by Gaelen Foley
“Who is that?” she asked, eyeing the portrait in trepidation.
“That is the first marquess of Carnarthen, ma’am. He built this house as his hunting lodge.” Mr. Godfrey gave a heavy, troubled sigh, but offered nothing more.
Peering everywhere around her into the shadows, Alice followed him up the creaking stairs and down a dim corridor. They ascended another, more modest flight of stairs to the third floor and wove through a labyrinth of turns, finally stopping in the hallway, whereupon Mr. Godfrey took out his massive keyring, unlocked a door, and opened it for her.
“Your quarters, ma’am. Would you care for supper?”
“Oh, yes, thank you. I’m famished.”
The chamber had a thick Persian carpet, a canopied bed, and a fine Renaissance plastered ceiling. A low fire already burned in the hearth as though someone had been expecting her. As Mr. Godfrey moved about the chamber lighting the candles for her, a hulking Elizabethan wardrobe emerged from the gloom. She glanced at it, then looked at the butler again, unable to resist her curiosity.
“Mr. Godfrey, has Lady Glenwood gone to the Grotto?” she asked innocently.
Lighting the pair of spidery candelabra over the mantel, he glanced over his shoulder at her in wary surprise. “Why, yes, miss, some time ago.”
“Is she with Lord Lucien there?”
“I imagine so.”
She gave him a winning smile. “May I go there, too?”
“My humblest apologies, miss, but I’m afraid it is not possible.”
She dropped her gaze, unsurprised by his refusal, but she had always been a persistent creature. “Why not?” she asked brightly.
“It would displease the master. The, er, guest list is highly exclusive.”
“I see. Then will you send for Lady Glenwood to come to me?”
“I will try, but his lordship’s guests generally do not wish to be disturbed in the Grotto.”
“Why is that?”
“I do not know,” he said blandly.
Alice gave him a wry smile, for he really was the best sort of butler, discreet and loyal to his master. “Thank you, Mr. Godfrey.”
Relief darted over his lined face. “Very good, miss. One of the staff shall return shortly with your supper and wine. Here is the bellpull if you require anything else in the meantime. Good evening.” He bowed out, pulling the door shut.
When he had gone, Alice took a turn around the room, exploring its shadowy regions. What a curious place! she mused. Her weariness from the day’s travel fell away in youthful curiosity. Furtively padding over to the great wardrobe, she undid the latch with a careful twist. The wooden door creaked loudly in the stillness when she pulled it open. Peeking inside, she found a single piece of clothing hung there. Unsure what it was, she reached out and touched the coarse brown wool, puzzling over it; then curiosity got the best of her. She pulled the shapeless garment out and held it up before the fire, examining it.
It was a domino, a robe like a monk or medieval friar would have worn, only quite new and clean. It had wide voluminous sleeves and a large hood that hung down the back. A length of cording cinched the waist. She suddenly heard a burst of laughter as a few people passed in the hallway beyond her door. Aha, not all the guests had vanished, she thought. Hearing the voices pass by, she hurried over to the door, opened it a crack, and peered out. Several figures wearing long, hooded robes like the one in the wardrobe glided by. When they had disappeared down the dim hallway, she closed the door again silently, gnawing her lip in thought. So, that’s what the robe is for. Apparently, Lord Lucien’s soiree was some kind of costume ball. It was late October, after all, and nearly Hallowe’en. A bit of a sulk passed over her face to think that, as usual, she had to miss out while Caro got to have all the fun.
With a huff at the unfairness of it, she changed out of her carriage dress and slipped on her comfortable morning gown from earlier. Then she took down her hair and brushed it out. The maid soon came with her supper tray, and Alice sat down to a feast of almond soup and warm bread, a fillet of beef with mushrooms, and an apricot pudding for dessert, the lot washed down with an excellent glass of burgundy. Later she reclined lazily on the massive bed and dozed, her long hair strewn around her, a cozy warmth in her body from the wine. She rested her head back on her arm, gazing into the flickering hearth fire, waiting with growing impatience for Mr. Godfrey to bring Caro to her.
