"What a sweet little house! Who lives there?"

As though the question had thrown him as he opened his window, Cotterel's reply was dismissive. "An estate worker." Reaching across, he swiped his Staff Pass through a scanner mounted on a pole and almost at once, the gates swung open to allow them entry. He could not resist glancing proudly at his well-tended garden as they passed.

They drove slowly along the winding, tarmac driveway which was overhung with trees. Barely wide enough for two cars to pass, Darryl noticed there was a ditch running along the sides.

"Why the ditches?"

"They're to stop the ponies."

"Like cattle grids, you mean? To stop them galloping from one side to the other? Don't they jump them? How many ponies?"

"So many questions!" Cotterel chuckled in a way Darryl found faintly unpleasant. "Currently we've around five or so. We wouldn't want them running off down the drive and escaping, now would we? Think of the ditches as boundaries. As for jumping..... you'd have to ask the pony trainer about that."

They rounded a bend, and all at once as if it had suddenly been swept away, the woodland opened up and Darryl got her first view of The Ramparts. She let out a gasp of admiration. Nothing could have prepared her for the sight of the extraordinary, ochre-walled, multi-turreted and crenellated house which stood at the end of the now straight-as-an-arrow driveway. The ditches appeared to go right up to the apron of the house and the steps of its grand entrance, which in Darryl's mind seemed a bit freakish set in an English country estate.

"Lord Whitby's addition," he told her phlegmatic.

"Lord Whitby?"

"Whitby Morrison-Grenfell, the current lord's grandfather. He was rather fond of Egypt."

The ditches did indeed act as boundaries for the glorious parklands which stretched away as far as the eye could see on both sides, until it was lost in the woodland. On her peripheral vision, something caught her eye and turning to look, on her left she saw an even more astonishing sight as they approached the eccentric stately home.

"My God! That girl's naked!"

"Actually, she's wearing a collar and bridle."

"Is she actually pulling that .....that....buggy?"

"You men the pony trap, yes."

"And the man.... driving it......."

"One of Lord Tyler's......guests."

Cotterel brought the car to a halt outside the front entrance with its out-of-place Egyptian frieze and statues. But her gaze was riveted to the girl pulling the trap, and the man seated in comfort, driving the girl ever onward. Not sure whether to laugh at the absurdity of it or settle for alarm at what was clearly domination at its most outrageous, Darryl's natural zest for life refused to give in to the encroaching feeling of foreboding. Staring after the girl and trap until they were lost to sight in a dip in the lush lawns, she was surprised to find Cotterel holding the door open for her.

"Your bag will be safe there," he said smoothly. "Leave your hat, too."

Permitting him to take her arm, unaccountably she felt like some kind of trophy. This, she reminded herself, was the home of a lord, and it was therefore not surprising that her companion acted with decorum. Determined not to embarrass herself, she allowed him to escort her up the steps of the grand old manor house. She could not quell the excitement which fluttered in her belly as though someone had released a jumbo-sized tin of butterflies inside her.

Inside the cavernous hallway where a brunette sat behind a reception desk, the first thing Darryl saw was the Hollywoodesque sweeping stairway; one almost expected to see Fred and Ginger dance their way down. Except it was guarded by entirely inappropriate Egyptian statues. Casting a cynical gaze around, she saw that the entire entrance hall, with its huge white columns running down the sides of the great expanse, and whose colourful and highly ornamental tops were an interpretation of Egyptian-style papyrus leaves, was some interior design guru's idea of ancient Egypt.

"This whole place is like some movie set," she whispered, "or nightmare."

The nightmare was confirmed when she spotted a tall blonde girl who was stark naked except for a black collar. It was with real anxiety that Darryl noted she was chained to one of the columns. She stopped dead in her tracks.

"Whoa! This is way too weird!" she cried.

"No, no, it's okay."

Cotterel's pressure on her arm suddenly seemed more than just a friendly and polite way of guiding her. His smile was less than reassuring.

"We'll go straight up to the study. Like I said, I've got a few errands to attend to," he told her, failing to own up to the fact that his own office was located in an outbuilding. Like a paid guide on a tour, he went on, "This is the main wing of the house. Including the other wings, there are over a hundred rooms, though not all open to the public and not all as grand as this."

She could not fail to detect a certain pride in his voice, and she could not help but wonder if it was merely that he came here to work every day that made him so proud, or if there was some other reason she had not yet discovered. The place was certainly big. She was working out exactly how many upper galleries there were and how many floors when she heard a faint jingling, and then the unmistakable click click click of stiletto heels. Turning her attention to a second flight of stairs that led downward, also guarded by statues, she saw a well-groomed, bespectacled man wearing an Armani suit who had just come up from the lower levels. Following behind him was yet another naked girl, with extraordinary ruby-coloured hair, and wearing blue, mile-high, anklestrap stilettos. Except disturbingly, she was not merely following, Darryl noted with mounting revulsion, she was on a chain leash which was clipped to her collar. To make matters worse, her hands were bound behind her back.

Darryl froze. "I don't get it. Something's way off! What's going on here?" she demanded, glad of her self defence training, but fearful it was already too late to use it.

"It's a health spa, a kind of resort where the rich folks like to hang out," Cotterel said, his easy manner doing nothing to assuage her distrust.

When the man approached them, Darryl was struck not only by the girl's beauty but also by the submissive way she kept her eyes focussed on the geometric designs of the floor.

"I say, old chap, can you direct me to the Members' Bar?" the man enquired.

As Cotterel's fingers dug into her arm, Darryl wished she had not accepted his invitation but had gone straight to her room at The Griffin. She was tired, way, way too tired! After a few hours' sleep, everything would look different, and she would realise she had got the wrong end of the stick entirely; this was all some stupid dream, perhaps even a continuation of the one she'd had the other night. Except the prickles of pain in her arm were real, and glancing down, she could see there were actual little white marks where he gripped her in a way which had become controlling.

Cotterel gave the directions, ending with, "You'll find a lift over in the corner, Sir."

"Thank you," the man said politely. Then turning to the girl he gave the lead a spiteful tug that must have hurt her neck for she cried out. "Come on, you filthy whore. Let's show you off to the members and see what you're really made of," he told her as he led her away.

"There's a sizeable bar for the members," Cotterel told her with a sharp jerk on her arm. "A games room, and a smoking room, too. There are several reception rooms, grand affairs, and bedrooms for the members," he said as he half guided, half dragged her down a long, carpeted corridor to a second lift which he summoned, "and whole suites for the more discerning.......better off members." Once inside with the doors closed, he said, "restaurants, too. Now, be a good girl and turn round. Thank you. Now, hands behind your back."

"Oh no!" She made to turn around again. "If you think....."

"Do it! Now! Or it will be the worse for you."

A ball of terror knotted in her belly as slowly, Darryl did as she was bid. Then quick as a flash she brought her leg up behind her to kick him. But he was too quick for her and she felt his hand close around her ankle, so that she had to balance on one leg. He was still holding her ankle when the doors opened onto another thickly carpeted corridor.

"Behave yourself," he warned as he dropped her foot and grabbed her arm again, then the other one. He marched her out of the lift, and as the doors closed behind them she felt the abrasive cord cut into her skin as he bound her wrists tightly together. "His lordship doesn't take kindly to disobedience."