“Typically, through the referral of an existing member. In this instance, however, you may not need it.”
Wick angled his head. “Why not?”
“You’re holding the admission ticket. The watch,” Yard explained, “permits entry for you and a guest. As long as it has not been deactivated.”
Bea pursed her lips. “What do you mean by ‘deactivated’?”
“When my membership was withdrawn, they took the watch from me. I raised a fuss since I’d paid for the blasted thing; as I’d lost my bank and my fortune, I needed every quid I could get.” The ex-banker huffed. “The watch was finally returned to me, with a note saying that it would no longer provide valid entry into the club. When I examined the watch, I saw that the face of the dial had indeed been subtly altered. Here, let me take a look at the one you have.”
Wick handed over the watch, and Yard flipped open the cover.
“Ah, yes. This watch appears to be still active,” he said.
“How do you know?” Beatrice crowded in to see.
“See this symbol?”
“The horseshoes, you mean?” she asked.
“Those aren’t horseshoes. The two lines are meant to be a flame, the symbol of the Hellfire Club. When my watch was made inactive, they removed the inner line. I, ahem, made the mistake of trying to get in one time after my membership had been withdrawn; the guards at the door turned me away after examining the dial.”
Wick thought back to Doolittle’s description of Yard’s pawned watch. “Come to think of it, Doolittle did say there was a symbol like a horseshoe…not horseshoes, plural.”
“You’re right.” Beatrice nodded. “I was so amazed by his presentation that I didn’t even notice that small discrepancy between the watch he described and ours.”
“If my guess is correct, then this watch is a valid admission ticket.” As Yard spoke, his grasp tightened on the timepiece, a covetous look sharpening his features.
“I’ll take that back,” Wick said.
Reluctantly, Yard released the watch into Wick’s palm.
“Will they ask for any other identification?” Beatrice asked.
“There was a password.” Yard snuck another glance at the watch as Wick tucked it away. “When I was a member, it changed regularly. The last one I recall was Altar of Pan, but I’m sure it’s changed since then.”
A bridge Wick would cross when he got there.
He held out the banknote. “We’ll need the club’s address.”
29
“We’re not to be separated, understood? You stay by my side, and you do not stray. Not for any reason,” Wick said with emphasis. In the dim light of the carriage, his features were set in stern lines. “And for Christ’s sake, do not take off your mask or wig.”
“I’m not an idiot, you know.”
Bea’s wig was perfectly secured; she’d asked Lisette to use extra pins to keep the brunette curls in place. She did, however, adjust her white satin mask to appease him.
She figured the placating gesture wouldn’t hurt since they’d had yet another row earlier, and she knew Wick was less than pleased with the outcome. He’d been adamant about going alone to the Hellfire Club; she’d been equally adamant that she should go with him. It was her adversary, her land, her people at stake—she would not stay at home and wring her hands.
Their battle had waged on back at Wick’s house. When they arrived, the Carlisle family had been in the drawing room, the boys crowded around their parents who were involved in some life-or-death card game.
Glancing at his brother’s face, Carlisle had folded his cards. “Let’s give them some privacy.”
“But I was about to beat you…” Violet had trailed off when she saw Bea’s expression. “All right, boys. Who wants to have an archery competition?”
At her sons’ cheers, she’d herded them to the door, Carlisle shutting it behind them.
“I will not have you risking your neck,” Wick had bit out.
“Why should you risk yours?” Bea countered. “The problem is mine, after all.”
“Goddamnit, I thought we were beyond this. You are mine, Beatrice.” He glowered at her. “Being mine means your problems are mine.”
Although her tummy had fluttered at his possessiveness, she could not yield, not on this point.
“I’m not yours yet.” She persisted even as his nostrils flared, his hazel eyes blazing. “I care for you, Wick—trust you more than I’ve trusted anyone. But if this relationship of ours is to work, you will need to return the favor. Trust me to handle my own affairs—or, at the very least, to participate in the resolution of my own problems.”
