A Wild Night's Bride (3 page)

Ned opened his mouth to protest and realized the futility. Although they’d maintained a firm friendship these many years since leaving Oxford, Ned couldn’t approve of DeVere’s wild, ungoverned lifestyle and the rakehell reputation he seemed to proudly foster rather than to check. DeVere was generous to his friends, vindictive to his enemies, imprudent in his words, and rash in his actions, but at six-and-thirty, the viscount was well-settled in his dissolute ways and unlikely to change.

“I won’t hear it, Ned!” DeVere said, rising abruptly and shaking out his lace cuffs. “You are to be my guest for the duration of your stay in town. I’ll brook no protest. I had rooms aired for you as soon as I got word you were coming, and my cook’s bill of fare is far superior to any public ordinary. I’ll pay the reckoning, and my man, Winchester, will collect your bags.”

***

Entering the apartments at DeVere House, Ned was struck by a scene of Oriental opulence that might have sprung from the pages of the Arabian Nights—the Turkish divan covered with colorful silk-tasseled pillows, the intricately patterned
kalim
rugs, and ornately wrought hanging lamps. “Damme, DeVere! It looks more like a Turkish seraglio than a respectable London townhouse.”

DeVere only chuckled as Ned wandered over to the bookcase teeming with embossed leather-bound volumes. Examining the titles, he was not much surprised to discover an impressive collection of classical erotology. Beside Ovid’s
Ars Amatoris,
a work they’d snickered over in their schoolboy days, sat a thin volume embossed with exotic symbols. Intrigued, Ned pulled it from the shelf. “
Ananga-Ranga?
Curious name.”

DeVere slouched in a great, leather chair, heels propped on the hearth. “Ah, an altogether interesting work, the translated title from the Sanskrit is
The Hindu Art of Love.
Dedicated to those seeking enlightenment and variety in the rapturous act of coition, it is a collector’s edition, printed for private circulation only.”

“Really?”

“Indeed.” DeVere rose and pulled another slim volume from the shelf. “Here is a little something I picked up in France.”

“Not the pox, I hope?”

DeVere scowled. “French pox is
never
a joking matter, my friend.” He handed the book to Ned.

“Cent Façons de Plaisir,
one hundred ways to pleasure,” Ned translated.

“It contains one hundred illustrations on how best to obtain sexual gratification. I credit the author with both imagination and artistic skill in his depictions.”

Ned affected urbanity as he flipped the book open to a shockingly graphic and equally fascinating depiction of mutual oral gratification. The image sent simultaneous heat to his face and groin.
Damn, but it’s been a long time.

DeVere peered over Ned’s shoulder with a chuckle. “How apropos for page sixty-nine, though one would have to be rather a contortionist for that variation, I think. But then one must try it to know, eh?”

Refraining from comment, Ned snapped the book shut and moved to replace it.

“So fast, my friend?” DeVere took hold of the book. “This is a rare and expensive volume and surely worthy of further study. Tell you what; I shall make it my welcome gift to you.” Embarrassed, but not knowing how to graciously refuse, Ned pocketed the book with the warm awareness of an unmanly blush.

DeVere placed his hand on Ned’s shoulder. “You have yet to see my private apartments. I returned from my travels as much enamored with Constantinople as was my predecessor, Lord Baltimore, who built this house.”

“I think you’ve developed an unhealthy obsession in emulating him. It’s said the scoundrel kept a private harem in this very house. Is that next for you?”

“Why not?” DeVere grinned. “Baltimore only wished to live every man’s fantasy by recreating that land of erotic dreams with scantily clad, sweet-smelling women who are trained in the arts of pleasure, a place where a man might truly live as a king. Have you ever experienced a hammam?” he asked.

“A what?”

“A hammam. It’s a type of Turkish bath and a true delight to the senses. There are several now established in London, and though they do not compare with the baths of the east, one is served by the loveliest and most
accommodating
attendants. I must take you to one. But not tonight. Tonight, we rest, for tomorrow I have something altogether special in mind.” He regarded Ned with an iniquitous gleam.

“And what might that be?” Ned felt a hint of trepidation.

“In due time, my friend.” DeVere’s lips curved wickedly. “All in due time.”

Though spoken innocuously enough, DeVere’s evasive response left him with a peculiar sense of foreboding.

***

His host’s claim regarding his table was no boast due to the exceptional quality of his wine cellar and the efforts of the first-class chef he’d procured through the Duke of Bedford’s lost racing wager. After multiple courses of salads, jellies, beef, fish, game, and fowl, the two men waved away the cheese and pastry trays to settle down to port. DeVere sprawled in his chair, a glass dangling carelessly in his hand and looking like Dionysus himself as he considered his guest.

