The Count D'Urberville's strumpets were as requested: a comely pair, scrubbed clean and unencumbered by any kind of underwear. He reclined on the shabby hotel's best furniture, did his best to ignore the drunken cacophony from the bar downstairs, and surveyed the naked rumps revealed by cheekily raised skirts.
"You." He prodded one bare buttock with the cold silver tip of his cane, making the girl jump and squeak, and setting off a mouthwatering cascade of wobbles. "Attend to your friend."
These were old favourites, they knew his games. The squeaker quickly dropped to her knees and her friend raised a foot onto a chair to allow for intimate access below.
The Count was delighted at how his evening was progressing. The room was warmly lit by fire and candles against a harsh rainstorm outside, and the girls were in such high spirits that his breeches strained fuller than his swag-bag of plunder.
He was teasing with where the cold cane might intrude next, when the rowdy bar noise below suddenly quieted; as if the terrible Monsieur Grand Feline himself had unexpectedly made an appearance.
In D'Urberville's nefarious line of work - as the most gentlemanly of gentlemen thieves - he was a cautious man, and his room was positioned on a balcony directly overlooking the bar. He left the wenches to themselves while he took a peek outside.
He did not expect to find - framed by the front door below and looking as terrified as a chick in the foxes den - a bedraggled woman. More surprising than that, a Lady. And more surprising than even that, a beautiful Lady.
"I need a room for the night!" The diminutive flame-haired female shouted from the doorway, as if trying to persuade herself. The raucous bastards, including M. Porcine the owner, simply laughed heartily in response.
The Count strutted out onto the mezzanine and rapped his cane hard on the balustrade.
"Silence, you dolts!"
Having everyone's attention, including - deliciously - the huge ginger-pudding eyes of Madame herself, he barked for Porcine to offer the woman the hotel's finest suite. The plump hotelier raised his hands and blustered, "My Lord we have no more. Your room is the finest and-"
"Very well! Madame, please you must take my room. I will sleep with my horse tonight." He executed his most decorative bow, but by the sniggers rippling through the bar, determined the Lady remained unmoved. "My Lady, please! You can trust The Count d'Urberville with your life." He raised his voice over heckling. "Let me help a fellow aristocrat."
"Oh yes, there," gasped one of the girls in his room. "Yes... Yes!"
Concealing the fruity squeals of climax, the Count loudly ordered food and wine for everyone - causing considerable uproar - then shushed the girls out quickly. With their skirts down they looked half-decent as they passed the Lady on the stairs. She clutched her bag to her bosom and gave the minxes a wide berth.
"My Lady!" He greeted his guest with another gallant bow and ushered her into the room. Grabbing his hat, jacket and plunder-bag, he made to take his leave. "An exquisite pleasure!" he added floridly.
He was half way out before the young lady - looking entirely lost and alone - suddenly blurted, "Oh Sir, don't leave me, not yet!"
He stopped with a double-take worthy of Shakespeare's Globe, and clicked his heals. He closed the door, shutting them both in. The Lady removed her wet hood and cloak, filling the room with her perfume and revealing a shapely bodice.
"Very good M'Lady. One cannot be too careful when..." he found himself salivating already "...in the wilds!"
She flushed and put out her hand to be dutifully kissed, her fingers chilly against his lips. "Sir, I am Mademoiselle Virginie Therriot, please excuse my so rudely purloining your quarters. My coach was robbed and the drivers all fled. They say it was Le Grand Feline."
They sat and the Count felt a squirm of delight at the ghost of his whore's raised foot on the prim Mademoiselle's chair. "My Lady, I would doubt it was who you say. Le Grand Feline attacks only thieves."
Mademoiselle Virginie shrugged. "But monsieur, they were horribly scared thus..." She mimed a claw across her cheek. "That is his calling card, yes?"
A knock heralded the arrival of refreshments and the Count smiled broadly at the Mademoiselle, as if at a child. "It suits many men to claim they were overpowered by such a man as Le Grand Feline, don't you think?"
The Mademoiselle's eyes swelled at the food laid out before them. D'Urberville hoped all her appetites were as keen.
He waited until the servant had left before playing his next card, and in a hushed tone. "And well, let us just say I am intimately aware of his whereabouts."
He let the enigmatic comment hang in the air long enough to cause a look of wondrous re-evaluation to pass across Virginie's face. One might even say a hint of excitement.
Le Grand Feline was the greatest of scoundrels, but women gossiped only about his prowess as a lover. It would be to D'Urberville's great benefit to hint that he might be the infamous predator. As he poured wine into the sweet girl's cup, he fought to control his excitement. This was a far more refined and exquisite a creature than the bawdy harlots he had planned to pluck tonight.
