Charlie gave an approving nod. “I’ve been impressed by your discretion with Hadleigh.”
“I want to tell him the truth,” Livy admitted. “Vow of secrecy aside, however, I am afraid that he will not understand.”
“You have made the right choice, my dear. He would undoubtedly try to put an end to your work.” Her mentor’s tone was blunt. “In fact, by carrying on with our society’s mission, you are helping him, even though he does not know it.”
Livy hadn’t thought of it in that way before. Ironically, in keeping the truth from Ben, she was better able to aid and protect him. The sooner the Angels could help wrap up the case with Fong, the sooner Ben could stop playing this dangerous game. Then he and she could be together at last.
She cocked her head. “What time do we leave tonight?”
Livy was no wilting violet, yet as she wandered through the Hellfire Club, the debauchery on display gave her a buffle-headed feeling. A few minutes ago, she and Charlie had arrived at the club—inconspicuously housed in a Mayfair mansion at the end of a tree-lined cul-de-sac—and the guards at the door had asked for a secret password. After Charlie provided it, she and Livy were led through a dark passageway into the raucous Bacchanal.
Like many of the other guests, Livy and Charlie were masked and heavily disguised. Livy’s hair was hidden beneath a wig of cascading red curls, and she wore a low-cut black lace gown that had seemed scandalous when she was getting ready, but now appeared prudish compared to those around her. A blonde clad in nothing but swirls of paint sauntered past, her dimpled buttocks jiggling.
“Stay close to me,” Charlie murmured.
Livy nodded, scurrying after her mentor when a shirtless man in tight black leather breeches winked at her and ran his tongue slowly over his lips.
The Hellfire Club had several floors, and Livy and Charlie made their way through each, looking for Ben and his group. Each floor showcased a different theme of depravity. Livy’s cheeks burned behind her mask as she passed glass cubicles where guests were tupping in front of a cheering audience. The astonishing variations made her blink. In one coupling, a man sat upon a chair with a brunette astride him, her back to his chest. His large hands fondled her breasts as she impaled herself on his erect member, moaning loudly.
Swallowing, Livy moved on, her gaze locking upon a darkly erotic tableau vivant. Upon a stage, men and women dressed as satyrs and nymphs held as still as a painting while in the midst of sexual acts, their expressions frozen in unmistakable ecstasy. That look of bliss was shared by a man on a nearby dais who, shockingly, was naked and held in a pillory. A woman in a red leather corset and black stockings applied a birch to his backside as he yowled in delight.
Circling through the stories of the building, Livy grew numb to shock. The top floor, however, proved that her nerves could still be jolted. She followed Charlie into a chamber decorated like a feverishly imagined seraglio. Plaster arches framed murals of a Turkish courtyard on a starry night. The ceiling was festooned with swathes of gauzy jewel-colored fabric, the bright, sensual colors echoed on the carpets below. And upon those rugs…
Men and women were engaged in a lascivious free-for-all. Bodies were connected to one another—sometimes to more than one person—in an undulating chain. Guttural sounds filled the air, and the smells of sex, perfume, and a strange, sweet smoke were everywhere. Livy’s bosom surged on rapid breaths, her cheeks throbbing against her mask. She didn’t know what to make of her reaction: a mix of shock, repulsion…and titillation?
Yearning for Ben pierced her. She missed him so, and witnessing all this carnality was oddly adding to her physical ache. Her brain conjured up an image of Ben taking her the way a man was taking a brunette on a nearby rug: with his hands holding her hair like reins, his hips pounding her bottom in disciplined thrusts…
“I see them.” Charlie’s low tones focused Livy on the mission. “By the palms.”
Livy directed her gaze at the row of potted plants that separated the seraglio from the seating area just beyond. Through the barrier of fronds, she spotted their targets, her heart banging into her ribs at the sight of Ben. In shirtsleeves and a black mask, he sat on a low divan…with Cherise Foxton cozied up next to him. Lady Foxton wore a skimpy crimson robe edged with black lace and, it was obvious, nothing beneath. Her mask did not hide her expression, like that of a cat with a dish of cream.
