House of Dark Delights (6 page)

With a self-satisfied little smile, Charlotte said, “I will admit to having heard rumors to that effect. I must say, it's about time. I've frequented these gatherings for about two years.”

“What, exactly, happens to the Bona Dea during the mass?” Elle asked. “Why must she be naked?”

“I regret that I cannot reveal the particulars,” Turek said.

Charlotte said, “Everyone who participates in the masses is sworn to secrecy. Before one begins, the lady who's been chosen to be the Bona Dea, if it is her first time serving in that capacity, is taken aside by the lady who served most recently, for instruction as to what is expected of her. Tonight's tutoress will be Emily Lawrence. She would be the one in the backless skirt over there on the couch, taking it fore and aft.”

“Suffice it to say,” Turek said, “certain acts are performed upon the Bona Dea that would strike the uninitiated as highly obscene, but they are all part of a ritual that we superior friars take very seriously.”

“If you do serve as the Bona Dea tonight,” Elle asked Charlotte, “will you keep the mask on, or—”

“Nein,”
Turek said quickly. “The Bona Dea could not possibly be masked. 'Twould be absurd. 'Tis absurd even here, if you ask me.” To Charlotte, he said, “You really ought to take that blasted thing off. Everyone who is coming has already arrived.”

Elle said, “I've been wondering why you wear it.”

“If the wrong person were to encounter me here, it could be quite awkward. I leave the mask on till I'm quite certain it's safe.” Charlotte surveyed the room over the rim of her wineglass, stilling when she noticed the darkly beautiful Lili, she of the clever mouth, walking toward them. Snagging Turek's gaze as she untied her mask, she said, sotto voce, “Your little infidel is headed this way.”

“Ah. Yes, well, I shall be taking my leave, then. Ladies.
Auf wiedersehen.
” Turek executed a deep continental bow, turned, and strode away, stone-faced, passing Lili without so much as a nod.

“He doesn't care for her?” Elle asked.

“On the contrary.” Tucking the mask into a hidden pocket of her skirt, Charlotte whispered, “He's mad for her, desperate to have his turn with her, but she can't bear him for some reason, utterly avoids him. God knows why—she's nobody.” She tapped her lips with the fan as Lili joined them, bringing with her a whisper of jasmine.

“What a darling little cat,” Lili said in a throaty, mildly accented voice. “I say, do either of you ladies have a pot of lip rouge? I seem to have misplaced mine.”

“Left it all on Lord Bute's sugarstick, did you?” Charlotte produced a tiny, diamond-encrusted case from her pocket and handed it over. “Elle, Lili. Lili, Elle. Well, that was easy.”

“You must learn to close your ears to her, Elle.” Lili graced Elle with a disarmingly warm smile. “'Tis the only way the rest of us can bear her company.” She was an exquisite creature with almond eyes and high cheekbones, her ivory gown providing a sharp but pleasing contrast to her olive skin and sleek black hair.

“We were just talking about Lord Turek,” Charlotte said with a sly little smile.

Lili gave a theatrical little shudder as she thumbed open the rouge pot.

“Turek was to get a leg over Lili tonight, whether she wanted him or not,” Charlotte told Elle, “but that's been foiled. You see, 'twas his turn to be Abbot of the Day, which means being a sort of co-celebrant in the mass, along with Sir Francis, who is our chief friar. Once the mass is over and the banquet has begun, the Abbot of the Day has first pick of the nuns, and they do not have the option of refusal.”

“Ah,” Elle said.

Lili patted her generous lips with the rouge, rubbed them together, and handed the pot back to Charlotte. “Thank God Sir Francis replaced him.”

Elle said, “Yes, Elic told me he's been given the honor.”

Lord Henry had taken Sir Francis aside yesterday evening and asked him, on behalf of la Dame des Ombres, to name the newly inducted Elic Abbot of the Day. A presumptuous request, perhaps, but Sir Francis granted it as a gesture of thanks to Madame for her hospitality.

“Have you met Elic?” Charlotte asked Lili.

“I'm not sure.”

