Diogenes Pendergast let his eyes roam carefully up and down the woman standing before him. As players went, she was technically one of the best sexual partners he had ever had but beyond that she was emotionally backward. And she could never match his Gwen for showmanship — not even with all of her professional experience.

Viola had her good points though. She normally did as she was told, but as the Bard said, “Aye, there’s the rub”. She did not do “normally” this time. She had proved to be quite adept at playing games with his brother. Too adept. She had been an excellent confidant and for years had been there when he needed her. It ticked Diogenes off no end that his beautiful Galatea could turn out to be such a dolt where Aloysius was concerned.

Sitting comfortably in the only really decent chair in the house, a club chair that he had specially made and sent out from England, Diogenes rested one arm bent at the elbow on the arm of the chair and laid his cheek in his palm. “Well, Jenny,” he drawled heartily, “it seems you’ve forgotten the cardinal rule of playing games. Don’t get involved with the marks.”

At the sound of the name Jenny, Viola closed her lustrous brown eyes against the on-rush of memories that the name never failed to evoke. He always called her Jenny when he was angry with her. But this was different. There was no “Jenny”, slap, “Jenny”, slap as was the custom when she upset Diogenes. No feel of his backhanding her across the face as was usual. She waited unsettled by his non-action. Jenny had known Diogenes long enough to know what he could do when aroused in any way.

“Jenny. Jenny Hartigan from Camden Town. Way too beautiful for Geyster Row and that howling brood you came from. Eight kids? Nine? Didn’t matter. You were sublime and wild as a panther. That gardener father of yours tried to train you to help him pot the geraniums and plant the trees for his wealthy clientele, but you were much better at training yourself in the mannerisms and speech of your betters. You wanted something much, much more beyond your station in life. The stage was the place for you! I remember when I first saw you in that cheap little production of ”Twelfth Night“. You could barely speak the words correctly, but with your looks, all you really had to do was stand there. Ah, yes, m’dear. It was fate that brought me to that dreary little theatre in the East End. I saw in you a creation. You would be my marble, and I would sculpt you into the perfect aristocrat,” Diogenes laughed. The smile on his face was not the least bit mirthful, and Jenny wondered what in God’s name was coming next. Why was he singing this old song again?

Jenny remembered the care he had taken with her to form her properly into an English gentlewoman. When he had picked her up at the stage door after the performance, she had thought that he was just another rich John looking for a little fun with an actress. Well, that was nothing new. And the “overtime” helped pay for the nicer clothes she liked so well. But this one was different. He wanted her to act. After the initial sex, which was a little more feisty than she was used to but rather interesting all the same, he moved her into an apartment of her own. She had been his mistress for four months when he approached her with the Lady Maskelene idea. The lessons she had had to endure! God, she had hated those smug tutors! Voice and diction coaches, a dance teacher for her posture and movements, a make-up artist and dresser, manners and methods of the rich and la-de-da. And then there were the more “personal” lessons that Diogenes himself taught her. The right wines, where to be seen and with whom, how to make small talk with anyone about anything. With her natural beauty, she had always been a head-turner. Under Diogenes skillful patronage, she was now a crowd-turner. And Jenny liked it.

The Maskelenes were an old, wealthy, up-country family who had been dying out over the last generation. Sir Harper Maskelene was dead, and his ancient wife, Lucinda, was pretty much ’round the bend mentally.The only heir was a girl, a recluse who liked baking bread and dabbling in Egyptology. Her last “dig” had been two decades before so it was not too hard for Diogenes to entice Lady Viola into allowing him a visit to see her collection of artifacts that she had managed to purloin from various tombs over the years. Safe in England in her private collection. Jenny had gone with "David Drury" as his assistant so that she could get a firm idea of the role she was to play. There had been only the one old servant that afternoon, and she couldn’t wait to nip back to her rooms for a little lie-down before supper. When “David” had suggested that they take their tea at the quaint little pub in the village, Viola had jumped at it. She was quickly becoming enamored of being in the company of this most handsome man.

They never made it to the village. Diogenes had stopped the car at a lovely little bridge over a narrow but deep rush in a picture-perfect glen. A photo-op he said. A reminder of the wonderful afternoon they had spent browsing through Lady Viola’s treasures in that serene back country. One smart crack on the head with a tire iron, a local rock tied to head and feet, and Lady Viola’s earthly bower became one of watery finality. Before they had left the manse, Diogenes had made sure that the servant, Mrs. Wilkins, dreamed dreams in fields where only the dead run and play. He had applied a shot of digitalis to the soundly-sleeping woman that had stopped her heart. Leaving a note saying that Lady Viola had gone to reopen the London house had been a final touch. No one would be the wiser. And Jenny was on her way.

Just one more set of lessons. These were from an old curator at a minor gallery in London who had been on archaeological digs throughout most of his youth and who had been an assistant librarian with the British Museum’s collection. The pay was good, and Jenny had enough talent and memory to play an Egyptologist if no one listened too closely. She had always been a quick study. Lady Viola Maskelene rented herself the island of Capraria off the coast of Italy. A good cover where no one would find her too quickly or where she had to answer too many questions.

Diogenes was in and out of her life for the next several years with a new game to play. Always some politician or uber-wealthy mover- and -shaker he wanted her to bed, but it was the pillow talk he was most interested in. Viola was well-versed at being the exquisite courtesan and could coax her players into revealing the most intimate details of business and political deals; always to Diogenes’ financial advantage.

Finally, fate came to roost at Viola’s door. Diogenes wanted her to meet and entice his brother. He had given her some cover story about a violin, but when she had met his brother Aloysius, she knew she couldn’t go through with the plan. She felt an instant connection to him of loneliness and of searching for a lifeline in a tangled dance of emotional anorexia and pain. When the telegram came inviting her to New York, she jumped at it as a drowning woman would a life preserver. She did not know that Diogenes had sent it. All she knew was that against everything she had been taught, everything she had done, she had to see Aloysius again. He would understand. He would save her. But it had all gone so very wrong. Now she was back on Capraria with Diogenes and only the memory of a brief kiss from the man with whom she had fallen in love. And Diogenes knew.

Diogenes rose from the chair and moved towards her. Drawing her thoughts back to the present, he held her gaze with his own. She showed no fear; only the dawning of raw anticipation shining hungrily in her eyes.

Cupping her chin with one hand, Diogenes tilted her lovely face up to his, bent down, and kissed his Delilah deeply. With his other hand, he drew the knife lightly across her exposed throat. She never even felt it. He wasn’t interested in a spurt; always felt that that was a waste. But he very much enjoyed the sigh when she realized that the ruby-colored bib she was now wearing was her own blood.

She struggled a bit, but he only deepened his kiss until he could feel her body slacken.

When it it was over and she had slumped to the floor of the bedroom they had shared so many times before in that tacky little cottage on her indescribably mundane little island, Diogenes knelt beside her body and patted her lifeless hand. “Thank you, Darling. You had a good run and were one of the few bright spots in my continuing efforts at teaching my dear frater that he is not, and never will be, master of the game. But you fell in love, Pet! A rule-breaker if there ever was one. The charming video I intend to send him of one of our little ”evenings at home“ will disabuse him of that notion. I would simply adore being there and seeing the expression on his know-it-all face when he witnesses how much fun we had and how much he missed. You were quite talented in the sack, m’dear; especially when you were enjoying me.”

Diogenes Pendergast chuckled softly to himself as he rose, brushed himself off, and left shaking his head at the audacity of the inconsequential in thinking that they could ever be anything more than a means to an end. No matter how well they thought they could play the game.



***Reference to Gwen from “Encounter in Red” by SilverPhoenix13

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