Livy’s hands curled when the bloody woman ran a finger along Ben’s jaw.
Get your dashed claws off him, Livy’s inner voice yelled. He’s mine.
Ben didn’t reciprocate Lady Foxton’s flirtation, but he did not stop the odious woman’s advances. Instead, he seemed intent upon talking to her while she flirted and laughed in an intoxicated manner. Suddenly, she surged to her feet, teetering; she might have fallen had Ben not risen and put steadying hands on her waist.
Livy gnashed her teeth as Lady Foxton took the opportunity to mold herself against Ben, pushing her nearly exposed breasts against his chest. When he set her aside, she grabbed his hand, leading him out of the seating area toward a corridor just beyond. As they departed, Edgecombe, Thorne, and Bollinger gave hoots of approval.
The bastards, Livy fumed.
“I have to go after Ben,” she muttered.
“Have a care, and make sure he does not see you,” Charlie whispered. “I will stay here and monitor the others.”
With a nod, Livy took off after Ben and Lady Foxton, reaching the corridor just as the two entered a room at the far end, the door closing behind them. Jealousy pounded in Livy’s chest. While she trusted Ben, she did not trust Lady Foxton.
How can I spy on them when they are locked in that room? she thought desperately.
“First time, my sweet?” a voice drawled.
Livy started at the man who’d materialized next to her. He was in his thirties, wiry and slim, his eyes the same shade as his bronze mask. Wanting to get rid of him, she gave a dismissive nod.
“You like to watch, I presume?” He smirked at her. “Well, I shall let you in on a little secret: the best performances are the ones given by unwitting actors. Such as in those rooms.” He gestured at the corridor.
Livy’s heart thudded. “You mean…there is a way to see inside those rooms?”
“Your wish is my command.” The stranger bowed. “Follow me, my sweet.”
30
Alone in the room of a pleasure house with a woman he’d once swived, Ben was confronted by his sordid past. In truth, he felt disgusted with himself. Not long ago, he would have thought nothing of fucking Cherise at this orgy. Of playing their mutually agreed upon games. Yet even then he’d known that he was just going through the motions. There’d been no care or connection between him and Cherise. They’d merely used each other to spend.
Afterward, he’d felt even more alone. The feeling of emptiness would spread like a cancer. And he’d known with a stark certainty that happiness would forever elude him.
Being with Livy had shown him a different possibility. A desire that connected his body, mind, and heart. That didn’t deplete his soul but enriched it and made him feel...whole. Although he hadn’t made love to Livy yet, at least not all the way, her sweet, wanton passion aroused him more than anything at this Bacchanal, no matter how depraved, ever could. Because what she gave to him wasn’t a veneer. A show.
It was real and so bloody generous and sweet.
God, he missed his little queen.
Yet he’d forced himself to stay focused on the mission. He’d more or less blackmailed himself back into the Horsemen’s fold, and while his aggressive maneuvering might have garnered the men’s respect in the short-term, he knew they would push back eventually. It was the nature of these men. They had a pack mentality: the strongest survived, and the weak were left to perish.
The image of Longmere’s unmoving body flashed in Ben’s head. It was a perilous game he was playing, and he couldn’t afford any missteps. He had not yet earned the group’s trust: they remai
ned tight-lipped about their operations, including how and when the Devil’s Bliss was delivered, saying that he would learn more when he was ready.
As for Fong, the Horsemen seemed to fear and revere their partner in equal measure…even though they’d never met him. Only Longmere had seen Fong in the flesh and only the one time. Fong communicated via his henchmen, who reinforced the power of their venerable master. The Horsemen ascribed mystical qualities to Fong, as if he were some all-knowing deity.
Bollinger had confided that he’d once “miscounted” the payments he’d received from clients. The day after he’d submitted the money to Fong, he’d found a bill and a dead rat on his desk. The amount due was precisely what he’d held back…and the bill had been written in the rat’s blood. Bollinger had never miscalculated again.