“He's hard to miss,” Charlotte said. “Tall, fair, devastatingly handsome, with a look in his eye that suggests he could give a lady quite a ride. There is little chance you could have met him and forgotten.”

“They haven't met,” Elle said, whereupon the other two women glanced curiously at her, wondering, no doubt, how she could be so certain of this. “That is, I think Elic would have told me if he'd met a lady as lovely as yourself, Lili. He's my brother, you see, and we're very close.”

“I'm just relieved that he managed to get himself appointed Abbot of the Day,” Lili said. “I cannot imagine what I would have done if Turek had been given the power to choose any one of us, like it or not.”

“And he
would
have chosen you, darling,” Charlotte said. “You've seen how he looks at you.”

“Like a snake eyeing its prey,” Lili said.

Casting her gaze at the ceiling, Charlotte said, “Are you not perhaps being a bit hasty in your judgment, my dear? Turek is well built, unbelievably strong…and you must admit he's a handsome devil, 'specially with the wig off. You've said yourself, you have a weakness for blond men.”

“I've heard all about him,” Lili said. “I know how he treats his bedpartners. Pours gin down their throats till they're reeling, sometimes completely unconscious, then ravishes them like a beast. I've seen the bites and bruises on the women he drags off. I've seen them on
you.
”

“One mustn't discount the allure of the beast, my dear,” said Charlotte with a wicked little smile. “When it comes to lovers, I'll take a devil over an angel any day.”

“It's not just that,” Lili said. “There's his smell. He smells…wrong somehow.”

“Bah!” Charlotte scoffed. “There's nothing foul about his smell. Now, Bubb Doddington, there's a ripe one. Would you rather have that great, rancid bladder of lard huffing and puffing on top of you?”

“I wouldn't say
foul,
exactly,” Lili said. “'Tis subtle, to be sure, but Lord Turek smells almost…metallic, but in a slightly dank way. Like a handful of copper pennies.”

“I know what you mean,” Elle said. “I've smelled it, too.”

So had Darius, now that he thought about it. It
was
subtle, but his feline nose was sensitive, especially to certain smells.

It wasn't copper pennies. It was blood.

“Well, Lili,” Charlotte said, “it would appear you're to be spared your lovelorn swain's attentions, at least for tonight. Frankly, I cannot imagine why Elic even wanted to take his place, given the reams of Latin he's had to memorize between then and now.”

“My brother relishes new experiences,” Elle said—a disingenuous statement, for what Elic truly relished, with compulsive zeal, was the transference of seed from an exemplary male to an equally superior female. As Abbot of the Day, he would have his pick, following tonight's mass, of the beautiful, well-bred adventuresses who kept company with the Hellfires.

Charlotte said, “Turek was quite the rusty-guts when he found out that he would not be serving as Abbot of the Day. He took it like a gentleman, of course—in front of Sir Francis—but he gave me an earful in private last night. He was snarling, sputtering, raving like a bedlamite. Went on and on about how irregular it was, how Elic's only just become a member of the order, and a rank-and-file member, at that, how he shouldn't even be permitted to observe the mass, much less officiate. Of course, it's not really the lack of propriety that got to him. It's knowing he won't get to bang our dear Lili until the next
missa niger,
which will have to wait till Sir Francis can find a proper venue for it.”

“With any luck,” Lili said, “that will take a good long while.”

“What an unusual accent, Lili,” said Elle. “If you don't mind my asking, where are you from?”

“The Ottoman Empire.”

“You are Persian, then?” Elle asked.

“Good heavens, no,” Lili said. “At one time, my homeland was under Persian rule, but I've no Persian blood in me.”

“Lili likes to cultivate an air of mystery,” Charlotte said, gazing about the room as if in search of more diverting company, “the better to ingratiate herself with Sir Francis. Ah. Speak of the devil.”

The gentleman who'd just entered from the anteroom to the chapel was built like a shoulder of mutton, with genial good looks and an appealing smile. His dark hair—his own, not a wig—was unbound, his attire surprisingly plain and dignified. He sat at the table to confer with Lord Sandwich. Training his ears on the conversation, Darius heard him say, “Mrs. Hayes finally brought the vestals, I see.”

