Powder of Love (I)

by Summer Devon

  God forgive him, because he knew if it was played all over again, Rosalie in that blue gown, her hair in careful disorder, he’d still have been unable to keep off her.

  Only five people remained in the dining room. Two men and a lady sat at the table. Thank God they were eating. Two footmen stood nearby.

  Under Reed’s instructions, the servants had turned into grim-eyed jailers. During the few minutes he’d left Rosalie alone, he’d managed to toss the soup and gather the servants for a hurried meeting.

  The twenty or so footmen and the housekeeper and maids all stood in the large kitchen.

  Reed’s instructions had been simple. “Don’t allow them to touch each other. Keep them apart, by force if necessary.”

  When one of the younger footmen sniggered, Reed had had to come down hard, responding with anger. In a few brief words, he described the drug as terrible, perhaps exaggerated its dangers. He sure as hell hoped so. He’d said, “If we can’t keep ’em under control, the police might have to be summoned. Not what any of us want, hey?”

  Hawes had been in the kitchen then, dressed in the scarlet finery. Everyone had been drafted for this party, it seemed. The coachman had stood on a chair and roared at the group. “Think how hard it would be to get work in service if word gets around you were part of something horrid.”

  Reed had left Hawes and Beels diplomatically sorting the guests as the musicians played on. About half the guests had eaten the soup, and they, along with their companions if they were young women, were to remain at the table, encouraged to finish the meal.

  The others were politely, firmly, cheerily handed their wraps and pushed out the door, confused and ready to spread rumors. Ah well.

  Reed had told Beels to keep the others eating. “Perhaps the food will help dull the effects. And if they grow restless, any who wish to may dance. No waltzes.”

  After that, Reed went to check on Rosalie. And when he should have been out in the public rooms, working…he’d been working in Rosalie.

  Yes, the three were eating, and their fingers, chins, and cheeks glistened with grease.

  They were surrounded by plates, serving dishes from every course.

  “Rosemary.” A man moaned, threw his head back, and closed his eyes. For a ghastly second, Reed wondered if he was talking about a woman under the table—or to the older lady near him.

  The man brought his fingers to his mouth and licked them slowly. “Sharp. Mmm. Fragrance that fills the back of the throat. Rosemary, and I think a touch of French oregano.” The man mewed happily and opened his eyes. He leaned forward and examined the plates. After a moment, he picked up a large hunk of white fish between finger and thumb and shoved it into his mouth.

  The lady was also gobbling, stopping occasionally to groan in pleasure.

  “The seeds crunch so, so delicately.” She popped part of a strawberry into her mouth. Her lips and her cheeks were smeared red with berry juice. “You must try one. Really, you must.” But she didn’t push the tiered display of fruits and flowers toward her companions. She caught sight of Reed staring at her. “Do you have a dried fig, young man? Now those are seeds. Biting through that thick, lovely skin, and then the seeds clashing against your teeth. Oh, an orange.” She tapped the table with her finger in emphasis. “I’d want the whole thing, and I mean even that fleshy pith and skin. It has tang, you understand. I want my teeth to ache with it, now.”

  The other man at the table wasn’t eating, Reed realized. He yawned and gave a vague smile. “Not in season, m’dear.” His fingers and face were far cleaner, though they also had a sheen of grease. “Tell her they’re not in season, or she’ll start talking about the membrane again.”

  Reed obliged. “Oranges aren’t in season, ma’am. You didn’t eat as much soup, did you, sir?”

  “None at all. Just keeping my wife company while she finishes up. You’re Mr. Reed, aren’t you? I’m Parker.”

  “Please don’t get up, Mr. Parker,” Reed said. The less anyone wandered, the better.

  Parker ignored him and pushed back his chair. He stood next to Reed, arms folded, and for a minute they watched the two eaters work their way through mounds of food.

  Parker said, “I have to tell you, this is one of the most peculiar parties I’ve ever attended. The most peculiar. The hostesses have vanished, and everyone’s wandering around and laughing. The servants aren’t letting anyone leave. They say you’re the one who ordered it. Why are you in charge?”

