older and attending university in Edinburgh I got word that Uncle Barnard had not returned from his latest adventure and the remains of his ship were found scuppered off the coast of Cornwall. I pledged then to continue collecting in memory of my uncle. Now, in my fiftieth year with no wife or child to bleed my coffers, I run Hannan’s Auction House in Fitzrovia, London, and in my private time, purchase treasures to feed my heart’s desire.

  Lord Percival Ardmillan was quite the adventurer himself, a Military man; he traveled far and wide during his lifetime. Lord Percy was not the most pleasant of men, and he collected whatever sparkling treasures stole his attention, whether the owner wanted to part with the item or not!
It is well-known that many of Lord Ardmillan’s treasures were obtained from bloodshed and I must admit, traveling to his Scottish estate did give me some trepidation. Lord Ardmillan had used his station and sword to add to his collection. I’d heard stories of how a Sultan was slain so Ardmillan could take the gold and jeweled Tiger heads that ornamented his throne. I did not know if this repulsive story was true, but I supposed I would find out!

  And so, Lord Ardmillan had cut a swath through the Middle-East and India in search of glory for the Crown, and jewels to pay for his debauched life back in England. I did not think of him as a godly person, and, if I’m honest I was glad to hear of his passing because I knew there would come a time where I could purchase the item that I was going to so much effort to own.

  The item I converted was spectacular and unique. I had seen it once before when I was naught but twenty. Lord Ardmillan's son, Euan was my special friend from university and in our final year, he invited me to the Glenlair Estate for the shooting season. I must admit, I am a useless shot, but there were other things that the tantalizing Euan Ardmillan wanted to teach me to shoot! During those heady halcyon days with Euan, I’d enjoyed my first illicit lessons in the ways of the flesh with a man.

  I had long since banished thoughts of the shameful things we did from my mind, or so I told myself. I was now god-fearing and devout. I did not want to think of it, I did not want the intrusive flashes of memory—Euan, pale and lithe, bending over his father’s billiard table for me and letting me do such unspeakable, pleasurable, things to his young, willing body. I’d felt so wretchedly ashamed afterward, even though we’d both wanted and enjoyed it. That part of my nature was indecent, and fearing for my immortal soul, I took refuge in Holy Communion, prayer and denial of the pleasures of the flesh.

  Some in my circle wondered why I would not take a wife, others thought of me as cold-hearted because of my anxiety of touching and being touched, but my solitary life without intimacy had given time for prayer and contemplation. I had deduced over the years that with my particular temperament it was best for me not to form attachments. It was best for me to avoid human touch, not because I didn’t like it, but because the feeling of skin upon skin elicited such a fire that I found it almost unbearable in public, therefore, I kept myself to myself and avoided crowds. My only indulgences were the hunting and studying of art and antiquities.

  I entered the blessedly warm first-class lounge car to see six other travelers seated in the high backed leather chairs, reading, playing games of cards and dominoes, and having a much-needed nightcap to push the chill from their bones. An attendant stood inside the door. He was dressed for service in a black suit, white shirt, and black tie. The man was in his early thirties, with deep-set dark eyes and a military short back and side’s haircut, glistening with pomade. He bowed graciously.

  “Good evening sir, I am Mr. Cummings, how may I be of service.” He had a light, gentle Edinburgh accent that reminded me of my time studying in the city.

  “Mr. Benedict Hannan, I reserved a first-class compartment,” I responded, taking the ticket from my pocket and handing it to the man. He took the ticket, punched a hole in it with a small metal punch, gave it back, and then proceeded to assist me in removing my greatcoat. My own valet knew exactly how to remove my clothing without so much as tracing a finger on me. I was uncomfortable to have my coat removed by a stranger but I gritted my teeth and was done with it.

  With my coat over one arm, my top hat and cane in his hand, and taking my overnight case in the other Cummings said,

  “Allow me to show you to your compartment, sir.” He turned and I followed through the lounge that smelled strongly of whiskey and tobacco. The raucous laughter of the gaming men echoed down the corridor. The interior of the train appeared to me like a gentleman’s club, with plush carpet, furnishings, and wood-paneled walls accented with lighting from cut crystal lampshades.

  “There is a bar service until midnight and if you wish to avail of supper, please let me know. Breakfast is served from six a.m. Do you require an alarm call?” The attendant asked. He led me through the narrow carriage corridor to cabin number six. Cummings opened the timber and brass door and I followed him into the small compartment. At that moment I heard the booming voice of the station master on the platform outside the window calling “All aboard” and then the shrill of his whistle was followed by the ear-splitting shriek of the train whistle. The engine shunted forward and to my horror, I barreled into Cummings’s back. The man’s hands were full and on impulse I reached out and gripped his shoulders to prevent both of us from falling. With my proximity to this not too shabby man, immediately, I felt the heat rise to color my cheeks and my hands burned with sensation. I had lasted a whole year without touching another living soul and feeling the dependable hardness of a man’s back against me, and my fingers gripping strong angled shoulders, elicited a sharp intimate thrill, followed by an immediate dose of burning shame. I unhanded the attendant and took a quick step back.

