But if it wasn’t an abbey, then what was it?
And why would Sebastian be here?
Pulse tapping, she skirted to the end of the corridor. There stood an entrance to an underground passage.
Chortling, the foxed troop stumbled down the steps.
Henrietta raked her teeth over her bottom lip. She was taking a mighty risk, following the group. Sebastian might see her. Perhaps she should just turn around and go back to looking for his room? Forget about the dark abyss beckoning below?
But a boisterous cackle drifted up the spiral passageway, and Henrietta was firmly fixed on the idea of snooping some more.
Alone in the dark, she stared at the gaping chasm for a bit, listening to the din of unruly guffaws coming from the depths of the abbey.
After a moment of reflection, she stepped forward, and pressed her hand to the rough stone wall for support. Just a quick peek, she told herself. A brief glance to see what all the hoopla was about, and then she’d get back to her task—delivering the letter. After all, Sebastian was a noble man, if a bit of a rogue. He had resisted her for many frustrating years! So he must have a good reason for being in such a chilling place. And just as soon as she found out what that reason was, she’d get back to mending their tattered relationship.
Henrietta made her way down the abyss. Torchlight flickered from the landing, revealing a narrow enclosure.
She adjusted her bleary vision to the illumination, and soon spotted a rack of habits dangling from hooks along the wall. Quickly she confiscated a black robe and slipped it over her mantle.
Camouflaged, she felt a bit better about making her way through the underground catacombs. Even if she stumbled upon Sebastian, he wasn’t likely to recognize her in the black robe.
As she moved through the dark tunnel, she reflected upon Peter’s words. It appeared Peter had been mistaken; ladies were permitted inside the abbey. Nuns, at least. But that did not explain the naked statue in the great hall.
Sucking in a deep breath to ease the tight knot in her belly, Henrietta sallied forth.
More statues lined the tunnel—clothed, thank heavens—their stone faces veiled, their lips stuffed with gauze. No eyes? No mouth? What did it mean? One wasn’t to see, to speak of the abbey? Of the goings-on inside?
Wending through the tunnel, Henrietta followed the echo of spirited laughter. At the end of the passage, the hilarity boomed.
On the threshold of a great round hall, torchlight blazing, Henrietta placed her gloved hand to her mouth, stifling a horrified gasp.
Strapped to a long wood table was a woman—a naked woman!—her arms stretched high above her head, her legs spread wide.
Henrietta clutched her queasy belly. A terrible fright gripped her. The shackled woman didn’t seem alarmed, though, even with a horde of masked and heckling misfits surrounding her, groping her. In truth, she was cackling right along with her besotted admirers.
Henrietta grabbed the wall for support, vertigo brushing over her. She stared, stunned, as the men poured wine over the naked woman, squeezed fruit juice over her belly, then lapped up the sticky contents, using the woman as a plate.
It was a ghastly sight.
Henrietta pressed her back against the wall, hiding in the shadows. She slunk through the arena, desperate to see Ravenswood, to understand why he was here among such madness.
“Well, hello, luv.”
She bristled. Breath trapped in her throat. She looked up to find a masked stranger, blond curls mussed, breath tainted with spirits, blocking her path.
“You’re a pretty little nun,” he breathed, stroking her trembling chin with his knuckle.
Like a fox cornered by a hound, Henrietta’s heart pattered. Sweat gathered at her back, under her arms.
Purple plumes covered his face, all except his eyes: dark green eyes, ever so cold. He said with a spurious smile, “Perhaps we should put you on the banquet table next?”
Appalled by the very thought, Henrietta stomped on his foot.
He yelped.
She skirted around him, dashing across the arena. She had to find Sebastian. She had to get out of this disgusting place!
Henrietta darted into another dark tunnel, tempted to scream Sebastian’s name and be done with it. To hell with Madam Jacqueline’s rule; Henrietta didn’t care anymore if Sebastian spotted her. She just wanted to get out of the catacombs—and to take the viscount with her.
But how the devil was she going to find him in this dark hell?