  “Miss Ambermere asked me to take on that duty because I have had some experience with this sort of problem. I’m sorry you’ve been inconvenienced.”

  “Not so bad, really. I heard doctors were summoned. I was expecting hideous illness and basins. So in truth, this is an agreeable surprise. Just makes m’wife a little silly and hungry, I’d say. What was the stuff that got into the soup? Locoweed?”

  He sounded mildly interested, not upset.

  “I’m not entirely certain, Mr. Parker, but I know it should wear off soon, and you and your wife will be able to leave.”

  “I’m all right. Peculiar music’s playing, but the servants say we ought to take a turn around the floor. Maybe we’ll do just that. Usually have a dreadful time getting m’wife to dance, and she promises she will once she’s done with the fruit.”

  He smiled at the berry-smeared lady, who smiled back. “It’s a joy seeing m’wife having fun for a change. I only hope she doesn’t make herself sick with food.”

  The footmen stared straight ahead. Reed imagined that when he left the room, they’d lapse into smirks and perhaps laughter. At least two of the people at the table wouldn’t notice.

  He backed out of the room. Parker was right; the music was peculiar. Behind the red curtain, all the musicians had fallen silent except one—a violinist. He stood swaying and tapping a foot as he played a strange tune, howling and melodic at the same time. The man drawing the bow across the strings had his eyes shut and a look of ecstasy on his face.

  Reed waved to another violinist, the one he thought was in charge. The man with the thick dark mustache padded over, still holding his violin and a large handkerchief.

  “You should play dance tunes,” Reed said. “Something that will tire the guests out.” He craned his neck, trying to see if anyone was attempting to dance. They’d be too close together if they were. Disaster would strike if this slow, sad music continued.

  “I don’t know how he managed it, but the fool ate some of the soup and seems to have come all over deranged,” the man said. “He can’t stop playing whatever that is. Nothing I’ve ever heard. Gotta admit, it’ll stick with me, though. I didn’t know he was a composer.”

  “You’d best get some familiar tunes playing. Dance music.”

  The violinist next to him shrugged and blew at his mustache. “I tell you, we can’t get him to stop. At any rate, our time’s up in an hour.”

  “I’m sure you’re tired, but please continue to play until I ask you to stop. You’ll get double the money you were promised if you can just play country reels. Something lively. No blasted waltzes.”

  The mustached man started to protest when Reed went to the player and gently laid a hand on his shoulder. The violinist started. The bow jumped on the strings.

  “I’m not finished,” he snapped. “I need to keep going, damn you.”

  “Come on,” Reed said. “You can start again in a minute. Better acoustics, how’s that?”

  The thin, pale man breathed hard through his nose. His fingers twitched, but he allowed Reed to lead him down the hall, through a parlor, and out into the garden, where two more footmen, even more grim-faced than the ones in the dining room, stood at the door.

  The violinist trembled and leaned against a stone pillar near the door.

  Reed envied and rather admired him. The powder hadn’t turned the musician into a rutting, ravenous animal. For a moment the man rested and blinked, but then he raised his bow and more of the haunting music drifted out over the trees, cov
ering the sounds of the city beyond and perhaps some of the activity in the garden.

  “That’s what I’d call night music,” one of the footmen said, and his face softened.

  “Is everything all right in the garden?” Reed knew it wasn’t but had to ask.

  “Maybe it is. The coachman’s keeping watch at the back. He dragged a lady with him, didn’t see who. But he said he’d make sure no one tried to slip out that way. He ordered us to go out in the garden, stroll about and make sure no one called for help. Not used to taking orders from the likes of him, but you made him a kind of deputy, right?”

  “I did.”

  “We haven’t heard no calls for help. But, er…”

  The older, plump one shifted uncomfortably. “But other things. Shameful,” he muttered.

  No more shameful than what had gone on in the library less than a half hour ago.

  “How many are out there?” Reed asked.

  “Maybe seven, eight people.” A grin flashed across the young footman’s face. He licked his lips. “With a few of them, hard to tell how many. Group, you know.”

  Reed crossed the terrace and went down the two stone steps. He’d at least extinguish some of the lights. If they couldn’t stop the activity, they could at least shroud it in darkness.