“It’s not a matter of trust but common sense. You’re a lass, and this Hellfire Club is naught more than a bloody orgy—”
“We met at an orgy. You didn’t question my presence then.”
“That was different.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “You weren’t mine then.”
“The fact that we are together makes my argument even more compelling. I will only marry a man who treats me like a true partner: not just a warm body in bed, a conversationalist at the supper table, or a mama for his children.” She drew a breath and drove in the stakes, establishing the boundaries in their relationship. The fences she would not allow him to cross. “I believe in beginning as one intends to carry on. If you won’t include me in your present plans, then I will have to reconsider our future.”
“You’re issuing me an ultimatum?” The muscle bulged in his jaw.
“I’m being honest. If we can’t come to a compromise now, how will we deal with other problems in our marriage? I don’t want a relationship that works only during the good times.”
I don’t want to end up like Mama. Her throat constricted. I won’t entrust my happiness and future to someone, only to have him smash it to smithereens.
Wick had contemplated her in brooding silence. He’d remained quiet for so long that wings of anxiety had beat in her breast. What if he decided that she wasn’t worth the trouble? What if he simply called everything off?
It’s better in the long run to know now, her inner voice said. The pain will be easier to bear.
Only she didn’t think the pain would be easy to bear. Not now, not later, not ever. Because she knew there wouldn’t be another man for her.
Then why are you being so dashed difficult? Since arriving in London, she’d been digging her heels in more frequently. Insisting on talking to his partners, clashing with Garrity—arguing over a gift, for heaven’s sake. There’d been other tiffs as well, and she knew full well she’d been at fault. To top things off, now she’d given him an ultimatum.
She couldn’t seem to stop herself. It was a compulsion, this need to preserve her independence…
Wick had turned on his heel with an abruptness that lodged her heart in her throat. With clawing panic, she’d wondered if she’d finally pushed him too far.
As his hand closed on the door handle, she managed, “Where are you going?”
“To make arrangements for this evening,” he snarled. “I have to figure out the security—and our damned disguises.”
Before she could fully digest that he’d included her in his plans, he’d stalked out.
Which brought them to the present moment and her desire to smooth things over with her lover, who she knew was acting against his own better judgement. In fact, she was amazed that he’d capitulated to her wishes…and was determined to prove to him that working together was the key to success.
The carriage came to a stop. She parted the curtain, peering out. The street was jammed with businesses, taverns, and houses of ill-repute.
“We’re in Covent Garden, not Mayfair,” she said with a frown.
“I have a stop to make first.” He put on his hat, not bothering with his mask or cloak. “I’ll be a few minutes so stay put here—and don’t argue for once, all right?”
Deciding to pick her battles, she nodded. He alighted, giving instructions to
the guards riding up top to keep a sharp lookout. Then she watched him enter a shady-looking tavern called “The Golden Buck.”
A half-hour passed before he returned. He tapped the ceiling with his walking stick, and the carriage once again rolled off. Beatrice thought she smelled something on his breath…ale?
“Have you been drinking?” She didn’t hide her disapproval.
“I can hold my spirits,” he said curtly.
“Yes, but why would you imbibe at this critical juncture?”
“Because if you want a fellow to talk, you share a tankard with him.” Before she could ask who he’d talked to and why, he said, “Staff of Dionysus.”
“What in heavens does that mean?”
“On a literal level, it refers to the walking stick that the God of Wine used to turn grapes into wine. On a symbolic level, I’m guessing it alludes to a man’s cock,” Wick said sardonically. “On the level that we’re most interested in, it is the password for getting into the Hellfire Club.”
Her jaw slackened. “But how…”
“I told you I was making arrangements this afternoon. The most critical one being ascertaining the password for entry. One of my contacts runs The Golden Buck, and he overheard two of his regular patrons—young rakehells—celebrating gaining entrée into the “H. C.,” which he gathered from their drunken toasts was some sort of a club. He said the rakehells’ habit was to stop at his tavern the first Saturday evening of the month on their way to the club.”