She was beginning to worry. Maybe the butler had forgotten about her request or had chosen to ignore it. Alice knew her sister-in-law. If Caro was at a costume ball, she would drink too much and have too sore a head to leave tomorrow morning at the crack of dawn, as they must if they were to make it back to Hampshire by nightfall, as promised. Well, she thought, pushing up to a seated position with a determined look, if Lord Lucien’s servants were not going to fetch Caro for her, she would simply go to the masque and collect the baroness herself. Clad in an unadorned morning gown, with her hair flowing freely over her shoulders, she knew she was not dressed for any sort of gathering, but the domino would hide that fact. Besides, she would only go for a few minutes, she reasoned, just long enough to find Caro.
Moments later, she slipped out of her room, her blue eyes glowing from the shadowy depths of the hooded brown robe. In perfect anonymity, she stole silently down the hallway in the direction the other guests had gone, her heart pounding with the fun of her adventure, leavened a bit by the wine. She wished her friend, Kitty Patterson, were with her, for they would have laughed like errant schoolgirls every step of the way, and truthfully, the mazelike house was rather eerie.
Venturing on alone, she explored the web of dim corridors, making several wrong turns before she found the second, smaller staircase that Mr. Godfrey had led her up earlier. She went down the steps and peered into several hallways until she spied the grand staircase of dark-colored oak, where the marquess’s painting hung over the landing. He seemed to wink at her in sly complicity as she crept down the staircase, biting her lip to hold back a nervous giggle. She couldn’t believe she was doing this. I’m never going to find my way back. In the entrance hall at the bottom of the stairs, a footman in maroon-and-buff livery looked at her attentively. She withdrew deeper into the voluminous hood, shielding her face.
“The Grotto, ma’am?” he asked politely, failing to recognize her.
She nodded. He pointed a white-gloved finger toward the hallway on the left. Spying Mr. Godfrey chastising one of the servants in the adjoining salon, she hurried on before her escape from her room was discovered. Another footman waited at the end of the next hallway and again pointed the way. The third footman she came to opened a modest-looking wooden door for her and gestured to the darkness within.
“This way, ma’am.”
Nervously, Alice approached the pitch-black vault. She looked at the footman in doubt. Surely he was jesting, but his obliging smile did not waver. Alice peered in.
Beyond the door, a narrow staircase led down into what she surmised were the wine cellars beneath Revell Court. Then a few hollow snatches of laughter echoed up to her from the bowels of the house and she realized this was indeed the way to the Grotto. Lord, this was getting stranger and stranger. A small voice in her head warned her to turn back, but she was determined to find Caro. She braced herself and stepped inside.
Instantly, the dank chill in the air licked at her skin like the clammy kiss of a frog prince. Holding onto the banister, Alice descended into the ebony gloom. She had only gone down a few steps when she became aware of a constant, soughing whisper like soft breathing; the sound was familiar, but she could not distinguish it. By the time she reached the packed-earth floor of the cellar, there was no sign of the laughing people she had heard, only another obliging footman in livery posted beside the yawning mouth of a cave. He bowed to her and swept a gesture toward the cave’s mouth.
She paused with prickling chills running down her spine. Just what kind of man had her sister-in-law become involved with? she wondered in grow
ing uneasiness. Caro had described Lucien Knight as a worldly, sophisticated, dangerously cunning chargé d’affaires of the Foreign Office who spoke six or seven languages, but what sort of man kept armed guards posted around his house, required a password at his gates, and held a party in an underground cave? She knew she should turn back, yet the soft, whispering sound drew her onward. Her heart pounding, she slowly walked into the cave.
Torches jutted from the walls, illuminating the glistening stalactites here and there like great dragon’s teeth. As she ventured deeper into the cave, the mysterious sound grew louder; then she smelled the bracing scent of freshwater and suddenly realized what it was—an underground river. She had seen the cascade flowing out of the rock when her carriage had crossed the little wooden bridge. Her guess was confirmed when she rounded a bend in the tunnel and came to the river itself. At last, she saw people. Here the footmen were assisting the robed guests into fanciful gondolas. On the bow of each playfully shaped boat, a torch burned, reflecting the glossy onyx surface of the subterranean river. One of the servants beckoned Alice over.