  Behind him, one of the footmen spoke. “Evening, miss.”

  A rustle of skirts and Reed smelled her. Almost as if he’d taken a dose of the powder himself, he was that aware of her flower scent, and on top of that, the musk of what they’d done together. Why the hell hadn’t she stayed put? If she begged some other man, he’d have to kill him. If she begged him, he’d—No. He must do what he could to save the situation.

  He didn’t turn around. “I’m sorry, Miss Ambermere; I can’t help you.”

  “No, I understand, Mr. Reed.” Her voice was small and full of pain; it made his heart ache. “I am here to offer my help.”

  He allowed himself to face her but avoided looking at her too-bright eyes and swollen lips. “I don’t know what I can do, so I have no suggestions for you. Except you return to a room,” he said as he gazed over her shoulder. Lanterns swayed as a breeze touched the tree behind her. And lock the door, he wanted to add.

  “Do you recall what the doctor said about the effects lessening after he was rendered unconscious?” she asked. “I think it might be true. I believe I’ve fainted—twice.”

  He risked a look. Her mouth remained curved into a smile, dreamy and hungry, yet her arms were crossed over her chest, and white spots showed on her upper arms where her fingers dug into her own flesh, holding herself back. She was still in the grip, but now she forced the fire to stay inside her body.

  He wanted to touch her, reassure her, but there could be no contact without awakening the monster inside her. “I can’t knock all your guests to the floor in the hope they’ll be stunned. And I’m not sure alcohol is a good answer.”

  She swallowed. “Didn’t you send for the doctor?”

  He rubbed his face and nodded. “Yes, I ought to see if he’s here. I’m going to return to the front of the house. I had to make sure things were…not so bad.”

  “Are they?”

  He was mounting the steps again. “Ask me in the morning.”

  Her low laugh was wild but hadn’t crossed the line into hysterical. “Mr. Reed. Gideon. Thank you for helping me. Because Mr. Clermont—after shepherding him, I mean—I know this isn’t an easy job for you.”

  Oh indeed, fucking her had been a real hardship. He nodded and walked briskly through the hall, checking to see that the musicians had struck up something quick. Yes, the room held dancers, and only three pairs were too close together, swaying to a time that had nothing to do with the fast music. Three footmen watched as a man pushed a woman against the fabric-draped wall and began to rhythmically thrust his pelvis against her.

  “Damn.” Reed crossed the room and shoved the two apart. A footman gripped the man’s upper arm and marched him to the door.

  The woman looked into his face, befuddled as a woman awakened from a nap she hadn’t known she was taking.

  Reed recognized her. She’d sat next to him at dinner. Miss Brock. But she too hadn’t eaten any soup, so why was she allowing anyone to treat her like a back-alley whore?

  “Mr. Reed.” She put her hands on his shoulders and swayed. “Isn’t this the most delightful party? I’m so glad I decided to stay.” Her voice dropped. “Risqué is bound to be all the rage. I’d heard about Lady Williamsford but didn’t have any idea of what her set was like. Would you care to dance?”

  He had thought her reasonably quick-witted, but perhaps the word stupid wasn’t correct either. Naive and exuberant would be more generous. “I would enjoy that, Miss Brock, but I have to delay our dance. Where are your parents?”

  “They said they wanted to go see the fountain in the garden.”

  “Ah. They ate the soup?”

  “Yes, I think they did. You’re too busy to dance with me?”

  “I’m, er, helping our hostess.”

  “I saw Lady Williamsford go into the small parlor at the front of the house.” Miss Brock tried to pull him closer.

  He carefully lifted her hands from his body and gave each a squeeze. “Thank you. I had wondered.”

  “You are interested in her daughter, aren’t you?” She put her mouth near his ear, and a gust of wine-laden breath washed over his face. That explained a great deal. “You watched her through dinner. And then you jumped up and ran over to her when the trouble began. I don’t blame you. She is quite pretty, but I understand she’s not as open-minded as her mother, and more prudish and—”

  “I must go find Lady Williamsford,” Reed interrupted. “I shall see you soon, and I hope to claim a dance.” That might keep her in the room with the other dancers, but he doubted it.