“Yes, indeed,” replied Sandwich as he offered his snuffbox to Dashwood. “And a fetching lot they are.”

“What sort of gentleman is Sir Francis?” Elle asked, although Darius happened to know that she—or rather, Elic—had taken the waters with Dashwood that very afternoon, along with Inigo, Archer, Charlotte, and Lord Sandwich.

Lili said, “He is quite charming, really—witty, engaging, admired by everyone who knows him. And very accomplished—a patron of the arts and one of King George's inner circle. An unabashed libertine, of course, and he swears like a cutter, but that didn't prevent him from being appointed Chancellor of the Exchequer. A brilliant man in many respects.”

“Brilliant and debauched,” Charlotte said. “The perfect combination. They say he seduced Empress Anne of Russia during his Grand Tour, whilst disguised as King Charles of Sweden—all the more remarkable when one considers that King Charles was dead at the time.”

“My word,” Elle said as she gazed across the room at the subject of their conversation. Curled up against her chest, Darius felt her heartbeat quicken and her skin grow warm.

Sir Francis Dashwood was the man on whom she'd set her sights tonight, Darius realized. He was the chosen one, the man whose seed she intended to acquire. She'd best be quick about it, given the evening's program; there would be a fairly narrow block of time in which to do the deed and transform herself back into Elic in time for the mass and ensuing orgy.

Charlotte said, “'Tis a testament to Sir Francis's personal magnetism that he has lured men of such rank and accomplishments to the Hellfire Club. The Prince of Wales himself is a member. He's the one who just finished rousting Lady Cavendish. He doesn't know it, but he's being cuckolded by that dashing fellow Lili just larked, the Earl of Bute.”

“Cuckolded?” Elle said. “My English…”

Lili said, “Prince Fitz's wife, Princess Augusta, is Lord Bute's mistress.”

Pointing discreetly with her fan, Charlotte said, “We've got the Duke of Queensbury, the Duke of Kingston…The fellow with the sketchbook is William Hogarth, the painter. Those two young bloods playing in-and-in with Emily are the Marquis of Granby and George Walpole, heir apparent to the Earldom of Orford. That gundiguts over there combing his wig is George Bubb Doddington—rich as Job, and a bosom friend of the prince. And, of course, the gentleman sitting with Sir Francis is John Montagu, Earl of Sandwich and First Lord of the Admiralty. A rake of the first order, of course, wagers hundreds of thousands of pounds at the gaming tables. Loves to have his arse whipped, can't raise the old quimstake any other way, but he's hardly alone in that.”

“Le vice anglais,”
Lili said. “I was astounded the first time I saw them bring out all their whips and birches and canes.”

Rising from his seat, Lord Sandwich waved his handkerchief and called for the attention of the assembled company. “Ladies and gentlemen,
mesdames et messieurs.
The chief friar informs me that our
missa niger
will commence in approximately an hour. It is taking a bit more time than we had anticipated to get the chapel properly outfitted. In the meantime, Sir Francis would like to announce the identity of the lady who is to serve as our Bona Dea this evening, so that she may learn what is required of her and prepare herself to receive our worship.”

The room fell into silence as Francis Dashwood pushed back his chair and stood. Charlotte arranged her gown's flowing train, her rouged lips pinching into a bright crimson sphincter of a smile.

“The lady I'm about to name,” said Dashwood, “has never before served as our altar, though there have been many who've wished it so. 'Tis an honor that's bloody well overdue, I think we can all agree. She is a flower of rare scent and beauty whose presence in our little secret garden has been a source of immeasurable delight since she first graced us with her company some two months past.”

Charlotte, who had been glancing about the room in self-satisfied anticipation, grew deathly still, her smile fading—for of course, she'd been keeping company with the Hellfires much longer than two months.

Dashwood said, “'Tis my pleasure to inform you that our goddess for this evening is to be our lovely and enchanting Lili.”

Two

A
ROAR
of approval filled the room. Lili blinked.