“How did you manage to get the password from them?” Bea asked, amazed.
He shrugged. “After a few rounds on me, they were foxed. They would have told me the combination to the safe holding the Crown Jewels if they knew it. Hopefully the information they provided will get us into the club tonight.”
“How extraordinarily clever of you,” she said with admiration.
He gave her a disgruntled look. “I told you that you could trust me.”
“I do,” she said earnestly. “And I want you to trust me too.”
“For God’s sake, this isn’t about trust. This is about keeping you safe.”
“Don’t worry, I came prepared.” Reaching into her skirts, she pulled out her trusty pearl-handled pistol. “You know I won’t hesitate to use this if necessary.”
“You’re going to be the death of me.” He sounded aggrieved.
She tried her hand at flirtation to patch things up. “I promise to make up for it when we get home tonight.”
Despite his obvious frustration, his gaze heated. “Are you trying to sweeten me up?”
“I’m trying to show my appreciation.”
“That you’ll be doing when we get home this eve. In a manner of my choosing.”
The dominance in his tone caused her to shiver. When it came to sexual matters, she enjoyed surrendering to him. It was the one area of their relationship where she would gladly let him take charge.
“Whatever you want, Wick,” she said demurely.
His nostrils flared, but he said no more. Instead, he donned his mask and domino as the carriage came to its second stop that evening. He helped her down, nodding to the pair of guards perched on the carriage. Dressed in footmen’s livery, they were to keep watch outside, on the alert for any suspicious activity.
As Bea ascended the steps to the large, elegant mansion at the end of a leafy cul-de-sac, the pedimented windows discreetly shaded, she was reminded of the first time she and Wick met. Then, as now, they were both wearing costumes and masks to conceal their identity.
This time, it wasn’t pleasure they were after but a deadly villain.
Wick rang the bell, and the painted black door opened.
“Good evening. May I help you?” the butler asked courteously.
Nothing in the servant’s tone or demeanor betrayed that this was anything but a regular residence. Bea heard only faint sounds from within, muffled and indistinct, nowhere near the volume of what one would expect of a masquerade. Had Stuart Yard given them the wrong address?
Wick took out the watch. “I was hoping you could tell me if my watch had the correct time.”
“Gladly, sir.” Taking the proffered timepiece, the butler opened the cover and examined the face. “Everything appears to be in order. Would you and your guest care to step inside?”
Following Wick into the antechamber, Bea saw that it was walled off from the rest of the house, a pair of burly guards standing by yet another door. With growing excitement, she saw that this one was made of thick metal, like the door to a bank vault.
“Password, sir?” one of the guards said.
“Staff of Dionysus,” Wick replied easily.
The guards exchanged a glance, then one of them removed a golden key on a chain, inserting it into the door. A sharp click followed, and the partition opened to reveal a flickering corridor.
“Enjoy your evening.” The guard waved them through and shut the door, sealing them inside.
Her eyes adjusting to the dimness, Beatrice saw that the corridor sloped downward, in a spiral that prevented one from seeing beyond the next corner. Wall-mounted sconces cast eerie shadows.
“Shall we?” Wick’s eyebrows lifted above his demi-mask.
The passageway was narrow, requiring that they walk single file. Wick led the way, and she shivered at the crypt-like feeling of the place, the low ceiling and barren stone walls seeming to close in with each descending step. They soon arrived at another guarded door.
The watchman bowed. “Have an enjoyable evening.”
As he opened the door, sounds blasted through. Voices, laughter…and animalistic noises. A mélange of scents assailed Bea’s nose: perfume, spirits, and the musky scent of sex. She felt a quivery sensation low in her belly.
Wick took her gloved hand, her black skirts whispering as she crossed the threshold. She was glad for her mask then for it hid not only her face but her expression of shock. After attending that other masquerade, she thought that she’d seen the full spectrum of debauchery and that nothing could astonish her.
