- Three Days Prior -
"...The trollop! The absolute nerve of it all, sir, to be publicly disgraced! You must understand my plight, this injustice - nay, a slight against mine own house."
A halfwit all of a hundred pounds by Silas' reckoning paces back and forth by lantern light in front of the meeting table, his overcoat weakly fluttering each time he spins on a heel.
"But yes, your services..."
The werewolf huntsman leans back in his chair, leathers and furs bundled loosely around him to shield against the growing cold of the autumn months. He eyes the waifish man, gaze narrowing into near-pinpricks as the full glare of the lantern catches his face. The reclining back upon his wooden seat elicits a creak of complaint from the well-worn furniture, balking at Silas' bulk, more easily perceptible to the fidgety man in front of him - who finally slows as he comes to get a better look at the young lord's impressively full stature, arms straining against his poor dress shirt as they cross in front of his chest.
"Whas'she look like, again?" He muses aloud, plucking the portrait produced as descriptor up from the table between him and his newfound employer. The huntsman takes some time to study the picture of Lydia, lips curling back into a wolfish smile; one with a pull of his tongue along the tips of his teeth as one might sharpen a blade for war. Even sketched, the brown skin of her soft, round face shines with youth, dark, thickly lashed eyes gleaming behind round glasses, as though the lady had a secret to keep.
"Alright, lordling. You've yourself a deal. Dead or otherwise defamed, as per the terms."
Silas quickly flicks his chin towards the table, upon which sits a formidable bag of gold. An impeccably dressed man emerges from the dark behind the young lord to claim it, retreating just as quickly as he emerged. Silas snaps the fidgeting lordling's attention back to him by slamming his weight down onto the front legs of the chair, seeming to force the whole cabin room to jump under his bulk.
"Now get gone. Hiring an assassin is hardly noble work, and besides.." the Lord of Vaughan leans forward, voice lowering to a snarl. "You've long overstayed your welcome in our woods, boy."
Without a moment longer to think on the words offered, the lordling bows, quickly retreating from the cabin in the woods.
As soon as he's out of earshot, Silas chuckles, then breaks out into a full belly laugh, furs atop him jostled by the motion; several others in the shadows joining him.
"Easy work, lads and lasses, as ever." He levers himself up to his feet, running a hand over his furred chin and smirking. "Alright, my fellows...a party awaits our subtle touch; the wolves of the other houses will be watching, so keep their ears pointed away, and leave me to my work."
Silas inhales long through his nose. "I plan on savoring this one."
~
Lydia Pembroke fans herself with her rapidly filling dance card, eyes scanning the marble and glass ballroom, filled floor to ceiling with lords and ladies, officers and servants, wolf and man alike. Her satin dancing slippers pinch her toes and she is desperate to retire to the gardens, or the library, or really anywhere with a chaise. However, any time she manages to shake male attention and inch towards a door to leave, her eldest sister, Vidalia, sweeps by, long-suffering husband in hand, tittering like an idiot about how she ought to make herself available to the "many fine gentleman, waiting eagerly for the touch of soft hands."
Absolutely vulgar, if anyone would bother to ask Lydia. Both she and her sister knew very well that Lydia showed her face at these functions at the insistence of their poor, aging father.
"Darling Lydia," he had said, cupping Lydia's hand in his own, weathered by years of service, to the Queen and their country. "I'm not long to join your mother, but I wish for you to be taken care of. I will not leave you to destitution, my estate is yours, dear girl, granted, you can find a husband to manage it."
Lydia did not argue with her father, for she too was in want of a husband, and he was too old by half to keep up with Lydia's fits of spirit anymore. It just happened to be that every offer for her hand seemed to be ill-fated. Once, a young officer from the Queen's Naval Brigade, kind in mouth but awful in deed and manner. Then, a bear of a man (a countenance Lydia had not found so disagreeable) from Siberia, who had seemed more interested in Lydia's proclivity to sew clothing than her personage or wit. And most recently, a minor Lordling, clearly obsessed with her father's title and land. He had handled Lydia like cattle, pulling her this way and that, and insisted that once she was his wife she would "need to slim down considerably". As such, Lydia had taken great pleasure in dismissing his proposal as nothing more than the demands of a temperamental child. She had embarrassed him greatly, publicly, and enjoyed every second of it, even though, subsequently, Vidalia had raged about it for hours on end.
So instead of running away from potential suitors, Lydia washes down her anxiety and quickly numbing, pinched toes in spiced wine and tiny, white tea cakes. The lady shifts her weight from one foot to the other, and feels the strain of her plump figure against the corset underneath her gown. When she turns to fetch another glass of wine, another gentleman is waiting for her, face full of joy and attention. He is not a stranger, Lydia knows they had been introduced before, but his name escapes her. As he speaks, she ponders it.
His eyes linger on the generous swell of her breasts over top of green silk and white lace. Round in both face and figure, Lydia was not unfamiliar with the delight of his gaze. Her hips are prominent, even under petticoats, and her waist tucks in neatly, only with aides of girdles and corsets. Her bosom, however, is what keeps many gentlemen calling, Vidalia once said, they were larger than any chest had right to be, and would feed her children well.
