Beyond A Wicked Kiss

by Jo Goodman

  Had it been otherwise she might have tried to prevent it. On either side of the fireplace, an iron hook was set into the wall. Ria assumed they were there in aid of supporting a lantern and gave them no more thought. When she turned and saw still more set into the other walls at different heights, she understood they had a far less benign purpose. Glancing at Jane again, she saw the girl was turning one of the bracelets in something that might have been agitation, but might also have been a communication.

  Ria moved on quickly and made a cursory attempt to open the room's other door, knowing full well it would offer no exit. She returned again to the fireplace and stood in front of it, trying to warm herself. "Is there no wood?" she asked. "If I could poke at it, perhaps I could make this log give up more heat."

  "You must come back to bed," Jane said. "I will fetch wood, but you must sit here first."

  Ria complied because she was curious. Shivering now, she sat down and tucked the blankets all around her. Jane, she noticed, seemed almost immune to the room's pervasive chill. The girl rose and crossed the room to the panel door. She made two sharp raps with her knuckles. A moment later, the door opened and she disappeared through it. Ria could not get out of bed fast enough to follow. Her attempt left her with one foot on the floor and the other still tangled in the sheets. Frustrated, she dropped back onto the bed.

  Several minutes passed before the door swung open again. Jane entered, carrying several logs on her extended forearms. She was followed into the room by Jonathan Beckwith. Jane dropped to her knees in front of the fireplace and angled her arms so the logs rolled out and onto the apron. Beckwith closed the door but stayed there until she had added the logs. Ria did not see the iron poker he carried until he lifted it away from his thigh. He pressed the tip of it against Jane's shoulder, moving her aside, then he stirred the embers until one of the logs crackled and caught. Beckoning to Jane with the crook of his finger, he bid her rise, then indicated the hook on the left side of the mantelpiece.

  Ria's mouth went dry as Jane walked calmly to the place Beckwith pointed out, raised both arms above her head, and affixed herself to the wall anchor by her gold bracelets. This required that she stand slightly on tiptoe, a position that most certainly caused her discomfort, yet Ria could not see that Jane was bothered in the least by it. Features that Ria recalled as animated and lively were virtually without expression now.

  "It is a good position for her," Beckwith said, leaning the poker against the fireplace. "Do you not think so, Miss Ashby?"

  Ria had no idea how she was meant to respond to his outrageous statement, even if she'd had the wherewithal to do so.

  Beckwith turned over his palm to indicate Jane's slender form. His eyes, however, never wandered from Ria's. "You can observe how it extends the length of her so beautifully? She has lovely breasts. This position causes them to be lifted at just the right angle of offering. The chill has a purpose, do you see?" He sighed. "I suppose that the warmth we have just added to the room will make those particular puckering charms disappear. More's the pity." At Ria's continued silence, Beckwith was moved to approach the bed. He stopped within a few feet of it and regarded her closely. "Will you take a drink? Something more suitable to the palate, perhaps, than water. There is wine. Sherry. Brandy. Indeed, I am certain there is nothing you could request that is not available." He paused, considering that promise. "Except ratafia. That we do not serve."

  "Wine."

  "Of course." He picked up the poker on his way out, smiling with certain significance as he did so. "I should not like to feel this laid sharply across my skull, and I suspect you would like nothing more than an opportunity to do so. Is that right, Miss Ashby?"

  Ria did not deny it.

  "Just so." Beckwith left the room.

  Disengaging herself from the blankets, Ria hurried to where Jane stood. "Will you not come away from there? Oh, please, do not avert your eyes. Look at me, and tell me what power he has to make you do this to yourself." When Jane said nothing, Ria stood on tiptoe herself and tried to lift the bracelets from the hook. Without Jane's cooperation, it was impossible. The girl's own weight held her in place until she could be lifted free. Jane pointedly refused to offer assistance and Ria's strength was not enough to manage the thing on her own, not when she comprehended that Jane would struggle against her efforts.