Did the Horsemen suspect that Fong had killed Longmere? Ben wondered. Did they fear that they would meet the same end if they tried to abandon their deadly enterprise? Whatever the case, their greed, sensation seeking, and idolatry of the forbidden kept them ensnared.
To gain the bastards’ trust, Ben had gambled, drank, and raised hell with them all week. Returning to his old habits, even under pretense, had brought a sickening feeling of shame. His strategy had borne fruit, however. Deep in his cups one eve, Thorne had revealed that Cherise was one of the group’s earliest and most prized clients. Introduced to the drug by Longmere, she’d apparently spent a small fortune on the Devil’s Bliss and couldn’t get enough of it.
“For her, the drug works like an aphrodisiac,” Thorne had said drunkenly. “Turns her into a bitch in h-heat. Wore m-me out the last time. On our next outing, she is your problem.”
Ben found the metaphor as distasteful as his present situation. Yet given Cherise’s entanglement with the group, she might have useful information about the operation.
“Finally, we are alone,” Cherise purred. “Why don’t you join me, lover?”
She lounged on the bed that took up most of the room, her bare legs sticking out from her clinging scarlet robe. Her heavy perfume, the black and gold damask walls, and large looking glass affixed to the ceiling created an oppressive atmosphere.
Instead of going to the bed, Ben went to the chaise longue that faced it. He sat, draping his arm along the chaise’s back, his pose arrogant and casual. Despite Cherise’s pout at having her invitation declined, lust gleamed in her eyes. Ben understood her personality: the more something was withheld from her, the more she wanted it. When he’d ended things after their brief affair, she’d tried to cling on, merely because he did not want her.
“Why don’t we chat first?” he said.
When he’d arrived, she’d already partaken of the Devil’s Bliss. Luckily, she showed no adverse effects, only signs of approaching oblivion. Her eyelids were beginning to droop over her dilated gaze, and he guessed she would pass out soon. Until then, he would ward off her advances while questioning her.
“If I wanted to chat, I would have gone to some insipid ball.” Her gaze narrowed, suggesting that she was not as far gone as he’d hoped. “I’m randy, and I want to fuck.”
“You cannot always have what you want, Cherise.” He flicked a speck from his trousers. “Not with me, at any rate. You would do well to remember that.”
“I do remember,” she said sultrily. “I remember everything about our time together.”
He gave a cool nod. “Longmere was too easy on you. That will not be the case with me.”
“I want you to be hard on me, lover. Very hard. But I would hate for you to be jealous.” Her shiver said otherwise. “Longmere, God rest his soul, was never my lover.”
“Then how did he come to introduce you to the Devil’s Bliss?”
“We met through art.” Holding Ben’s gaze, she sat up and untied her robe. The material slithered off her, and, naked, she sprawled back onto the mattress in a come-hither pose. “I saw one of Longmere’s paintings: a portrait of a beautiful woman that far surpassed his other work. When I asked him about his progress, he credited it to a devilish new muse he’d found, and I couldn’t resist. You know I am game to try anything once.”
Cherise coyly touched herself. No doubt she thought it was an alluring show. As long as she kept her hands to herself and answered his questions, Ben didn’t give a damn what she did.
Then, with a stab of unease, he thought of Livy. While he couldn’t give a farthing about Cherise’s performance, would Livy consider this a betrayal? His chest tightening, he wondered how he could explain to his little innocent that Cherise’s antics meant nothing and left him entirely unmoved. He might as well have been watching grass grow.
Self-disgust roiled in his gut. If he hadn’t been such a degenerate in the past, he wouldn’t be where he was now. He was a sinful bastard, and Livy deserved better.
There’s nothing you can do about it now, he told himself grimly. Extract the information and get the hell out.
“Come join me, sir,” Cherise said in a throaty voice.
Her use of sir made him recoil. During sexual play, he only wanted to hear Livy address him that way. Only wanted to play with her and her alone.
“You are doing fine on your own,” he said dismissively. “Carry on.”