Moving through the unfamiliar tunnel, Henrietta cringed upon hearing so many rowdy voices behind so many closed doors. After months of perusing Madam Jacqueline’s naughty book of pictures, it didn’t take much to imagine what was going on behind the barriers.
Henrietta stilled.
She recognized that male voice!
Taking a few steps, she pressed her ear to one of the doors. Drat! Her pulse was thumping so loud in her head, she could scarcely hear the goings-on.
But she had to be sure.
Henrietta reached for the latch and opened the barrier just a tad.
Her belly lurched. An overwhelming nausea gripped her.
Sebastian stood in the room, eyes closed, head tossed back. He was fully clothed, but for his parted trouser flaps. At his feet was a woman—a nun!—taking him into her mouth.
Henrietta cried out.
Sebastian’s head snapped up. “Henry!” he roared.
Henrietta staggered back, bumping into the damp wall. Sickness roiled in her belly. She quickly hiked up her skirts and dashed back through the tunnel, into the noisy arena.
“Henry, stop!” a voice boomed behind her.
Masked fiends grabbed at her as she struggled to make her way out of the arena, but they were too overcome with drink to stop her frantic flight.
Blinded by tears, Henrietta ripped the habit away. She stumbled back up the winding steps, desperate to get out of the gruesome catacombs, to be in the cool night air again.
But each footstep was weighed by the burden of her broken heart. She wanted to scream and pound the floor. To lash out in grief.
Henrietta found her way to the abbey door. She burst through it, into the winter night. She took one step, then two before the nausea overwhelmed her and she retched into the pure white snow.
Whimpering and bleary-eyed from fresh, hot tears, she staggered down the path, looking for the gate, her coach. She opened her mouth to call for Jenny, but a sob came out instead.
“Henry!”
She shuddered to hear him say her name. “Get away from me!”
Sebastian grabbed her, hugged her in his arms.
It was a miserable moment, to be in his hold. She had longed for him for so many years, yearned for his touch. Now she just wanted to get far away from him.
“What the devil are you doing here, Henry?”
“Me!” She squirmed in his embrace. “What are you doing here?”
“Don’t evade the question.” He gave her a shake. “Answer me.”
“I came to give you this.” She pushed the letter into his chest. He let her go and grabbed the missive. “I wanted to set things right between us, but I’m such a fool!”
“You shouldn’t have come, Henry.”
Icy breath escaped his lips, his nose.
He was angry.
She didn’t care.
“What is this place?” she hissed, wiping the tears from her eyes.
“My club.”
“Your club?” she sneered. “This is where you gather with your friends?” She pointed to the abbey. “What the hell kind of a place is this?”
“Just that, Henry, the Hellfire Club.”
A vile name indeed. “You meet in an abbey?”
“Our founder had the abbey restored more than seventy years ago.”
“This has been going on for decades?”
Years of debauchery. Years of fiendish pursuits. And Sebastian was a part of it all. He wallowed in the decadence, the depravit
y. He liked it!
The ache tore at her heart.
“Is this what you do for pleasure, Sebastian? Celebrate vice?”
He was silent.
“Why?” she cried.
He took a step toward her, shoved the letter in his pocket, then grabbed her by the arms again. “Some of us are born good, Henry, and some of us are born damned. I wasn’t born good, and I’m not going to fight fate.”
She gasped. “Rot!” She twisted her arm to break free of his hold. “You have a choice, Sebastian. You don’t have to come here.”
He let her loose; combed a shaky hand through his thick and wavy locks. “Henry—”
“Who are the men inside?” she demanded, tears burning her cheeks.
He was breathing hard. “Men like me, Henry.”
“The ton you mean?” Throat sore from crying, she croaked, “And you bed nuns?”
“Not nuns, Henry. Doxies dressed like nuns.”
So that was it. No ladies allowed, but doxies…
No wonder Peter had tried to stop her from coming. He’d wanted to spare her from the hideous sight of his ignoble brother.
“But where are the friars?” she said. “Peter told me there were friars.”
