“What the hell is this place?” Pearce demanded as he followed Howard through the abandoned church, which was lit only by a handful of offering candles at the altar.
“You know of the old Hellfire clubs that were popular fifty years ago?” Howard led him to the entrance of the crypt and down its spiral stone steps. “This is our version. Just as secret, just as exclusive, but a deuce of a lot more fun.” He selected two of the white monks’ robes lying over a nearby tomb and handed one to Pearce. “Put this on, along with that white cap I sent you.” Howard shucked off his greatcoat and beaver hat and tossed them onto the next tomb. “We’re like Almack’s, you know.”
Pearce arched a brow.
“We have a strict dress code. None of the brothers can go any farther without proper attire.”
Apparently, they also possessed a flair for the theatrical.
But his curiosity was piqued. Donning the robe and cap, he followed Howard through the crypt which most likely hadn’t seen a burial since the reign of the Stuarts. A second hooded monk guarded a narrow and short stone doorway tucked away, nearly unnoticed, at the rear of the crypt. They descended down another steep set of stone steps. When they reached the bottom, their way was blocked by a wooden door and a sign overhead that marked their arrival.
Pearce read the French inscription, “Fais ce que tu voudras?”
“Do what thou wilt.” Howard grinned and shoved open the door.
Muted lantern light filled the old Roman ruins, along with smoke and the pungent odor of incense. The noise of loud conversation and laughter echoed off the stone, until the sounds swirled around them and Pearce couldn’t tell where they were coming from. Gentlemen wearing the required white robes and caps sat on the original stone benches lining the walls, while others lay draped across Arabian-style silk mattresses scattered across the floor, all of them holding golden wine goblets. Middle Eastern music drifted through the ruins, so did feminine laughter and cries of surprise.
He followed Howard deeper into the complex, and a series of Roman chambers the size of drawing rooms unfolded, one after the other, long ago buried and forgotten as London grew above them. All of the chambers were freshly decorated with mythological figures and phallic symbols, including mosaics and paintings of men reveling in drunken debauchery. Antechambers led off the main passageway that weren’t lit by lamps, although Pearce could tell by the rustle of movement in the dark shadows that each was busily occupied.
Do what thou wilt, indeed…although based on what he saw in the rooms as they passed through, most of the fifty or so men gathered in the old Roman complex couldn’t have cared less for the privacy of an antechamber. Drink of all kinds was provided in an endless supply by half a dozen hooded monks, distinguished from the members by their brown robes. Exotic hookah pipes mixed the sweet scent of tobacco with the stronger odor of American cigars, and veil-clad belly dancers moved seductively to the cheers of men gathered at their feet. Prostitutes draped themselves over the laps of the seated men, wearing open green robes over flimsy, translucent gowns that hide very little of the dusky nipples and feminine curls beneath.
“The brothers share the nuns,” Howard informed him when a woman slinked past, blatantly running her gaze over Pearce and lifting her finger to her red lips to suck suggestively.
“Nuns…is that what you call them?” Pearce muttered.
“What man wouldn’t want to worship at that altar?” Howard grinned and turned around as he continued to stare at the woman, walking a few feet backward to let his gaze linger on her as long as possible. “If you see a nun you fancy, she’s yours. Find an empty alcove and enjoy yourself. The same with any of the drink or food. You’re our guest tonight. Make yourself at home.”
He had no intention of doing that.
“It’s all just a grand lark,” Howard explained as he led Pearce through the chambers. “The church, all the religious nods, the pagan nonsense… The idea came from the old church, actually. The Duke of Raleigh owns this chunk of London, and it was a great-great-grandfather or so who donated use of the land to the Church. Raleigh took it back when the Church forfeited it into disuse. But it’s put him in a pinch because he can’t tear it down or build on it—it’s sacred ground with a churchyard. His son is a member of the club, so he lets us meet here.”
“Convenient.” As they passed the opening to a dark tunnel, Pearce gestured at it. No door blocked it—or hooded monk guarded it—and no lamps lit its darkness. “What’s that?”
“The gateway to the River Styx.” When Pearce arched a brow, Howard grinned. “Come on. I’ll show you.”
He snatched up one of the torches hanging on the wall and led Pearce down the rough-hewn passage that sloped away from the other chambers. Soon, they were surrounded by musty darkness, with water droplets falling down the narrowing walls, and the distant music from above was drowned out by the sound of running water.
They reached the end of the passageway and found a small wooden door that opened easily with a push. The two men stepped through onto a wide stone ledge above a narrow but fast-running underground river. Discarded pagan decorations from the chambers above lay on the ledge, including a large stone Egyptian sarcophagus.
Pearce glanced around, taking in the roof that must have dated from the 1400s, based on the uneven size of the bricks and the slapdash use of heavy mortar. Stinking black water spilled past, just below his boots. Everything was covered with a thin layer of mildew and slime.
“The old lost Walbrook,” Howard told him, gesturing toward the river. “The club’s chambers used to be part of an old Roman bastion in the city wall. The story is that diggers found the ruins when they attempted to expand the crypt of All Souls-on-the-Wall about thirty years ago. The church was closed before work on the new crypt could begin, but the workers had already opened up the Roman ruins and dug this tunnel, thinking they could undermine the old wall, only to run smack into the river. We don’t use this part of the complex.”