  The only room he hadn’t checked was the small red parlor off the withdrawing room.

  He risked tapping Rosalie’s shoulder. She shuddered under his light touch and closed her eyes.

  “Will you wait here?” he asked. “There are at least fifteen people in this room. I think most of the guests are here or in the garden. Do you think you can stay and keep watch?”

  She shivered again. “Yes. I can pay attention and avoid consequences.”

  A rangy figure in full evening dress including tails came into the room carrying a black bag. It was the doctor, out of breath but smiling broadly. “Miss Ambermere. I was at the theater, so it took your man some time to find me. What is wrong? You find the missing stuff, Reed?”

  Reed loathed leaving Rosalie in the doctor’s hands. What if the fellow didn’t keep those hands to himself? But he had to find Lady Williamsford before Rosalie did.

  “Can you explain it to Dr. Leonard?” he asked her.

  “Yes. Of course.” Her eyes were still dreamy, and a tiny smile curved her lips. Don’t go near the doctor, he wanted to yell. Don’t let him so much as touch you.

  He strode briskly from the room to the parlor. The door was closed, and no servants stood nearby.

  When he opened the room, he saw no servants in there either. At least the parlor wasn’t as crowded as he’d expected. The red cloth glowed pink on flesh, and it was a vision of either hell or heaven, depending on one’s propensity. Seven people lay, stood, or knelt, all naked as the day they were born. Five men, two women. Grunting, the soft slap of bodies clashing, the scent of sex and sweat.

  An orgy. Not the first he’d witnessed. He’d walked in on a few during his time with Clermont, and he’d been expecting to find this scene. But the shock still hit him because he knew these faces in polite society, dressed at the height of fashion and thoroughly respectable. And he hadn’t seen two men engaged in such activity before.

  Trevner was on his hands and knees, his mouth wide open, his eyes closed. The plump banker who’d sat next to Rosalie clutched Trevner’s hips and pumped himself into the younger man’s bum.

  A woman rested on the floor, cushion
s under her body, her legs spread wide. She groaned when the man lying on his stomach with his head busy at her crotch stopped working at her. Clermont, his face glistening with the woman’s juices, stopped licking and looked up. He rested his weight on his elbows between her legs and put one hand on the woman’s pudendum. Reed was reminded of someone keeping his place in a book.

  Clermont beamed. “Reed! Here at last. Oh, just what I’ve longed for. Deirdre, look who’s joining us.”

  Like Trevner, Lady Williamsford was on her hands and knees, but she was no passive actor. Her mouth was moving up and down on one man, and one of her hands clutched the base of his cock while her other hand moved between her own legs. Another man knelt behind her, attempting to insert his cock into her swaying body. Lost in her own ecstasy of sucking, she didn’t seem to hear Clermont.

  The man behind her put his hand on her lower back and pressed. She obligingly pushed her bottom higher and shifted her thighs farther apart. With a grunt, he located his goal and pushed into her. He began his enthusiastic pumping. More slaps of flesh against flesh.

  The curve of Lady Williamsford’s back, the line of her throat as she strained at the cock in front of her reminded Reed of Rosalie.

  He felt his own cock’s stirring. Trust that stupid object to rise to these occasions. He could ignore it, and he could ignore the way her breasts swayed. They were fuller than Rosalie’s, and her nipples were slightly duskier. He looked away and watched the banker for a moment. His face was squeezed tight and red. He wheezed as he pushed into Trevner.

  A candidate for apoplectic fit, Reed thought.

  That was a potential lifelong consequence that hadn’t occurred to him. Laws had been broken—were still being broken just a few feet away—by that banker and Trevner. Scandal loomed.

  And in other bodies, so did the even worse possibility of infants in nine months.

  The woman on the floor, writhing and panting under Clermont’s fingers, was young. Reed didn’t recall her name, but she’d been wearing a pale green gown. God, please not a virginal creature. Not married, come to that. Actually Reed couldn’t think of a single situation in which tonight boded well for the needy and naked woman.