Charlotte's mouth fell open. She gaped at Lili, who seemed at a loss for words.

“You bitch,” Charlotte rasped.

“Lady Somerhurst, I—”

“You conniving little gutter-slut. You've been scheming against me from the first, campaigning behind my back.”

“I've done no such thing. I never even wanted—”

“Liar!” Charlotte flung the contents of her wineglass at Lili.

A hush enveloped the room as all eyes turned toward Lili, who stood perfectly still in her ivory gown with its bloodlike stain, regarding Charlotte with remarkable calm. With a sad little shake of her head, she said, “I'd have stepped aside if you'd only asked.”

The silence was punctuated by a snicker from across the room, and the observation that “Charlotte Somerhurst doesn't ask—she decrees.”

“She's cooked her goose now,” someone muttered.

“By my word, I shall lie upon that altar before
she
ever does,” remarked the pudding-gutted Bubb Doddington, to gales of laughter.

“Charlotte—” Dashwood began, but the mortified Lady Somerhurst was already stalking out of the room, her train billowing behind her.

“Oh, Charlotte,” murmured Lili, shaking her head at the retreating woman. “Why must you do these things to yourself?”

“You almost sound sorry for her,” Elle said.

“There is a real person underneath all that paint and hauteur,” Lili said, “and a fairly interesting one, at that.”

It was a testament to Lili's character, Darius thought, that she was praising the woman who'd just called her a scheming bitch and doused her with wine in front of a roomful of people. She struck him as warmhearted and insightful. What on earth, he wondered, was a woman of such sterling qualities doing with a bunch of randy reprobates like the Hellfires?

Lili said, “Charlotte was educated at one of the finest seminary schools in London—brought up there, actually, from about the age of seven, after her mother died. She's the only female in this circle who's got more than a smattering of Greek and Latin. Well, apart from myself, but don't tell any of these horny goats. They wouldn't look twice at me if they knew I had a functioning brain. Most of them don't know B from a bull's foot, and they prefer their women as muddleheaded as they are.”

With a conspiratorial little smile, Elle said, “I daresay my stockings are as blue as yours, so your secret is safe with me.”

The awkward interval that followed Charlotte's departure was lightened when Dashwood turned to one of his companions at the table and said, “Whitehead, you scurvy old bastard. Why don't you haul that withered arse of yours off that chair and lead us in that new song of yours.”

The song in question turned out to be a stately English hymn called “Lo! He Comes,” its lyrics replaced with an outrageously bawdy tale of a man on a quest to cure his impotence through ever more inventive sexual escapades. Those who knew the words sang them with gusto, while those who didn't howled with laughter.

Dashwood, sitting at the table with a glass full of some sort of clear swizzle that was probably gin, had entered into a deep tête-á-tête with Lord Sandwich. With all the raucous singing, Darius could barely make out their conversation, which had to do with Charlotte Somerhurst.

“She's always off the hook about something or other,” grumbled the earl. “Bloody shrew.”

Dashwood shook his head. “This time it's my fault. I should've warned her it was to be Lili. I'd meant to, but then came all that bothersome shit with the chapel, and it slipped my mind. I'll talk to her tomorrow, bring her to her bearings.”

Sandwich gave a skeptical grunt. “So you think she can be coaxed off the high ropes, do you? I wish you luck, my friend.”

Gazing off at the silken couch in the corner, Lili said, “It looks as if Granby and Walpole have finished up with Emily Lawrence. I'd best go find out what's expected of me during the mass.”

Her pensive expression was not lost on Elle, who asked, “Are you nervous?”

Lili looked as if she was going to deny it, but presently she smiled a little sheepishly and said, “A bit. I've no idea what's to be done to me with all these lechers looking on, only that no one ever speaks of it. I'm no blushing maiden, God knows, but to make such a spectacle of it, and in such an irreverent way…”

“Are you Catholic?” Elle asked.

“No, but I am not without spiritual inclinations, and I do harbor some deference for places of worship. A
débauchée
I may be, but there are some things even one such as I am loath to do in God's house.”

