“Are you a frequent visitor to the chateau?” Turek asked Elle.
“I’ve been a guest here for some time.”
“Can you enlighten me at all about that rather curious stone figure in the cave next to the bathhouse? The one they call Dusivæsus?”
“Been snooping, have you?” Charlotte asked him.
“Exploring,” he corrected. “’Tis a more worthy pastime, I daresay, than spending the better part of every day as you do, being bathed and groomed and dressed.”
“That sculpture is the oldest thing at Grotte Cachée,” Elle told him. “It predates the birth of Christ.” She did not volunteer the information that it was, in fact, a representation of herself—or, more accurately, herself and himself.
A chorus of cheers drew their attention to a pair of bewigged and liveried footmen entering the room with something that looked like a hobbyhorse in the form of a black swan; its head curved backward so that its gilded beak, carved into a remarkably realistic phallus, jutted upward from the seat.
“My word,” Elle said.
“Just something to get the nuns in the proper frame of mind for the banquet. An idolum tentiginis, Sir Francis calls it, one of several little playthings the friars brought with them from London.” Charlotte’s eyes, just visible through the holes in her mask, slid toward Elle as if to gauge her reaction for its amusement value.
Mademoiselle de Beaumont took the hand of one of the local maidens, now garbed in the tunic and wimple of a nun, led her to the device, and instructed her in French as to how to mount it. The girl was balky at first, but, emboldened by the mademoiselle’s gentle encouragement, she finally lifted her habit and sat astride the creature, impaling herself on its beak.
“That was far too easy,” Charlotte sneered. “She’s no more ‘intact’ than I am.”
The girl proceeded to rock back and forth on the swan, prompting applause from the onlookers and praise from Mademoiselle de Beaumont.
“Why did everyone laugh when Mademoiselle went to help them undress?” Elle asked.
Charlotte and Turek shared a knowing chuckle. “Take a good look at her,” Charlotte said.
Elle did. “She is very beautiful.”
“She is the Chevalier d’Eon,” Turek said.
“Chevalier?” Elle said. “She’s a man?”
“No one knows for certain,” Turek said. “There are countless wagers riding on her true sex. One can speculate on the matter through the London Stock Exchange. I’ve done so myself.”
From behind her fan, Charlotte said, “She is an intimate friend of King Louis’s mistress, Madame de Pompadour. They say she spies for the king. I know for a fact that she’s a lethal hand with the sword. She has won a number of duels, sometimes dressed as a man, and sometimes as a woman.”
The girl on the swan began rocking in earnest, her breath coming faster, color rising in her face. The spectators cheered her on as they pleasured themselves and each other.
“This is a most curious gathering,” Elle remarked.
With a dismissive wave of her fan, Charlotte said, “These are just preliminaries, my dear, a little ouverture to put us all in the mood for the banquet that’s to follow the mass. That is when the true festivities will begin. We shall be in nuns’ habits ourselves, then, most of us—until they start ripping it all off us, of course.” The wicked spark in Charlotte’s eyes betrayed her desire to see Elle swoon with shock. “I do hope you’ve a fit constitution, my dear, because the entertainments can be a bit acrobatic. There is always a physician on hand, though, to revive those who faint, as well as to prepare the various…invigorating tonics on which some of our members have come to rely.”
“I’m afraid I shan’t be able to attend the banquet,” Elle said.
“A pity,” Charlotte said. “’Tis a most singular experience.”
“About this mass…,” Elle began. “You cannot mean there’s to be an actual religious service.” Of course, she knew all about the mass, having been well briefed on it following her—or rather, her male alter ego’s—initiation into the order yesterday. Perhaps, Darius thought, she was trying to determine just how seriously the Hellfires actually regarded the pseudo-religious aspects of their order.
“’Tis a sort of backward mass meant to invoke the Prince of Darkness,” Charlotte said matter-of-factly. “A missa niger, we call it.” Narrowing her eyes at Darius, she said, “Did that cat just snicker?”
“He made a noise,” Elle said. “I don’t know that I would call it a snicker.”
Darius gave Charlotte his most guileless feline smile.
“The missa niger is a very special event for us, and rather infrequent,” Turek said. “Our detractors seem to think we conduct one every night, but it’s really no more often than once a month. Its purpose is more to ridicule religious pomposity than to summon the Devil—although it does celebrate our own, rather un-orthodox philosophies and values. Usually only the superior members are permitted in the chapel during the rites, what Sir Francis calls the twelve apostles. Oh, and a couple of footmen, to serve as acolytes. And, of course, the lady who has been chosen to be our Bona Dea for that particular mass.”
“Bona Dea?” Elle said. “She was a Roman goddess of fertility, yes?”
“Quite right,” Turek said. “The Bona Dea serves, in essence, as our altar. She lies naked upon the altar table, and the mass is said over her body. To be chosen as Bona Dea is the highest honor we can bestow upon one of our female companions. Sir Francis will announce her name shortly before the mass. Our fair Lady Somerhurst expects to be chosen for the first time tonight.”
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.
“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 h
as 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.”
House of Dark Delights Page 5