“Hurry, please, madam. We can fit you aboard this one,” he called briskly.
Alice hesitated, her heart pounding wildly. If she got on that gondola, she knew she might not get another chance to back out—but then the people in the boat began yelling at her, as rowdy and impatient as they had been on the road.
“Hurry up!”
“Are you daft, woman?”
“Don’t just stand there. We’re already late!”
Simple, obstinate pride barred her from fleeing like a coward in front of so many people. Not daring to think what her dear brother would have had to say about this, she hurried forward and accepted the servant’s hand, climbing aboard the gondola. After she had taken a seat, the boatman shoved off with his pole, slowly ferrying the passengers deeper into the limestone caves. She tucked her slippered feet under her and folded her hands primly in her lap.
“Now we’re going to be even later,” someone grumbled in the seat behind her.
Alice glanced anxiously over her shoulder. She was beginning to feel jumpy and scared, but it was too late now.
“Don’t mind them,” the portly drunkard seated next to her slurred. Short and balding, he looked like Friar Tuck from the Robin Hood tales, his sloppy brown robe pulled taut over his potbelly. “We’ve probably missed the service, but personally, I only come for the party.”
Service? she wondered, eyeing him in trepidation.
He smiled at her, his eyelids sagging with intoxication. “What about you?” he prodded. “Lady of pleasure or a true believer?”
Alice just looked at him warily, edging away from him in her seat while the gondola glided gracefully through the ink-black water. She did not talk to strangers, especially leering, drunken males. Besides, she had no wish to reveal the fact that she had no idea what he was talking about.
He studied her with a shrewd sparkle in his small, brown eyes. “You can call me Orpheus.”
He spoke with the hard r’s and exaggerated vowels of an American, which seemed odd, since England and America were at war. The newspapers had reported that British ships were still blockading the bay at New Orleans, just as they had off and on since 1812. Just then, the fluttering of some bats above distracted her. She quickly looked up and wrapped her arms around herself with a grimace, only to realize she should have been more worried about Orpheus, who sidled ever closer to her with a slight, lewd grin.
“You’re new, aren’t you? Shy little thing. Young, too,” he whispered, laying his hand on her thigh.
The violence with which she recoiled from him rocked the boat. “Sir!”
Orpheus withdrew his hand, laughing at her. “Never fear, little one, I know the rules. Draco gets first crack at you.” He pulled a flask out of the inside of his robe and uncorked it. “To Draco, Argus, Prospero—Master of Illusion and Lord of Lies,” he said cynically. “No doubt he will enjoy you.”
Alice stared at the man in shock. “Who?” she blurted out.
“Why, Lucifer, my dear. Who else?”
She gulped. Her heart was pounding hard and fast as the ferryman brought them drifting to a halt on a gently sloped landing. It seemed highly imprudent to get out of the boat, yet her fellow passengers were disembarking in high spirits. They tumbled out of the gondola and trekked merrily up the shallow steps carved into the limestone toward a low, rounded door.
“Come, come, little one. Don’t dawdle!” Orpheus grabbed her wrist and tugged her along with them.
She winced in distaste when she saw the carving that adorned the arched door—the jolly, gnomelike figure of Priapus, the Celtic fertility god, who wore nothing but a wide grin and a ludicrously outsized erection. Priapus was depicted with his finger laid over his lips, as though binding to secrecy all those who entered this door.
“He rather looks like me, don’t you think?” Orpheus asked with a chuckle; then a man ahead of them hauled the door open.
At once, a rush of sound, music, and the low roar of many voices poured out from the subterranean cavern beyond, engulfing them. The music startled her, part plainchant, part war drums, punctuated by the shimmering clash of cymbals and the deep, buzzing drone of exotic Turkish instruments. The smell of frankincense wafted out from the soupy blackness beyond the open door.
“Come on, blue eyes,” Orpheus said jovially.