“Grotte Cachée's chapel has never even been consecrated, you know,” Elle said. “No mass has ever been celebrated there. It may look like a chapel, but I doubt very much that God takes any special interest in it.”

“Thank you for telling me.” Clasping Elle's hand, Lili said, “How refreshing to meet someone like you in the midst of all this loose baggage. Will I see you at the banquet later?”

“I regret that you will not.” A half-truth, more or less, since Elic would be there.

Leaning close, Lili said with a smile, “You shan't regret it on the morrow, when you're the only lady in this place who can walk without wincing. I hope we can spend some time together tomorrow, then, before my departure.”

“As do I.”

After Lili left, Elle, still cradling Darius, negotiated her way through the revelers toward Dashwood. He noticed her and turned to look, giving her a thorough but admirably discreet appraisal. She held his gaze, something no lady of refinement would ordinarily do—but then the protocol of polite society hardly seemed to apply to this particular gathering.

Sandwich looked from Dashwood to Elle. With a knowing smile, he patted his friend on the shoulder, got up from the table, and left.

Dashwood rose from his seat and bowed when she came up to him. “You must be Elic's sister. Elle, is it?”

“It is indeed, sir.” She curtseyed, her gaze still locked with his. “I've been looking forward to meeting you.”

Dashwood reached out to pet Darius, prompting her to clutch him to her chest. “He's shy.”

“Aye, but you're not.” The smile turned intimate, knowing.

“If I were, I would hardly be here,” she said.

Gesturing her into the adjacent chair, he retook his seat, set a glass in front of her, and reached for a carafe of wine. “No, thank you,” she said, covering the glass with her hand.

Too close now to Dashwood for comfort, Darius leapt from Elle's lap and sat at her feet.

“Are you enjoying our gay little saturnalia?” Dashwood asked.

“To be sure. But in truth, all this noise and activity is beginning to wear a bit. I thought I might seek out some quieter, more private place. I don't suppose you would care to join me.”

He chuckled as he sipped his gin. “Most ladies would flirt and tease for a bit, make it seem like the chap's idea—even at such a gathering as this. Not one for the chase, are you?”

“The chase is so much pretense and posturing,” Elle said. “I much prefer the thrill of capture.”

“With capture comes possession,” he said softly, his dark gaze trained on hers.

“One would certainly hope so.” Lowering her voice, she said, “Come with me, Sir Francis. I know a place where we can be alone.”

Dashwood leaned toward her to trail his fingertips down her throat and over the soft swell of her bosom. “You're assuming we must be alone for this…possession to occur.”

“I do not perform for the amusement of an audience,
monsieur.
”

“The presence of others can be most stimulating to the passions,” he said. “Have you never enjoyed the sport of Venus in a room full of people?”

“Never with such people as these. The notion of all these Lotharios watching and fondling themselves…” She shook her head. “I can't imagine I would take pleasure in it.”

“They needn't know what we're doing, if we're discreet about it.”

She cast him a dubious look.

Smiling, he scooted his chair back and patted his lap. “Come.”

She looked around the room, as if to buy time while she thought it over. Presently, she rose and smoothed down her dress. Glancing about to make sure they weren't being watched, Dashwood gathered up her skirts in back as she lowered herself onto his lap. He turned her so that she was facing away from him.

“Rest your elbows on the table,” he said quietly.

Leaning forward, she did as he asked.

“Relax,” he murmured, lightly stroking her back. “Listen to the singing. A damned sorry effort, that!” he called out as the song ended. “Like pigs farting in mud. Let's have another one, and do try to carry the tune this time.”

Dashwood slid his right hand beneath the great silken blossom of Elle's skirts, whispering, “Rise up a bit so I can get to these buttons.” He shifted slightly, smiled. “You're wet.”

Smiling at him over her shoulder, she said, “You're inspiring,
monsieur.
”

Dashwood gripped her waist and pressed her back down with a little grunt of effort. She drew in a breath.
“Mon Dieu.”

Dashwood sat back in his chair with a sigh, his right hand still buried beneath her skirts. “You're wonderfully tight,
mademoiselle
.”

