Beyond A Wicked Kiss (54 page)

"Where in London?"

"Number 48 Whittington. Does knowing so much relieve your mind? I am never certain why anyone wants such useless information, but everyone demands to have it. Do you find that peculiar, Miss Ashby?"

Ria didn't answer. Before she understood what was happening, Beckwith had turned back to Jane and slapped her smartly across the cheek. "Why did you do that? I didn't—"

"You didn't answer my question."

For a moment Ria could not think what he had asked. Her stomach clenched as she thought he might strike Jane again because she was too slow with her response. "No," she said as it came to her. "No, I don't find it peculiar. I suppose each of us wants to place ourselves somewhere. And, yes, it relieves my mind."

He smiled. "But you don't know Whittington Street, do you?"

"No."

"And you have no idea what part of London we're in."

"No."

Beckwith just shook his head, still mystified by the importance each new visitor to this house placed on knowing where she was. It was not as if the girls could leave of their own accord. "You will want to know why you are here, of course."

"I think I understand that."

He chuckled. "Yes, I suppose you do. At least some measure of it." He reached into the pocket of his frock coat and removed a length of ribbon. "Hold out your hands, Miss Ashby."

Ria did as he instructed. The struggle was to keep them steady as he used the ribbon to measure each of her wrists. He made a sharp crease in the satin to mark the circumference. Ria wanted to look away and could not; the image of herself wearing the bracelets was too powerfully real.

"Come with me," Beckwith said.

It did not matter that she was no longer certain her legs would support her. She stood quickly and waited to see if she would remain so.

"This way."

She knew better than to hesitate as he turned toward the door, but she was still compelled to ask, "What about Jane?"

"Jane is exactly as she must be." He paused a beat in anticipation of Ria making some response. When she didn't, he merely smiled approvingly, perfectly satisfied with her silence. "This way." He rapped sharply on the door and it opened for him. He stepped through, held it open for her, and gestured for her to follow.

Ria stood on the edge of the threshold but could not cross it. She knew this place, just as Mr. Beckwith had told her she would. At once familiar, yet alien. It was exactly so.

The chaise longue was sapphire blue. The heavy velvet drapes were the color of rubies. Lighted sconces caused the jewel tones of the fabrics to be reflected darkly in the polished walnut walls. It was the room she had seen in the painting of India Parr. It was the same chaise that Sir Alex had been sitting on for his portrait.

It was, in fact, Sir Alex who was sitting upon the chaise now, his cobalt-blue eyes sharply assessing her. Surrounding him was the entire board of governors of Miss Weaver's Academy, save for the newest of their number.

Ria did not know if it was better or worse for her that the Duke of Westphal was not among those gathered for this hellish welcome.

* * *

West was the last to arrive. It was immediately obvious to the others that he had not slept. He no longer wore the formal attire from the previous evening's affair, but he appeared to have been a reluctant and impatient recipient of his valet's attentions. Proof that Finch had drawn him a bath was there in the damp copper locks at his collar, but there was no evidence that he had found his soak in any way a useful respite. To all of those present in the colonel's home, West looked as if he might simply come out of his skin.

It was his very stillness that was alarming. They knew him too well to suppose that his calm was anything but affected. He took up the seat they had left for him in the colonel's favorite wing chair, stretching out in the most casual manner. He closed his eyes for a moment, his head back, his hands clasped in his lap. The posture might easily have been mistaken for one of prayer—and no one among them could say that it was not—but they understood it better as West's means of composing his soul.

So that he might not be moved to act precipitously, they gave him all the time he needed.

West opened his eyes, edged himself upward a few degrees, and fished for the card in his pocket. "This was waiting for me when I returned home. It is the reason I sent word around for you to meet me here. The colonel has told you what happened last evening?"

North nodded. "I wish you had called upon us earlier, West. With nothing to report, Elizabeth and I went home after observing Sir Alex go straightaway to his own residence."

Southerton's smile was wry. "I know I have been remiss in not asking for help when it was most certainly needed, so I can't very well upbraid you for it, but—"

"But you mean to do it anyway," West said. "Let us consider that it has been accomplished."

"Good of you to spare us that speech," East said, helping himself to a cup of tea. "What is to be done, then? The colonel says that Miss Ashby most likely left with Beckwith. Can that be right? He was not even among those who received an invitation."

Blackwood adjusted his spectacles to read the card West had passed to him. "From the description Lady Powell supplied, we are as certain as we can be that it was Beckwith."

"The lady has a great deal to answer for," South said.

West shook his head. "She was simply a convenience for them. If not she, then someone else would have been found."

The colonel looked up from examining the card. He handed it to East. "You say that the card came this morning?"

"No. Mr. Blaine told me it was delivered shortly after midnight. I only received it when I returned home."

Eastlyn flicked the card with his fingernail before passing it to South. "They meant for you to see it much earlier, then."

"Yes. I suppose they couldn't know I would start searching for Miss Ashby immediately."

South gave the card a little toss and it sailed directly into Northam's waiting hands. "You will admit it was a more reckless decision than you are usually wont to make. With so many hours passing in the interim, they may well believe you do not intend to come for her at all."

"That's possible," West said. "But they have been privy to the exchange of letters between us. I think they know I will not avoid a confrontation."

North slipped the card between two fingers of West's outstretched hand. "Love letters, were they?"