Alice knew it was a foolish idea to follow him into that darkness. She sensed danger here, but knowing that her sister-in-law was somewhere in that darkness, she had to go. Whatever Caro had gotten herself into, Alice knew it was up to her, as usual, to get her out of it. Keeping her face well shadowed in the depths of her hood, she held tightly to her courage and followed the portly American through the arched door.
What Alice saw inside froze her motionless. She could only stare—stricken, amazed. It was a moment she would remember for the rest of her life, clipping her history neatly in two: her naive existence before Revell Court, and after; the moment her eyes were opened to the existence of another world, a world of secrets.
Lucien’s world.
The smell of frankincense filled her nostrils. Candles burned everywhere amid the serenely dripping stalactites. She struggled for clarity against the shock of the grotesque, orgiastic scene that sprawled out in the vast cavern below her, like a Hieronymous Bosch painting come to life. The mesmerizing music wove its snakelike spell over her, lulling her senses, numbing her astonished mind.
One thing, at least, was clear, she thought. This was no costume ball.
“Come on,” Orpheus said eagerly, leading the way down the steps chiseled out of the porous limestone, descending into a vast subterranean cavern that seethed with a throng of robed people who all were facing, as in homage, the huge carving in the limestone of a hideous, fanged dragon. Every scale was intricately carved; the monster was posed in a reptilian crouch. Braziers of red-glowing coals gleamed in the carved hollows of its eyes. The open mouth alone was as tall as a man, and from its black recesses, a bubbling hot springs flowed into the great cave. The steam from the naturally heated water puffed in spirals through the dragon’s nostrils, as though, at any moment, it might breathe a blast of fire. The hot springs ran down a shallow four-foot channel into a crystalline pool like the one at Bath. It was adorned with tiled mosaics and free-standing Corinthian columns that might well have been put there by the ancient Romans.
Alice had never seen so much naked flesh in her life. Perhaps it was due to her passion for art, particularly for portraiture, but she was surprised at how quickly her shock and moral indignation evaporated in sheer artistic interest. Though many people sported in the waters nude, most were still clothed, their identities shadowed by their hooded brown robes. Some wore masks for extra anonymity, but all appeared engrossed in the drama unfolding on the stagelike platform that was hewn into the serpent’s back, cleverly carved to resemble a saddle. The chief feature on the stage was a stone altar, behind which a pale y
oung man stood, his priestly robes draping his tall, lanky frame. Holding up his hands at his sides, he chanted in some unknown language—probably nonsense—with a clear, reedy voice. The people answered at regular intervals in a mockery of a church service. Alice shuddered uneasily.
When they reached the bottom of the stairs, Orpheus immediately began pushing his way into the thick of the swaying crowd. She tapped him on the shoulder.
“I have to find Lady Glenwood,” she yelled over the thunderous beat of the drums. “Do you know her?”
“No names, chit!” Scowling at her, he glanced about as though to make sure no one had heard, then lowered his head close to hers. She noticed abruptly that he did not seem at all drunk anymore. “Never speak anyone’s real name here,” he said sharply. “God, you are new, aren’t you? No, I don’t know the woman. Now, just follow me and don’t talk to anyone, or you’re going to get yourself into a lot of trouble.”
Chastened, Alice obeyed and filed after Orpheus as he moved through the crowd, which she estimated to be over a hundred people. She searched the sea of faces around her for Caro while Orpheus chose a position in the middle of the crowd. They stopped and turned toward the stage. The reedy voice of the pale young man carried louder. The people answered in unison; she did not understand their words but could feel their anticipation building. Pronouncing a few more bizarre incantations, the pale man turned once more to the people, holding out his arms. The speed of his incomprehensible words and the pitch of his nasally tenor rose steadily with excitement. “Vee-nee-ay mil-sit dren-sa-il Draco!”
Cymbals clashed at the sound of the name. Fires flared in the braziers on the ends of the stage as the priest’s assistants doused the coals with lamp oil. The choir and drones fell silent, but the drums continued more softly and all around her the people began a low chanting: “Draco, Draco.”