“Because of the stench?”
“Because of the rats.” On that self-reminder, he waved the torchlight around at their feet. “But we occasionally use the sarcophagus for parties. The lid comes off. Makes for a fine tantalus in a pinch.”
Howard guided him back out of the tunnel, carefully closing the wooden door against the stench—and the rats.
With each step back toward the chambers, Pearce became more convinced that while the Hellfire club had ties to Scepter, it wasn’t part of the organization itself. No one present tonight seemed to take the club seriously enough, and too much debauchery was going on for a criminal group that existed under a veil of secrecy. Too much opportunity to be blackmailed for illicit behavior.
But he would take any opportunity that presented itself to get closer to Scepter’s leaders. Including being here.
When they arrived back at the club’s chambers, more men in white robes had arrived, and the smoke was even thicker.
Howard led him to the last room. “Welcome to the Inner Temple.”
Pearce gazed at the large, natural cavern around them. Lanterns blazed brightly to reveal more pagan scenes decorating the walls and floor. A raised dais sat at the far end, holding up a Greek altar stone and behind it a wooden throne.
“What do you think of our little club, Sandhurst?” Howard proudly slapped him on the back. “A bit theatrical, I’ll grant you, but it’s all in good fun.”
One of the nuns picked that moment to let out a high-pitched scream. Howard ignored it.
“The only rule involves secrecy. No one is allowed to divulge to the outside world what goes on here or who makes up the membership.”
Madame Noir’s words came back to Pearce, about how Howard liked to share too much. “And the punishment if he does?”
His grin faded. “The end.”
“Of his membership?”
“Of him.” The hard look Howard sh
ot him proved how serious he was. “The brothers voted to allow you the privilege of a visit tonight, which means they trust you to keep our confidence about what you witness here, just as we’ll keep our confidences about whatever pleasures you decide to take.”
Pearce didn’t believe that for a second.
“But don’t cross us,” Howard warned. “You’ll regret it.”
One of the hooded monks stepped onto the dais, lifted a large ox horn to his mouth, and blew. The horn blast carried through the subterranean complex and echoed off the walls. Pearce felt the rising tension of excitement as the music and laughter stopped and all conversation ceased. The men filed into the Inner Temple, flipping up their hoods as they entered and pulling them down over their faces. With a nudge from Howard, Pearce did the same, and soon they were indistinguishable from the crowd.
A man wearing a red robe, his hood drawn low, entered the cavern. The crowd parted to clear a path for him, and with his hands pressed together in a symbol of prayer, he went forward to the dais.
Howard leaned in to whisper, “The abbot.”
The man in red held out his arms. “Brothers, you are welcome to the Temple of Bacchus.”
“Thanks be to Bacchus,” the crowd of men answered in unison.
“This is nonsense,” Pearce half growled beneath his breath as the group recited a pledge of allegiance to their club and its pagan gods. “I’m here to meet the other trustees, not to play at fancy dress.”
“The ceremony will be over soon,” Howard assured him as the brothers continued their call and answer, led by the abbot. “Then we’ll have dinner, and I’ll introduce you to the others.”
“Are you sure they’re here?” Pearce could barely make out any faces in the dim shadows and smoke cast up by the lamps, cigars, and incense. Seeing was made harder by the sea of matching white hoods covering so low over everyone’s faces that all he could see was a series of chins and a scattering of beards.
“Oh, Bacchus,” the abbot called out, “accept our sacrifice!”
As a shout went up from the group, the abbot pushed down his hood.
Pearce’s heart skipped. Arthur Varnham. Sir Charles Varnham’s younger brother.
“Now let us take our feast!”
Another cheer went up, so loud that it echoed deafeningly off the stone walls. Arthur Varnham jumped from the dais and charged through the group as they parted around him, and the brothers all followed after into the connecting banqueting hall, where tables had already been laid out for a grand dinner. Two tables laden heavily with platters of food flanked a center table that was covered with a sheet. Varnham approached the table and passed his hands over it in a mock blessing.
“Enjoy this most holy of holy days, this Feast of Venus!”
He whisked the sheet away.
A blond woman lay across the table, naked except for the bunches of fruit covering her large breasts and spilling down between her thighs. A cherry rested provocatively in her navel.
Varnham folded his hands behind his back and leaned down to pick up the cherry with his teeth.
Beside Pearce, Howard stiffened, his jaw tightening as he watched Varnham eat the cherry, then lean down again to swirl his tongue into her navel to lick up the drops of juice left behind.
“Come now, brothers!” Varnham gestured at the feast laid out before them and the woman spread out like an erotic buffet, and Howard’s narrowed gaze bore into the man. “Partake of the feast and satiate all of your hungers.”
The men rushed forward to fill their plates. But Howard remained where he was, still staring at Varnham as the man plucked a grape from the bunch covering the woman’s left breast, put it between his lips, and leaned down to decadently feed her, helping himself to a devouring, openmouthed kiss. She laughed.
