Collecting the keys of the car from the rental company’s underground offices, he headed west out of the airport. He tapped in the hotel’s post code on the Sat Nav, to be informed that he would reach his destination in under an hour. As English country house hotels go, it was no great shakes. But it was the end of the financial year and the Brussels office had had its travel budget slashed.

Cyber-security specialist Mark Cavendish was in Britain representing an international cartel (backed by Chinese money) committed to securing a major segment of an upcoming global IT contract. If he returned to Brussels empty-handed, it would almost certainly be the end of his career.

With a Sunday to kill before the top-level conference got underway, Mark decided to visit a stately home a short drive from his hotel. The turreted Chesley House looked dark and ‘brooding’ as he navigated its tree-lined drive. Four-square and solid, this grey stately pile epitomised Victorian wealth.

There were barely half-a-dozen cars in the car park. He paid his admission charge, which included the official brochure. “Are there any guides on duty upstairs?” he asked.

“I’m afraid not, sir, as it’s Sunday.”

Mark climbed the central marble and onyx staircase, the base of which was flanked by a pair of life-sized ebony blackamoors (a none-too subtle reference to the original source of the Chesley family’s wealth). Crossing the main landing, he sauntered into the principal bedchamber: an exercise in unadorned silk, satin and tapestry flamboyance. There were no other visitors.

Along one side wall of the huge room he spotted a set of four Hogarth paintings which he recognised as The Harlot’s Progress. He was studying the second canvas when a voice behind him murmured: “This is the notorious first edition which never went on sale.”

Mark turned around to be faced by tall slender, dark-haired young woman, in an expensive cross-pleated black dress. Though clearly haute couture, a strange Victorian aura seemed to emanate from it, as did her brilliant-cut emerald and pearl ear studs. Her identification label said: ‘ANTONIA’.

“Are you familiar with the work of William Hogarth?” she asked sweetly.

“Fairly.”

She moved to his side to study the second composition. “Well, this is the scene in the bordello, where Moll Hackabout first gets de-flowered.” She pointed an elegantly-manicured finger to the foreground, showing the figure of the principal character engaged in the early stages of coitus.

“So why was it banned?”

The guide tried to conceal a giggle. “It’s because of what Hogarth showed going on at the back of the room. Do you see?”

Antonia’s fingernail gestured towards a group of three figures in the half-shadows. A swarthy frock-coated male figure could be seen standing behind another prostitute, clearly performing anal intercourse with her, while she is bent forward fellating a second ‘customer’.

“I see what you mean,” said Mark, smiling.

“When the second edition came out, the man was still buggering the woman, but the cock-sucking part of the composition had been painted out.” Mark marvelled at the way this cultured female pronounced ‘buggering’ and ‘cock-sucking’ with such aplomb.

Stepping to one side of the room’s giant four-poster bed, Antonia gestured to a small panelled door. “Would you be interested in seeing the Earl’s ‘love nest’?

“His what?”

“Well, in polite circles, I suppose historians would refer to it as a boudoir or even a gardrobe… ” she touched the edge of the panelling behind the bedhead and the small door swung open. The elegant young woman advanced towards the doorway, calling back to Mark: “… but it was most certainly where Lord Chesley did all his love-making. Would you care to follow me?”

In comparison to the room they had just left, this secret chamber was miniscule. Its walls were lined in midnight blue silk and the floor was completely covered by a Persian rug. One small lantern window looked out onto the grounds at the back of the mansion. There was a small double bed, a wash-stand and beneath the window was a balloon-backed easy chair. But pride of place in this inner sanctum was the lecherous old Earl’s collection of framed erotic etchings. Lord Chesley clearly enjoyed depictions of the naked female form in all manner of sexual encounters.

“So, was he famed for his sexual prowess?” Mark asked his guide.

She gave a dismissive sniff. “Notorious would be a better word.”

“None of that’s in the brochure I was given downstairs.”

“Siring 13 illegitimate children isn’t something the National Trust’s going to brag about, is it? And that’s only the officially recorded figure. Heaven knows how many chamber maids had to leave in a hurry because they were up the duff.”

Seeing Mark studying one explicit watercolour composition, Antonia moved to stand close beside him so that their arms touched. “Now this one’s my favourite,” she whispered. The scene showed a buxom topless lady, stretched over the edge of a bed, with an aristocratic gentleman sitting astride her face. The woman’s right hand is administering the final thrusts of masturbation. “I get toothache every time I see him cumming,” she whispered.

“Toothache? Whereabouts?”

She gave a mischievous little giggle. “Girl’s slang for clittie-ache.” She crossed the room and turned the key in the lock of the connecting door. “Will you stay awhile?” The question was rhetorical.

She moved so close to him that he could smell her perfume. He cautiously bent forward and kissed the nape of her neck. “Unzip me?” The dress was on the floor in seconds. She turned and kissed him full on the lips, at the same time moving one hand down to gently fondle his crotch. “How would it be if I sat in the chair over by the window and you knelt on the floor in front of me? The height should be just right for you to enter me.” And it was.

“By the way,” she confided as he slid inside her, “I should warn you: I’m a moaner.”

“I adore moaners!”

Their love-making was unrushed and tender and it was almost dark outside when it finished. ”My, and you’re a heavy-cummer,” she exclaimed with gratitude. “You certainly tick all the boxes!”

The cyber-security conference the following day was a disaster, breaking up well before its allotted time. The Chinese delegation headed back to Beijing in a huff. Mark could see his days in Brussels were numbered. “Second Under-Secretary at the British Consulate in Nicosia?” he mused to himself as he prepared to drive back to the airport.

Seeing the directional sign for Chesley House, he decided to pay it a final nostalgic visit.

“I’m sorry but we don’t have an Antonia on the staff, sir.”

“But she was here yesterday. Up in the Master Bedroom.”

“Our guides don’t work Sundays, sir.” He swept out in disgust.

Before returning to his car, Mark decided to take one last look at the back of the old mansion. Wisps of winter mist hung in the air, some seeming to cling to the stonework.

There, set high up, was the projecting lantern window of the Earl’s ‘love nest’. A light was burning in the room and forlornly silhouetted in the window was the Toothache Fairy.