She was wrong.
The huge room was set up like an arena, with a large stage in the middle and some dozen alcoves lining the perimeter. Mimicking boxes at the theatre, the nooks were sumptuously decorated in scarlet velvet fringed with gold. Their furnishings included chairs, settees, one even had an enormous bed. And what was occurring in those boxes…Bea gulped.
While some of the alcoves had curtains drawn for privacy, others were fully revealed to the rest of the room. Within those boxes, masked occupants were engaged in a variety of sexual acts. To Bea’s right, a naked woman sat on a man’s lap, her back to his chest…a position that, frankly, had never entered Bea’s imagination. The woman rode her partner enthusiastically as he fondled her bouncing breasts.
Cheeks warm, Bea slid a glance at Wick.
“That’s a rather advanced riding technique, which I’ll teach you, if you wish.” Framed by his mask, his eyes held amusement along with a spark of male heat. “Now concentrate, angel. Let’s make the rounds and see if we recognize anyone.”
They walked along the alcoves, Bea’s embarrassment growing along with an undeniable feeling of arousal. She couldn’t help but be affected by the openly fornicating couples—and several groupings that included three or more. In the next box, there was a woman with a red wig, her lips and nipples painted to match. She was kneeling on a settee, her hands gripping its carved back, as a dark-haired man inserted his shaft into her glistening slit from behind.
A blond man stood on the other side of the settee, his fist in her brassy curls as he thrust his member betwixt her cherry lips. As one man filled her from behind, the other plunged deep into her mouth. Caught between light and dark, the woman let out a moan—muffled by her mouthful of flesh—that sent a shiver down Bea’s spine.
“Don’t get any ideas.” Wick’s breath warmed her ear. “I’m not a man to share.”
“I wouldn’t want to be shared,” she whispered back.
It was the truth: the thought of any man but Wick touching her left her cold. With a flash, she realized that what aroused her wasn’t the acts themselves, but the utter lack of inhibition in the room. Of the way these people were surrendering to their darkest impulses. Letting go so completely that one wouldn’t care about the judgements of others: that one would exhibit oneself like that woman riding the man in reverse or the one with two cocks moving inside her…
That was the notion that stiffened Bea’s nipples and caused her pussy to flutter.
A sudden stillness came over the room, the participants seeming to freeze in their libidinous acts, their gazes all directed to the center stage.
“You’re blocking my view, wot,” a male voice called from an alcove. “The show’s about to begin, so find a seat. Or you’re welcome to join us.”
Bea saw his eyes leering at her through his mask. Two women knelt between his legs, their mouths working on his cock and bollocks. Wick put a proprietary arm around Bea’s waist, guiding her to an unoccupied chaise longue in the next alcove.
Then he stiffened, muttering, “Hell and damnation.”
She followed the direction of his gaze: a woman dressed in a diaphanous Roman toga had entered the arena. She was leading a man…by a leash connected to his collar. Dear God. The man was tall and thin and wore no garments save for the leather harness strapped around his hips, his erect member protruding through a hole. His black leather mask molded to his sharp features, his hair—a notably unnatural black—falling over his brow. Bea could see the feverish excitement glittering in his ice-blue eyes.
“Dear heavens.” Shock percolated through her. “Is that…Reverend Wright?”
30
Once seen, there were things that couldn’t be unseen, and if some benevolent God offered to wipe Wick’s memory of the last quarter hour, he would have gladly taken the deal. The reason wasn’t because he was a prude. Nor did he judge the sexual preferences of others any more than he wanted to be judged for his.
But, Christ, he’d rather have his eyeballs poked out than to watch another minute of the Reverend Mr. Henry Wright being flogged over a whipping block. As the mistress plied her leather whip on his backside, she scolded him for being a “naughty boy” while he writhed and moaned. When she donned a harness fitted with a giant ivory dildo, Wick couldn’t help but wince.
The Duke Redemption Page 23