  Ria's voice dropped to a whisper. "We must help each other if we are to leave this place, Jane. You cannot be resolved to do nothing. I will—" She broke off and stepped away quickly when she heard movement at the door. There was too little time to return to the bed and perhaps even less sense in doing so. Ria was almost certain that she and Jane were being observed.

  Ria stood in the middle of the room, her hands at her sides, as the door opened. She did not look away as Beckwith made a complete study of her person in the near-transparent gown. He could only shame her, she thought, if she allowed him to do so. She was careful not to appear insolent or challenging, knowing full well how these attitudes raised Beckwith's immoderate temper.

  "Your wine," he said, nudging the door closed with the tip of his shoe. When it clicked in place, he carried the drink to her. "I believe you will find this to your liking."

  Ria accepted the glass and moved closer to the fire. She sipped the wine carefully, gauging the taste of it for anything unfamiliar.

  "It is only wine," Beckwith told her.

  She thought he seemed amused by her suspicions. "Where am I?" she asked. "You said I would know this place."

  Beckwith pointed to the fireplace. "Have a care you did not stray too close, Miss Ashby. A single popping ember will ignite the fabric of your gown. Jane can tell you the truth of that. Like a candlewick, it goes."

  Ria glanced at Jane, but she stared fixedly at a point on the far side of the room. Had it happened to Jane? she wondered. Or had she witnessed that event? Ria drank more deeply of her wine.

  "Will you not sit down, Miss Ashby?"

  It occurred to Ria that this invitation was really more in way of an order. She decided not to test it. She sat on the edge of the bed, hooked her heels on the frame, and drew a blanket across her lap.

  Beckwith shook his head. "You may not use the blanket in my presence. Indeed you must not cover yourself in any manner save for the gown you've been given. Do you understand?"

  "But it is still so very cold in—"

  Ignoring her, Beckwith turned on his heel and closed the distance to Jane. He took the puckered tip of her right breast between the knuckles of his index and middle finger and twisted hard. Jane cried out, but Ria's cry was louder.

  Throwing off the blanket, Ria jumped to her feet. "Release her!" The demand was unnecessary, for Beckwith let his hand fall away as soon as she discarded the blanket.

  "Sit down, Miss Ashby." There was a biting emphasis given to each word. He turned away from Jane. "Cause and effect," he said simply. "Mayhap it is clearer to you now."

  Ria nodded slowly. She made no attempt to reach for the blanket. It would not have prevented the shiver that coursed her spine and raised the hair at the back of her neck.

  "Good," Beckwith said. "You are a quick study, though I expected nothing less. The girls generally do not have benefit of your age and experience to guide them in such matters, and it can take longer for the connection to be made clearly in their minds. Jane is just such a case." He glanced back at Jane. "You may speak, dear. Tell Miss Ashby how many stripes I raised on Sylvia's back and bottom before you learned proper obedience."

  "Four stripes, Miss Ashby."

  Beckwith patted the girl's cheek lightly. "And now you are very well disciplined." He let his hand fall back, but his fingertips grazed her throat and passed lightly over the tip of the breast he'd pinched so viciously minutes earlier. Turning away, he regarded Ria again. "We are in London," he said. "That was your question, was it not?"

  "Where in London?"

  "Number 48 Whittington. Does knowing so much relieve your mind? I am never certain why anyone w
ants such useless information, but everyone demands to have it. Do you find that peculiar, Miss Ashby?"

  Ria didn't answer. Before she understood what was happening, Beckwith had turned back to Jane and slapped her smartly across the cheek. "Why did you do that? I didn't—"

  "You didn't answer my question."

  For a moment Ria could not think what he had asked. Her stomach clenched as she thought he might strike Jane again because she was too slow with her response. "No," she said as it came to her. "No, I don't find it peculiar. I suppose each of us wants to place ourselves somewhere. And, yes, it relieves my mind."

  He smiled. "But you don't know Whittington Street, do you?"

  "No."