Darius moved aside to avoid Dashwood's foot as he hooked it around a chair leg beneath the table. Elle's silk skirts rustled languidly as he caressed her.

“Oh…,” she breathed. “Yes…”

For some time, they sat joined but unmoving, or nearly so. Dashwood's foot flexed slightly against the chair leg and released, and again, and again, in a leisurely, steady rhythm. Elle widened her legs, bracing her feet on the carpeted floor.

Darius could hear them breathing as the tension mounted. Elle stretched out her legs, her feet trembling. The chair leg creaked in an ever-quickening cadence.

Dashwood's gaze grew unfocused. He sat forward, grimacing. Elle closed her eyes, one hand clutching the edge of the table, the other fisted around her empty wineglass.

He shuddered, a guttural little sound rising from his throat. The stem of the wineglass snapped in Elle's hand. Prince Fitz glanced idly in their direction, then looked away. For a long moment, they sat rigid and flushed, sharing a crisis of pleasure while their oblivious companions sang and caroused.

Dashwood slumped against her, his lungs emptying in a lingering sigh. Elle chuckled breathlessly.

He planted a tender little kiss on the back of her neck.
“Merci, mademoiselle.”

“De rien, monsieur.”

The song concluded to rousing applause, whereupon Whitehead launched into yet another. Having had quite enough of that, Darius got up, stretched, and strolled from the room. Seeking his favorite refuge within the chateau, he padded down the hall to the southwest tower, and pawed open the door. He sprinted down the winding stairwell and through a torchlit passage to the slightly ajar door at the very end, which he slipped through.

It was blessedly quiet in the long disused
chambre de punition,
and dark, but with his sharp feline vision, Darius had no trouble locating his little pile of straw in the corner beneath the whipping stool. With his forepaws, he scooped out a nice, comfortable hollow and settled in. Twitching his nose at the smell of rose oil on his fur, he gave himself a thorough licking, finishing with his face, which he cleaned by rubbing it with his dampened paws.

Curling up in the straw, his head pillowed on his paws, he closed his eyes and surrendered to the darkness.

                  

Don't you dare cry,
Charlotte Somerhurst commanded herself as she roamed the halls of the chateau, trying vainly to shake off the rage and humiliation seething inside her.
Don't give those worthless curs the pleasure.

They had no real breeding, no taste, no refinement. She'd given herself to them for two years, let them use her like a Drury Lane vestal, and what did she have to show for it? Jeers and laughter. And Dashwood, that scurvy Captain Grand, had just stood there and let it happen. Like a fool, she'd believed that she would finally, after all this time, have the privilege of lying upon the altar as an object of veneration and desire.

The exquisite little gift she'd brought Dashwood as a gesture of thanks for the honor only underscored her mortification. Thank God she hadn't yet given it to him. The moment she got back to her guest chamber, she'd have Bridget build a fire and burn the bloody thing to ashes.

No, first things first. She must arrange with Lord Henry to hire a private coach and driver for tomorrow. The notion of sharing accommodations with the Hellfires, in light of what had just occurred, was unthinkable. She would return to London alone and be quit once and for all of those insolent beau-nasties with their fine silk coats and beer-garden manners.

No, not London; it would be impossible to avoid the Hellfires there. She'd go to her country house in Cambridgeshire. She'd take a handsome young lover, several of them. She'd host her own outré little house parties, weeklong bacchanals of sensual indulgence that would have all of London society abuzz. She would render the Hellfire Club passé, ridiculous. People who mattered would laugh at their childish rituals just as the Hellfires had laughed at her.

Charlotte drew up short when she heard muffled singing and realized she must have wandered back in the vicinity of the chapel withdrawing room, where the Hellfires were gathered—but how? She could have sworn she'd been headed in a clockwise direction around the castle, but if so, she couldn't possibly have come back to where she'd started without encountering the gatehouse. Had she turned around and retraced her steps without realizing it? It was possible, she supposed. She'd felt a bit queer ever since her arrival here, almost as if she'd been breathing in a haze of opium smoke the entire time.