Polished Society

"Mr. Powel." the woman's voice was soft, the stroke of warm velvet over the barely conscious man's throbbing skull.

"I don't believe we've been properly introduced." The woman said. She moved about the drawing room with an elegance and grace; even the turn of her wrist as she poured tea from the silver pot into the fine, hand-painted bone china on the sideboard was careful and smooth.

"Not that it matters." she said, turning and carrying her tea to the settee across from the bound man's chair. "After all, we won't be together for very long."

The man groaned; the woman continued.

"You see, Mr. Powel, I blush to admit this, but even a woman - ah, I'd forgotten..." The corner of her red painted mouth turned up slightly, her voice taking on a hint of amusement. Her eyes swept over him, briefly, as if finding nothing of particular interest.

"You're not the type of man to think women are - predisposed- to positions which would put them in danger, correct?" she chuckled.

"And nevertheless, I must admit that I, a woman, have managed to make some professional -" she paused slightly "acquaintances." She raised her cup as if to sip, seemed to become distracted by her musings. "Acquaintances who are less than friendly. Acquaintances who, unfortunately, would gain considerable satisfaction from seeing me dead."

She drank, then. The silence in the room was palpable, unbroken by anything except for the ragged breathing of the figure in the chair. After minutes, she set her cup and saucer aside, and spoke again. "But you know all about that, don't you, Mr. Powel?" she said.

"Mmf-" the man tried to speak around the gag. He shook his head slightly.

"Oh, I do believe we've somewhat passed the point of deception." she responded. He continued to shake his head, mumbling incoherently around the piece of cloth shoved in his mouth. A look of annoyance crossed her face. "Come now..." his sounds grew louder.

"For heaven's sake," she sighed, then rose up and, in a swift motion, backhanded Powell across the face.
"I'd very much welcome a bit of calm, here." she pulled a chair close in front of him. "I've some questions for you to answer. If your answers satisfy, it will be so much easier on both of us." she pulled out a wicked looking etched blade. "If you scream..." she gently drew it over the skin of his cheek and jaw, leaning in close, a fellow conspirator. "If you scream," she repeated. "Noone will hear you, in any case- and I shall be very, very cross." She reached up and pulled it away from him.

He stared at her, silent, his brow beaded with perspiration.

"What brought you to my doorstep, Mr. Powell?" she asked.

"It-" he gulped shook his head. "It was j-just a job." Her eyebrow quirked at that. She began ringing her fingers over the blade.

"A job. Yes, I'm aware." she said, dryly.

He stammered on "I was just- I have some debtors to pay...I didn't- I swear.."

She jerked forward, her arms on the chair her face inches from his.

"I have precious little time for this, sir, and I'm fast running out of patience." she hissed. "Let me tell you that you're not the first one sent to kill me." She angled the knife; he felt the blade nick his skin. "And I have certainly had better. So you're going to answer my questions only."

"Who hired you, Mr. Powell??" she asked. "Who wants me dead?"

"I don't know-" he stated.

"Of course you know, you simple minded fool." she snapped. "Even a random hire knows something."

The man gasped for air.

"There weren't any names- please, I was only told what to do, and where to go, and I was given half payment- an envelope that appeared under my door." there was a pause, again;  her jaw worked slightly.

"What weapon were you to use, Mr. Powell?" she asked, finally.

"A dagger!" he answered quickly "An ornamental thing. Left it at the corner by my place, hidden-"

"I see." she said "And, where is this dagger?" her voice was smooth and melodic again. Mr. Powell gulped.

"Come now, Mr. Powell." she cooed. "Where'd it end up?"

"If I tell you--" he groaned "If I tell you, I'll get out of here?" he managed. She nodded.

"But of course." her voice was like the softest silk.

"I- I hid it from your men when they found me.." he tilted his head. "In the front hall.." She snapped her fingers, and a houseboy appeared out of nowhere, something wrapped in a clean kerchief. Carefully, she accepted it, folding back the cloth. Her brow furrowed very slightly as she stared down at the dagger, then smoothed again.

"Ah." she sighed, a small smile on her face. "Thank you, Mr. Powel. You've been most helpful." She stepped to the mirror on the mantel and smooth an imaginary stray curl back into place, checking her collar. Mr. Powell watched her, puzzlement overcoming his relief.

"So, I'm free to leave now?" The woman chuckled, a lyrical sound. "Of course not, Sir." she said, the houseboy appeared again with a walking pillbox hat, the exact color of her gown, which she set becomingly atop her head. Powell felt a shiver run down his spine. "You said you'd let me live!" he exclaimed.

"No, Mr. Powell. I said you'd get out." she countered. "I was, however, admittedly vague as to the conditions of your leaving." Powell was shaking; he heard himself stammering, incredulous, his voice cracking with urgency.

She simply tutted.

"Now, I never really was going to let you go, sir- you should know that, at least." She picked up a reticule and withdrew a pair of exquisite pearl colored gloves. "After all," she continued. "As helpful as you've been- and you've been so helpful- you did, in fact, come into my home with the intention to kill me." She worked the gloves over her slim fingers. "I'm afraid that leaves me inclined to send a message to whoever hired you..." she looked up, smiled warmly at him "And what better message than the hired help, himself? Jones!" she called, and an impeccably dressed, tall man stepped into the parlor. "See that the carriage is pulled 'round." she said "I should like to avoid being too late for supper."
Mr. Powell was immobile, shaking, his voice barely audible.
"Please- don't do this- you can't do this-" he pleaded, as she made her way towards the front room. She paused, then, resting a hand on his shoulder in the softest of touches.

"I think you'll find that I can." she said. "Goodbye, Mr. Powell."
She paused at the open doorway; a large, strapping man stood across from it, silent.

"Slit his throat," she said, not bothering to lower her voice. "And throw him in the Thames" she ignored the whimpers behind her. Jones appeared, holding out his arm. The woman smiled sweetly and took it with a murmur of thanks. "Nowhere too deep, mind you." she finished "I want him found by morning."