accident.”
“Well, good for old Percy boy. I always knew he would stumble at the last hurdle.” A wide grin came to his lips. “So I’m a blooming duke, am I?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Paul turned to Grigory. “How do you like that, you crazy Cossack! Little old Paul is a blooming duke.”
“You’re a real duke?” said Grigory, awed. “The same kind of duke as we have in Russia?”
“You can bet your sweet old life on that,” yelled Paul. “A real live, wind-passing, arse-pinching, village-owning duke, with a castle bigger than this whole blooming forest.” He spun towards Mr. Blatherbell. “How much can I get for the castle?”
“I don’t quite know, but it would be a large sum.”
Paul sobered. He turned and looked directly at Grigory. “You will come with me, won’t you, my friend?”
Grigory smiled wistfully as he shook his head. “It is a different world there, my Little Cossack. My world is here. I would not be the same man elsewhere.” He put his arms around Paul’s shoulders. “Go, my friend, be the Duke you are. Just remember that I love you more than a brother.”
They embraced unashamedly.
CHAPTER IV
Paul was deliriously happy. Rubbing his smooth, clean-shaven face, he leaned forward in the foamy, sweet-scented water of the tub to accept a light for his cigar from a voluptuous red-haired maid dressed in the briefest, lowest-cut blouse a seamstress could devise without full exposure of her high, rose-tipped breasts, and wearing the sheerest, tightest, shortest sarong ever dreamed up by a discriminating connoisseur of the female loins. As she bent over to fill a wine glass beside the tub, her blouse fell open completely, and Paul splashed the water frantically.
He closed his eyes in sweet contentment, giving himself up to the tender ministrations of two more girls, a blonde and a brunette, dressed exactly like the redhead, with almost identical proportions, who were eagerly soaping his chest and back, giggling as first one and then the other explored beneath the foam with only the merest pretence of washing down His Grace.
A knock at the door of the bathing chamber preceded the entrance of another, delectable, curvaceous” blonde, dressed in the black formal wear of a butler, but clad only in the briefest shorts instead of striped trousers and a jacket which exposed ten inches of absolutely mouth-watering flesh at her midriff before falling away into tails.
“Your Grace,” she said, sighing in envy at the girls fondling Paul here and there, “your solicitors, Messrs. Blatherbell, Poopendal and Snoddergas have arrived. They await your presence in the drawing room.”
Paul looked at the disappointed expressions on the faces of his three bath attendants. “I’ll bathe again after lunch. How will that suit you?” he said.
Their faces lit up instantly and they tittered. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
He rose from the tub and the three girls rushed forward with towels to dry him, their tongues moistening their lips as they stole glances downward.
When the attendants finished drying him, it being the good fortune of the brunette to minister to his hips and downwards this morning, since this duty was rotated at each bath as a result of the incident which took place during the first session when Paul had not apportioned the various parts of his body for drying and the three attendants had fought for nearly five minutes pulling hair and ripping off blouses and tearing sarongs - well, Paul had not really objected to the fight and had actually enjoyed it enough to tinker with the idea of allowing it to take place after each bath as a sort of wake-me-up in the morning, but after two of them fell on top of him during the fracas and almost drowned him, he concluded that compromise was a better solution to the problem - Paul donned his dressing gown, slipped on sandals and went across the hall to his bedroom. He had deliberately selected the room in which the old Duke had kicked the bucket for sentimental reasons, but he had brightened it up with garishly woven rugs on the floor, paintings of naked dancing girls on the walls, and seductive rose colored curtains clashing with the powder blue cover on the bed.
A French maid, dressed even more briefly than the bath attendants, with only the tip of her lace apron covering her vortex and a tiny heart-shaped morsel of lace atop her lustrous black hair, removed the robe and helped him into his clothes, It was sheer agony for Paul when she pressed up against him to button his shirt and knot his tie, but holding his breath and squeezing his hands tightly behind his back, he managed to get through the dressing without changing his plans somewhat and holding up the meeting due to take place below.
He walked out of his bedroom to the top of the staircase. Two female footmen waited for him there, tall, regal blonde Swedes, their hair drawn back in a knot at the base of their heads, garbed in black, silver-buckled shoes, pink knee-length silk stockings, brocaded shorts revealing firm flesh from knee to thigh, brocaded bolero jackets which came down only three-quarters of the way over their breasts with a four-inch gap at the front. Each servant bore a candelabra with lighted tapers, even though it was broad daylight. They curtsied.
“Your Grace,” they greeted him.
Paul nodded casually, motioned them on ahead, then rubbed his hands with glee as he studied their round tails swaying with each downward step.
They led him to the door of the drawing room, where another female footman waited, a brunette, also dressed in the new style livery of the castle. She opened the door and curtsied Paul inside.
At the far side of a round, polished oak table were seated the three solicitors. They rose and bowed the instant Paul entered,
“Your Grace,” they said in unison,
“Gentlemen,” said Paul, waving them to their seats. He took his place across from them, picked up a small bell and rang it. The door opened and the female butler and a servant came into the room, each bearing a tray with cigars, cut crystal glasses and a decanter of Madeira. The servant passed cigars and wine to the solicitors while the female butler filled a glass for Paul, then lit his cigar carefully with a match. While this was being done, Paul caressed her leg, which was hidden by the table.
When the two girls had left the room, Mr. Blatherbell stood up and raised his wine glass.
“Your Grace,” he said with evident sincerity. “Never, in all my experience have I seen such an amazing transformation of a castle. I salute your inventiveness and superb taste.”
Mr. Poopendal and Mr. Snoddergas leaped to their feet and raised their glasses.
“To Your Grace,” they shouted.
Paul acknowledged their salute and they drank. When they were seated, Mr. Blatherbell opened his thick black case and drew out a number of papers. “Your Grace, I have here the lists of properties owned by you. As your uncle, may he rest in peace, left only an invalid will, he had died intestate, and his title and properties pass to his male next-of-kin, who, we are delighted to find, is your good self, a person of most obvious attributes and splendid refinement.”
“Hear, hear!” shouted Mr. Poopendal and Mr. Snoddergas, nodding and smiling.
Paul raised his glass of wine and drained it. “How much money did he leave?” he asked.
“Very