  "And you have no idea what part of London we're in."

  "No."

  Beckwith just shook his head, still mystified by the importance each new visitor to this house placed on knowing where she was. It was not as if the girls could leave of their own accord. "You will want to know why you are here, of course."

  "I think I understand that."

  He chuckled. "Yes, I suppose you do. At least some measure of it." He reached into the pocket of his frock coat and removed a length of ribbon. "Hold out your hands, Miss Ashby."

  Ria did as he instructed. The struggle was to keep them steady as he used the ribbon to measure each of her wrists. He made a sharp crease in the satin to mark the circumference. Ria wanted to look away and could not; the image of herself wearing the bracelets was too powerfully real.

  "Come with me," Beckwith said.

  It did not matter that she was no longer certain her legs would support her. She stood quickly and waited to see if she would remain so.

  "This way."

  She knew better than to hesitate as he turned toward the door, but she was still compelled to ask, "What about Jane?"

  "Jane is exactly as she must be." He paused a beat in anticipation of Ria making some response. When she didn't, he merely smiled approvingly, perfectly satisfied with her silence. "This way." He rapped sharply on the door and it opened for him. He stepped through, held it open for her, and gestured for her to follow.

  Ria stood on the edge of the threshold but could not cross it. She knew this place, just as Mr. Beckwith had told her she would. At once familiar, yet alien. It was exactly so.

  The chaise longue was sapphire blue. The heavy velvet drapes were the color of rubies. Lighted sconces caused the jewel tones of the fabrics to be reflected darkly in the polished walnut walls. It was the room she had seen in the painting of India Parr. It was the same chaise that Sir Alex had been sitting on for his portrait.

  It was, in fact, Sir Alex who was sitting upon the chaise now, his cobalt-blue eyes sharply assessing her. Surrounding him was the entire board of governors of Miss Weaver's Academy, save for the newest of their number.

  Ria did not know if it was better or worse for her that the Duke of Westphal was not among those gathered for this hellish welcome.

  * * *

  West was the last to arrive. It was immediately obvious to the others that he had not slept. He no longer wore the formal attire from the previous evening's affair, but he appeared to have been a reluctant and impatient recipient of his valet's attentions. Proof that Finch had drawn him a bath was there in the damp copper locks at his collar, but there was no evidence that he had found his soak in any way a useful respite. To all of those present in the colonel's home, West looked as if he might simply come out of his skin.

  It was his very stillness that was alarming. They knew him too well to suppose that his calm was anything but affected. He took up the seat they had left for him in the colonel's favorite wing chair, stretching out in the most casual manner. He closed his eyes for a moment, his head back, his hands clasped in his lap. The posture might easily have been mistaken for one of prayer—and no one among them could say that it was not—but they understood it better as West's means of composing his soul.

  So that he might not be moved to act precipitously, they gave him all the time he needed.

  West opened his eyes, edged himself upward a few degrees, and fished for the card in his pocket. "This was waiting for me when I returned home. It is the reason I sent word around for you to meet me here. The colonel has told you what happened last evening?"

  North nodded. "I wish you had called upon us earlier, West. With nothing to report, Elizabeth and I went home after observing Sir Alex go straightaway to his own residence."

  Southerton's smile was wry. "I know I have been remiss in not asking for help when it was most certainly needed, so I can't very well upbraid you for it, but—"

  "But you mean to do it anyway," West said. "Let us consider that it has been accomplished."

  "Good of you to spare us that speech," East said, helping himself to a cup of tea. "What is to be done, then? The colonel says that Miss Ashby most likely left with Beckwith. Can that be right? He was not even among those who received an invitation."

  Blackwood adjusted his spectacles to read the card West had passed to him. "From the description Lady Powell supplied, we are as certain as we can be that it was Beckwith."

  "The lady has a great deal to answer for," South said.

  West shook his head. "She was simply a convenience for them. If not she, then someone else would have been found."

  The colonel looked up from examining the card. He handed it to East. "You say that the card came this morning?"