  “Seems we’re on our way, sir!” Cummings turned, and his smiling brown eyes met mine. Then, as if coming to awareness he closed down his expression and continued with his chores. Cummings straightened up and placed my belongings on the cot bed. He closed my top hat so that it was flat and less cumbersome. He placed the hat, cane, and small overnight case on a shelf above the cot bed. Then he threaded my coat onto a hanger and hooked it on the back of the door.

  The train rocked and juddered as we headed out into the frigid night, north toward Crewe, Carlisle, and then to Glasgow.

  “Ehhh…Thank you for your assistance, my good man.” I said awkwardly, swiftly fidgeting to find a sixpence in my pocket to offer him as a tip.

  “I won’t require an alarm call. But I would like a glass of mulled Port, and whatever you have for supper if you would be so kind.” I dropped the coin into Cumming's open hand and he slipped it into his waistcoat pocket and nodded. He met my eyes for longer than strictly necessary as if he were making my measure, and I had a feeling he was expecting me to ask something else. Was Cummings dallying with me or was this my deviant imagination at play? I’d only met the man a minute ago. I felt sweat beading my brow. I did not want to be in the confines of such a small compartment with this younger man.

  “I… I will take my nightcap in the lounge,” I said, a little too roughly. Cummings nodded.

  “Very good sir. If you require any assistance during your stay there is a service bell here.” He directed, pointing to a brass push bell on the wall. Then Cummings left me alone, closing the door succinctly behind him.

  I removed my leather gloves from my burning fingers and sagged onto the bed, overcome by a wave of shame and anxiety. I should not have reached out, I should not have touched him. But if I had not I would have landed atop him and that would have been far worse. Was this all in my mind or did the attendant want to offer other services? I had heard talk in my club of men having some exciting trysts on railway journeys. I thought they were mere fancy. But then I’d learned that prostitution on the railways was an open secret, known mainly by those who sought such services or had a friend with whom they shared intimate information. I was appalled that, at a glance, Cummings might have thought me the kind of man who sought an illicit tug from a stranger on a train. What irked me most was that, if I gave in to my darker nature, he would have been right. I was a deviant, a filthy, ungodly deviant. I had tried to deny that part of me. It had been so long since I’d permitted myself intimate contact with a man that I found I’d become half-hard in the mere moments I was pressed to Cummings’s back. I wonder, did he notice? Gods, I was pathetic. I must repress my urges. I did not want these erotic thoughts. I could hold the need in for only so long before my body betrayed me—then I saw to myself and felt completely wretched afterward.

  I slumped back on the bed and my collar felt all too restrictive around my throat. I reached and unhooked it, then undid the top button of my shirt. I slipped my trembling fingers inside and pulled o
ut the warm silver cross that hung around my neck. I caressed it, seeking comfort. I prayed, begging the Lord's forgiveness for my sinful thoughts. After several minutes of prayer, I regained my sober mask, righted myself, opened my overnight case, and set out my pyjamas, my slippers, and my toileting bag. Then I left the cabin, locking the door behind me and returned to the lounge car. I needed a stiff drink!

  As I walked the narrow corridor, rocking back and forth with the gait of the train, I looked out of the picture windows framing one side of the carriage which displayed the built-up cityscape of London with a grey pea-souper fug hanging low like a malevolent cloud. I was glad to be leaving the filthy city, heading for fresh air, glorious vistas and of course the item from Lord Ardmillan’s collection that I had coveted for the past thirty years.

  On entering the lounge a haze of cigar smoke hung in the air, and the deep rumbling laughter of gentlemen in conversation jarred me from the fugue state that the clickety-clack of the train workings had temporarily put me in. There were fifteen high backed leather chairs grouped in two’s and three’s around the lounge, with small side tables. Seven men were seated, and of course, no women. If a woman were to take the Caledonian Sleeper, for propriety’s sake, she and her companion would stay in their compartment for the duration of the journey.

  Two somber suited, grey whiskered elderly gentlemen were seated opposite one another on my left, locked in a battle of wills over a game of dominoes. One of the men looked up, caught my eye, and nodded a stern greeting. Four men of business sat together indulging in a game of whist and some banter. Then, I saw a seventh man sitting alone, a blue-grey cloud of pipe smoke swirled from behind an opened copy of The Times Newspaper shrouding his face. The headline writ large across the cover spoke of a thief on the loose. The man’s legs were crossed, but what caught my eye was that he wore the most splendid two-tone inky black and cognac russet leather ankle boots. I knew immediately that these were the handiwork of the famous Mr. Edwin Clapp of Massachusetts for they were much in demand among the fashionable men of London society.