"I was rather late in declaring my feelings," West said. "I proposed marriage first." The regard of his friends was uniformly chastising and mildly amused. "Yes, well, she's forgiven me. I should like to think she did not extend her trust unwisely." His gaze wandered to each of the others in turn. "You are with me, then?"

South set his cup down in its saucer. "Now, there is a fool's question. We are certainly not assembled at this hour to take the bishops' part." This assertion was supported by others. "You have but to tell us your plan."

"Yes," West said. "My plan. I will come to that directly." He tapped the card with his forefinger. "I am unfamiliar with this address. Number 48 Whittington. Do you know where it is?"

Eastlyn offered the information. "The West End. It is a private gentleman's club. Webb's. My wife's cousins had occasion to go there, and things being what they were, I had occasion to see them being admitted. The Earl of Tremont was a bishop, of course, but it never occurred to me that the club might be exclusively for the Society. You may well know the place by another name. I have heard it sometimes called The Flower House."

West stopped tapping the card. His complexion, already pale from lack of sleep, became paler yet. "The Flower House is a brothel."

East considered how he might put it to his friend. "I shall depend upon you not to kill the messenger."

"Go on."

Quite aware West had made no promise, Eastlyn went on in spite of it. "The Flower House is indeed a brothel, one that caters to certain... umm, peculiarities. It is my understanding that entree is only given to club members. If it is true that membership is only for bishops, then it follows that those in the house serve at the will and pleasure of the Society."

West looked to the others to see if they had anything of import to add. They remained silent, as much struck by East's information as he was. "The name of the club again?" he asked.

"Webb's."

"Spell it."

East did so.

"Mightn't it just as easily be Webs?" South asked, picking up the thread of West's thinking. "The kind one associates with arachnids?"

"Of course," East said. "I have never seen it written."

"Spiders," North said quietly. "The bishops are that."

"It certainly fits, doesn't it?" The colonel rubbed his chin with his knuckles as he mused on this. "Nature's extraordinary weavers. Wouldn't you say so, West?"

Pushing himself completely upright in his chair, West nodded. "Miss Weaver's Academy. The pieces fit rather more neatly than one could have first supposed." He glanced at Eastlyn. "What else do you know about The Flower House?"

"Only what I have told you. Rumors. I have never been closer than the gated entrance."

"Footmen?"

"No. One can easily go as far as the front door without being stopped. Admittance would be a trifle more difficult after that. One would require identification... a password, perhaps. Something that—"

West held up the card. "This?"

"That is certainly
how
you
are meant to gain entrance, but whether it will work for the rest of us..." His voice trailed off as he considered the problem. "Is there time for me to have more printed? I will take it to Sir James. It can be accomplished in a few hours."

"I cannot wait so long, but knowing you will follow in due time will be considerable comfort."

North held up one hand. "We should all go together, West. Not you first, with us trailing behind. What if the cards don't give us entree?"

"Then you will be resourceful, I expect, and find some other means." He glanced at East again. "Tell us about the house."

"It sits squarely in the middle of a row of others exactly like it. The trade entrance is below the ground floor at the front. I imagine servants use the rear. I cannot tell you any more than that."

"There you have it, North," West said. "It is sufficient for our needs. I am confident you will find me. The governors are expecting me to come alone."

"To close their trap," the colonel said.

"Without a doubt, yet if we arrive together they may do nothing at all. I need them to reveal where Ria is, not hide her away. Going there alone is a risk worth taking."

"That is your plan?" asked South. "You will advance as the spy and we will follow?"

"Essentially, yes."

"You don't think it requires some refining?"

"Wellington made it work." West regarded his friends. "Do you mean a soldier, sailor, and tinker cannot do the same?" He glanced at Blackwood. "Even when a colonel commands it?"

* * *

Ria stared at the tray of food that had been brought to her room. It was a light repast only: shirred eggs, two fingers of toast, half an orange, and a cup of tea. She'd been told to eat but had no appetite to do so. The consequences of refusing the order, even one so small as this, were at the forefront of her mind.

They had explained to her what she might expect while she was their guest.
Guest.
It was the word they had actually used to describe her presence in the house, and she still felt slightly ill when she considered how easily the explanations came to them. They took turns telling her how she would pass the time.

Sir Alex discussed her primary responsibility would be to tutor the young women in their subjects. They were all agreed that intelligence enhanced the desirability of their students, and though they regretted that she could no longer be headmistress of Miss Weaver's, her arrival here was perhaps more fortunate than not.

Lord Herndon explained there would be menial tasks as well, though none that she should consider beneath her, and all of them essential for the smooth management of the establishment. The conservatory was his special interest, and he took considerable pride in the flower house. It should be the very equal of the one in his own home. If not, he would know the reason why.

Ria heard from all of them. She would sweep the floors on Tuesdays. Change the linens on Wednesdays. Her turn in the kitchen would come every ten days, and she would be expected to assist the cook in whatever manner was required.

It was Mr. Beckwith who explained there would be no chores in the evening. Nothing would be required after that except that she make herself available to any one of them who wanted her. "Do you understand?" he had asked politely.

And Ria had nodded.

"There will be no formal ceremony to serve as your initiation," he went on to say. "That sacred rite is performed when virginity is to be offered. You cannot offer us that, can you?"

Ria had no difficulty bringing to mind the slender Ionic column and altar that were so perfectly realized in the illustrated book and the painting of Miss Parr. The purpose of the altar was borne home to her again. "I am not a virgin," she told them.