“Peter?”
Henrietta sensed she had rankled him even more with the confession about his brother, but she was too grieved to care. She just wanted answers, hurtful as they might be. Her world was shattering before her eyes, but she still wanted more from Sebastian. She wanted more truth.
Sebastian took a moment of repose before admitting, “We are the friars.”
“Oh, I see.” She sniffed. “The ‘friars’ bed the ‘nuns’ in the abbey.” It was enough to make her retch again, admitting the words aloud. “You’re a fiend.”
“I know, Henry.”
But she didn’t know. That was the wretched truth. For eight years she’d loved, even worshipped, a dream. Sebastian wasn’t a gallant knight. He was a villain, just as her sisters had said. And she had adored him. Seduced him. Wanted to marry him!
Oh God, it hurt, the candor. It hurt so much she wanted to scream. He looked so formidable in the shadows. So wicked. So unlike her Sebastian. The hero she had dreamed up in her head.
“I want you to stay away from me,” she sobbed. “Don’t ever come near me again!”
“I won’t,” he said quietly. “I promise.”
Chapter 16
S ebastian made his way back down into the banquet hall. He grabbed a bottle of spirits. He didn’t care what brand it was, so long as it was hard. Hard enough to numb the crushing pain throbbing in his chest. He popped the cork and guzzled the liquid fire.
It was over, Henrietta’s infatuation with him. After eight long years, he had ground her girlhood fancy to dust. It was ironic, really. To shatter her whimsical dream, all he’d had to do was tell her the truth. Tell her he was a loathsome villain.
Sebastian settled in a chair and took another swig of brandy, trying to blot out the memory of Henrietta’s briny tears from his mind. He had devastated the girl. A deuced shame. But what other choice had he had? He was a fiend. And Henrietta was an innocent and foolish girl.
True, she had tried to seduce him. But under the misguided belief that they were soul mates. What rot! It was better for the chit to learn the truth about his vile nature. She was still young. Only twenty. She had plenty of time to find herself another mate. A more suitable husband.
Sebastian quaffed the rest of the drink, let it burn his throat and fill his belly. Henrietta was going to be all right. She was a charming, pretty little chit. She’d have a plethora of beaux by next Season’s end. She would forget all about him, he was sure.
Bloody spirits! Not working fast enough. A cutting pain speared his heart, pinched his lungs, making it hard to breathe.
Sebastian gripped his brow and rubbed his aching temples. There would be no more adoring looks, he mused. No more fanciful gestures or spirited laughter or passionate kisses. Soon Henrietta would belong to another man. Soon she’d shower her husband with devotion. And Sebastian would be dismissed from her thoughts like a bad dream.
Good riddance, really. At least he didn’t need to pretend anymore. Pretend that he was some gallant knight to shield the chit from the truth about his wicked ways. He was free. Free to be the man he was always destined to be: a villain.
A disgusting villain who’d just squashed Henrietta’s heart.
Blast it! What the devil had possessed the girl to come down here in the first place?
The letter.
Sebastian fumbled in his pocket, looking for the cursed piece of paper she had come to deliver. He found it in the silk lining of his coat, all crumpled up.
He unfurled the missive:
Dear Sebastian,
It grieves me terribly, the hurt that I have caused you. When I think of last night, the warmth of your breath on my lips, the rampant beats of both our hearts, I am filled with remorse at the thought of losing all that is good between us. Forgive me.
Yours,
Henry
Sebastian stared at the letter, the words sinking into his woozy brain. Memory of last night’s passionate tussle in bed with Henrietta pounded in his head.
All that was good between them? Yes, it had been good. Achingly good. But the girl didn’t want his forgiveness anymore. She didn’t want anything to do with him, in truth. She was gone from his life. Forever.
Sebastian’s vision started to fuzz. Thank God! He let the bright torchlight, the besotted friars, the moans of wenches all mix together in his head.