His disinterest perversely egged Cherise on. She lay on her back, staring at her own image in the looking glass above the bed. Her ploy to seduce him gave way to an easier path to satisfaction. For her, it was only about her own needs anyway. She touched herself with practiced ease, with a look of intoxicated pleasure that he judged was evidence of the drug taking full effect.
He pressed on. “Did Longmere tell you how he found this miraculous muse?”
“He said it was a gift. From a mysterious stranger.” Cherise was breathing heavily, transfixed by her own image. “A masked Chinese man who’d stopped him in the street one night and gave him a sample. Not ordinary opium, mind. This was a taste of the true secrets of the Orient, mystical and rare, available only to the select few who dared to take it.”
And those who could afford it, Ben thought wryly. Fong certainly knew how to set the stage for his product. He understood his audience: jaded aristocrats had a fascination with anything exotic and scarce and would pay a premium for it.
“What else did Longmere say about this man?” Ben asked.
Cherise moaned, her hand working furiously between her legs.
“Concentrate,” Ben said impatiently. “How did Longmere get the Devil’s Bliss?”
“It was part of the excitement, the thrill.” Her eyes squeezed shut as she chased her finish. “The Devil could send more of his treasure at any time.”
“Where did Longmere receive shipments?”
She shrieked as she found her release. A few moments later, her head lolled in Ben’s direction. She was glassy-eyed, her expression vacuous, the muscles of her face slack from her climax and the drug. A good thing, because he’d prefer that she didn’t remember their conversation.
He tried again. “How often did Longmere supply you with the drug?”
“Bastard wouldn’t give me more.” Her voice was slurred. “Fought with him the last time I saw him. I begged, offered more money, but the ungrateful wretch refused. Even after all I’d done for him, putting in a good word with friends at the Royal Academy, getting his bloody painting accepted into the exhibition…”
“Did Longmere say why he wouldn’t sell you more of the drug?”
“Said it was too dangerous. Said that the Devil had floated in on a Siren’s song, luring him to an inescapable death, but I could still break free…”
Her eyelids drooped, and she began to snore.
Livy eased back from the peephole. She felt shaky and feverish. She hated that Ben was in the same room as Cherise Foxton as the latter pleasured herself; at the same time, Livy could tell that his only goal was to get information. Even though she could only hear snippets of the conversation, Ben’s disinterest in Cherise’s performance was obvious. And Livy now knew that Cherise had been th
e woman arguing with Longmere and the cause of the disagreement.
Nonetheless, she felt a prick of satisfaction when Cherise began to snore. Loudly.
I hope she drools too, Livy thought darkly.
“How was your show?” a male voice asked.
Livy had been so absorbed with Ben that she’d forgotten the stranger who’d led her into this hidden passageway behind the rooms. He’d kept his distance, standing a few feet away and peering through a squint into another room, where the occupants were clearly still at it, their moans and groans leaking into the passageway.
The stranger had seemed harmless enough, but now the wall sconces revealed a menacing glint in his eyes. Before Livy could move, he backed her against the wall, his hands pinning her shoulders.
“Get off me,” she hissed.
He smirked. “Didn’t I tell you this is the price of admission?”
He ground himself against her. She felt his member poking against her… Ew.
“I said no.” She shoved at his shoulders. “Get away from me.”
“Not until I get what I want.”
Enough was enough. Livy jerked her knee upward. Her attacker doubled over, emitting a howl of pain.
“You bitch,” he groaned.
She stomped on his foot for good measure. “Remember this the next time a lady says no.”
His curses followed her as she exited the passageway. She saw doors open along the corridor, Ben emerging from one of them.
Zounds. She kept her face averted, walking away from him, panic buzzing through her. Did he hear me in the passageway? See me just now?
She didn’t dare look back. She moved as quickly as she could without drawing attention, pushing through the crowded seraglio toward the stairs. Her nape tingled; dash it, she could feel Ben giving chase. As soon as she made it to the stairwell and out of his sight, she broke into a run, racing down the steps. She made it to the first floor—and a hand closed around her arm.
Her heart shot into her throat, but it was Charlie. Thank God.
Olivia and the Masked Duke Page 24