  "No. Mr. Blaine told me it was delivered shortly after midnight. I only received it when I returned home."

  Eastlyn flicked the card with his fingernail before passing it to South. "They meant for you to see it much earlier, then."

  "Yes. I suppose they couldn't know I would start searching for Miss Ashby immediately."

  South gave the card a little toss and it sailed directly into Northam's waiting hands. "You will admit it was a more reckless decision than you are usually wont to make. With so many hours passing in the interim, they may well believe you do not intend to come for her at all."

  "That's possible," West said. "But they have been privy to the exchange of letters between us. I think they know I will not avoid a confrontation."

  North slipped the card between two fingers of West's outstretched hand. "Love letters, were they?"

  "I was rather late in declaring my feelings," West said. "I proposed marriage first." The regard of his friends was uniformly chastising and mildly amused. "Yes, well, she's forgiven me. I should like to think she did not extend her trust unwisely." His gaze wandered to each of the others in turn. "You are with me, then?"

  South set his cup down in its saucer. "Now, there is a fool's question. We are certainly not assembled at this hour to take the bishops' part." This assertion was supported by others. "You have but to tell us your plan."

  "Yes," West said. "My plan. I will come to that directly." He tapped the card with his forefinger. "I am unfamiliar with this address. Number 48 Whittington. Do you know where it is?"

  Eastlyn offered the information. "The West End. It is a private gentleman's club. Webb's. My wife's cousins had occasion to go there, and things being what they were, I had occasion to see them being admitted. The Earl of Tremont was a bishop, of course, but it never occurred to me that the club might be exclusively for the Society. You may well know the place by another name. I have heard it sometimes called The Flower House."

  West stopped tapping the card. His complexion, already pale from lack of sleep, became paler yet. "The Flower House is a brothel."

  East considered how he might put it to his friend. "I shall depend upon you not to kill the messenger."

  "Go on."

  Quite aware West had made no promise, Eastlyn went on in spite of it. "The Flower House is indeed a brothel, one that caters to certain... umm, peculiarities. It is my understanding that entree is only given to club members. If it is true that membership is only for bishops, then it follows that those in the house serve at the will and pleasure of the Society."

&nb
sp; West looked to the others to see if they had anything of import to add. They remained silent, as much struck by East's information as he was. "The name of the club again?" he asked.

  "Webb's."

  "Spell it."

  East did so.

  "Mightn't it just as easily be Webs?" South asked, picking up the thread of West's thinking. "The kind one associates with arachnids?"

  "Of course," East said. "I have never seen it written."

  "Spiders," North said quietly. "The bishops are that."

  "It certainly fits, doesn't it?" The colonel rubbed his chin with his knuckles as he mused on this. "Nature's extraordinary weavers. Wouldn't you say so, West?"

  Pushing himself completely upright in his chair, West nodded. "Miss Weaver's Academy. The pieces fit rather more neatly than one could have first supposed." He glanced at Eastlyn. "What else do you know about The Flower House?"

  "Only what I have told you. Rumors. I have never been closer than the gated entrance."

  "Footmen?"

  "No. One can easily go as far as the front door without being stopped. Admittance would be a trifle more difficult after that. One would require identification... a password, perhaps. Something that—"

  West held up the card. "This?"

  "That is certainly how you are meant to gain entrance, but whether it will work for the rest of us..." His voice trailed off as he considered the problem. "Is there time for me to have more printed? I will take it to Sir James. It can be accomplished in a few hours."

  "I cannot wait so long, but knowing you will follow in due time will be considerable comfort."

  North held up one hand. "We should all go together, West. Not you first, with us trailing behind. What if the cards don't give us entree?"

  "Then you will be resourceful, I expect, and find some other means." He glanced at East again. "Tell us about the house."

  "It sits squarely in the middle of a row of others exactly like it. The trade entrance is below the ground floor at the front. I imagine servants use the rear. I cannot tell you any more than that."