The movement and noise swirled before his bleary eyes, in his drowsy ears. He dropped his head back, beckoned the darkness to come, to stomp asunder the misery in his gut. But instead, the buzzing antics of a fustian pest bothered his senses.
“She was mine, Ravenswood.” The chap slurred his words as he took a seat opposite Sebastian. “You’d no right to take her from me.”
Sebastian lifted his head, trained his wavering eyes on the grating mooncalf. But all he could see was purple feathers.
“Who the devil are you?” snarled the viscount.
The mooncalf fumbled with the laces of his mask.
“Emerson,” Sebastian gritted.
A young upstart, Emerson was the son of an earl. He had joined the Hellfire Club to obtain a notorious reputation—and thus ruffle his officious father’s feathers. Perhaps he even wanted to send the earl into an early grave with the shock of his wicked ways?
Whatever the matter might be, it was all rot. Emerson infamous? He was a peevish misfit with an iniquitous cruel streak. He enjoyed the brutality of life. Seeing others suffer, that was, for Emerson was a coward himself, too timid to show his face more than half the time. Like the other friars in the club, he preferred to wear a mask to conceal his identity.
It was all bloody absurd in Sebastian’s estimation. If one did not really enjoy ignominy, one should not join a society like the Hellfire Club. Wearing a mask was a timorous pretense.
“What the deuces are you talking about, Emerson? What woman?”
“The spirited little wench you just chased after.”
Sebastian hardened.
“She was mine, Ravenswood.” Emerson pointed to his chest. Missed. And poked himself in the throat. “I’d picked her.”
“Picked her for what?” Sebastian growled.
Emerson garbled his words. “To be our next banquet, o’course. Mmm.” He licked his lips. “She’d have made a tasty dish, strapped to the table—”
Gripped by a pounding fury, Sebastian shot out of his chair, fists swinging. But vertigo nearly plunked him back into his seat.
Emerson, meanwhile, toppled out of his chair, and scurried on hands and knees to get away from the ominous viscount.
Sebastian gathered his composure and set off after the little rabble-rouser, knocking chairs and tables out of the way.
The friars erupted in guffaws, clamoring, “Go get ’im, Ravenswood!”
Regaled by the spectacle, the friars didn’t care about the root of the fight.
Emerson scrambled under the banquet table. It was a sturdy structure, too heavy for Sebastian to tip. Instead, the viscount stomped to the other side of and grabbed the crawling wastrel by the ankles.
Emerson let out another holler and kicked.
Sebastian, thoroughly foxed, lost his hold on the scalawag, who disappeared into one of the tunnels.
Beneath burning torchlight and a hail of guffaws, Sebastian could feel the darkness clawing at his eyes. And why the devil was he chasing after Emerson again? He didn’t remember anymore.
Staggering into a nearby tunnel, Sebastian stumbled into an empty cell and collapsed on the bed. The blood pounded in his ears. Darkness pounded on his head. And Sebastian welcomed the blackness with a blissful sigh.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the catacombs, a distraught Emerson had curled into a quiet corner, the stinging tears of humiliation burning his cheeks. He didn’t have a contusion on his body, but the bruise to his ego was sore indeed.
The ring of laughter still echoed in his ears. The friars’ sporting taunts. He was disgraced. He could never return to the Hellfire Club. And all because of that savage brute Ravenswood. Emerson didn’t know what had set off the viscount, but he was determined to make the man suffer.
Dearly.
But how?
A scrap of paper caught the besotted Emerson’s eye. The same scrap of paper Ravenswood had been reading before he’d stomped after him like an ogre. The viscount must have lost the letter in the fury of the chase. It was now wedged under a chair leg, fluttering in the cold catacomb breeze.
Too busy drinking and heckling, the friars didn’t pay much mind to Emerson as he crawled discreetly back into the banquet hall and snatched the letter from its precarious spot.
Quickly Emerson skulked back into the tunnel, away from the bacchanal, and read the letter.
The words danced on the page. He was foxed. He had to concentrate hard to get the inscription to stay still and make some sort of sense.
Too Scandalous to Wed Page 12