Recognition snapped into Pearce’s head. He knew that woman. He’d seen her at Le Château Noir. The brothers share the nuns… He knew then how the blackmailer had gained information against Howard.
Amelia had been chasing after the wrong Varnham.
Twenty-three
Amelia stood at her bedroom window and watched the midmorning sunlight play across the street below. She smiled to herself as she lifted the teacup to her lips. The long case clock in the entry hall had long ago struck ten. Normally by now she’d be dressed, at the shop, and up to her elbows in problems and merchandise. But not today. Today, lazily, she still wore her dressing gown, her hair hanging freely down her back, and not one remnant of breakfast remaining on the tray she’d asked Cook to send up for her. She’d been famished.
All because of Pearce.
She laughed, the happiness inside her bubbling over. How was it possible that a man could make her feel this feminine and alive, this special? It had been over twelve hours since they made love, yet her skin still tingled from his touch. And would again, now that there was no longer any reason to deny herself the joys of being with him. In every way.
Below on the street, a hackney drawn by an old horse pulled bone-shakingly slowly to a stop in front of the house. The door opened, and a man dragged himself stiffly out of the carriage and down to the ground, as if every move pained him, no matter how small.
Amelia rolled her eyes. Freddie. Of course.
He was still in the white finery that he’d donned last night—as he did every time he headed out to those peculiar club meetings of his that he refused to tell her anything about—but his appearance was far from fresh. The worse for wear, his soiled clothes were disheveled and stained, his neckcloth askew, and his beaver hat perched precariously on his head. His cheeks were dark with morning beard, too much drink, and God only knew what else he’d done last night.
“Oh, Freddie,” she muttered with a tired sigh, her shoulders slumping, “why won’t you ever grow up?”
She was indebted to him. A great deal. But there was no love lost between them. She’d always known that, even when they were children.
What a relief it would be when she was no longer beneath his roof and out from under his control, with a husband who truly loved her, a house of her own, and children. Lots of children. She might even allow Freddie to visit on holidays. She smiled wryly at the idea. If he behaved himself.
But first, she had to tell him about the annulment.
Oh, that was not going to be a pleasant experience! How would he accept the scandal that was bound to result, scandal that would undoubtedly affect his career? No matter that it would mean her freedom or that she was now working to save him from prison. Given Pearce’s new status as an earl, he might even be willing to—
Three men who had been lingering on the footpath began to walk toward Freddie. The men called out to him, and he stopped just before he reached the front step. Amelia could see from upstairs that her brother didn’t recognize the men…but they knew him.
His face twisted in instant anger, and he hurried on toward the house.
Without warning, two of the men flanked him, grabbed him by the arm, and held him still while the third man reached beneath his coat—
“No!” she screamed, dropping her cup and smashing it against the floor. She ran through the house, shouting out to Drummond to help. But the butler wasn’t in sight, and she couldn’t wait for him.
Yanking open the front door, she raced outside. She flung herself between Frederick and the men. “Leave him alone!”
“Move out of the way, ma’am,” the third man ordered. “We’re with Bow Street. This doesn’t concern you.”
Her gaze dropped to the man’s hands—not a gun as she’d feared but a pair of iron manacles. “You’re arresting him?” She turned quickly back and forth between the two men behind her, still holding onto Freddie even though he wasn’t struggling at all. She leveled her gaze on the more dangerous man in front. “On what charge?”
“Corruption.”
“Brought by whom?”
> “Sir Charles Varnham. Now step aside.”
“But—but that’s—” Impossible now that Pearce had seemingly agreed to the trust and Frederick had done all that the blackmailer had wanted. As far as anyone knew, the trust would go through, the last men would be placed—
Her blood turned to ice. No, the trust wasn’t going through. She’d said as much herself at the Black Ball, right in front of Freddie’s cronies and anyone else who might have overhead. Including the blackmailer.
Oh, she’d been so stupid! Everything she’d feared was now set in motion. All because of her.
In desperation, she jabbed a finger at Frederick and then in the general direction of Westminster. “You cannot arrest him.” She needed a reason—any reason that would buy her time and make the men leave. Her mind spun, only to latch onto— “He’s a Member of Parliament! He has Parliamentary privilege against arrest while the House is in session.”
“That’s only for civil charges,” Frederick informed her quietly.
She whirled around to face him, then froze, struck by his expression. He was shocked by this, but also weak and defeated, with slumping shoulders and his hat knocked to the ground at his feet.
“We’re arresting him on charges of smuggling, among other things,” the man with the manacles explained.
But she barely heard him, her focus on her brother and her mind running rapidly through all that would now be destroyed. “No—you have to fight this.” For God’s sake, he wasn’t even arguing in his own defense!
The man behind her roughly shoved her aside.
As she stumbled to gain her balance, he clamped the manacles over Freddie’s wrists. The two men holding him hurried him to a carriage waiting down the street, opened the door, and shoved him inside. They followed after him and slammed shut the door.
The third man wordlessly doffed his hat to Amelia, then swung up onto the bench beside the driver. The whip cracked, and the team started forward at a fast clip, disappearing around the corner.
An Unexpected Earl Page 25