“I’ve wondered about you, dear Ned, about what it would take to crack that boorishly respectable veneer you’ve honed since leaving my sphere of influence. Indeed, I’m vowed to become your savior, to save you...from yourself.” He took a long drink and commanded his footman with a mere flick of a finger to refill their glasses.

Although Ned himself was no stranger to drink—no self-respecting country gentleman was—his mind and body were already abuzz with a pleasant languor. He picked up his port, eyeing it appreciatively before draining the glass and remarking with a lazy smile. “Not every man is a voluptuary like you, DeVere. I happen to enjoy quiet country living and rustic pursuits—hunting, fishing, tending my estate. Simple taste does not equate to a deficiency in or
of
life. One man’s potion is, indeed, another man’s poison and all that.” He emphasized his point with a clumsy wave of his hand.

DeVere eyed him pointedly. “Very well then; as a purveyor of such poison, I must needs ask, if you are so blissful in your reclusive rustication, why have you
really
come to London?”

“I’ve told you, Ludovic, to find a house for the season.”

“You could have easily hired an agent for the task,” DeVere countered with a shrewd smile. “No, my friend, I fear you deny the truth. You were bored to distraction and came to town in desperate need of diversion. You sought me out knowing I’m precisely the man to answer that need.” DeVere reached into his breast pocket and retrieved an elegantly scribed gold-foil invitation, handing it to Ned.

Mrs. Charlotte Hayes presents her most respectful compliments to the Viscount Ludovic DeVere and humbly requests his presence at her establishment at King’s Place tomorrow evening for the Otahetian Feast of Venus where under the tuition of Queen Oberea…in which character Mrs. Hayes herself will appear…a dozen exquisitely beautiful and untainted nymphs who breathe health and vitality will perform the celebrated fertility rites as practiced at the exotic Isles of the Antipodes. This most exclusive subscription-only event is offered for the modest sum of two hundred pounds to the first four and twenty guests who respond. RSVP is most humbly requested.

Ned looked up with a puzzled frown. “Feast of Venus? Queen Oberea? Fertility rites? What devilish manner of theatrics is this?”

Ludovic chuckled.
“
Apparently, our delightful Mrs. Hayes’ nose was put out by the success of the
Grand Bal d’Amour
hosted by her fellow abbess, Mrs. Pendergrast, last month. What a deliciously salacious masquerade
that
was with the toasts of the demimonde appearing in
puris naturalibis.
Ladies—and I use that word loosely—Henrietta Grosvenor and Margaret Lucan appeared as Mothers of Eve with their faces rather than their nether parts concealed by fig leaves. Damn, but it was a night, Ned! Now, not to be outdone, it appears our revered mother Hayes is inspired by Captain Cook’s latest voyage to the South Pacific.”

“I give the woman credit for creativity.” Ned laughed. “Have you read John Hawkesworth’s account of the voyage?”

Ludovic’s brows lifted ever so slightly. “Come now, Ned, do I truly look like a man who entertains himself with books?”

Ned raised a hand in mock apology. “My mistake. Though surely, you are acquainted with the lewd poetry inspired by the sojourn in the Antipodes.”

“Indeed, I am, as well the amazingly detailed account of the fertility rites that Mrs. Hayes is so eager to reenact. By the by, Ned, before you can make your excuses, you should know I have already responded that I will be accompanied by a dear friend in particular need of entertainment.”

“You didn’t.”

“Indeed, I did. The gracious madam Hayes kindly replied that for the right price, one might even procure said unsullied nymphs for a private engagement following the entertainment.” Ludovic’s eyes held a diabolical gleam. “As I said, my friend, London offers unique delights to those who seek them, and amusement of a unique and titillating kind is precisely what I intend to provide.”

C
HAPTER
T
HREE

A private house on Drury Lane

Phoebe awoke shivering, the damp morning chill penetrating her very bones. For the first time in recent memory, she missed the two younger sisters with whom she’d used to share a bed. Though crowded, their combined body heat meant they had rarely suffered the cold as she did on this morning. A brief pang of longing for her old life added to her discomfort. She cast a disparaging eye to the brazier, realizing her meager coal ration had burned out hours ago in the tiny garret chamber, but she durst not ask Mrs. Andrews for more. She had imposed enough on the woman’s kindness, and now they were both unemployed.

Cloaking herself in her blanket, she rose and performed hasty ablutions, splashing her face with frigid water, drying with the coarse cloth. As quickly as possible, she dropped the blanket and yanked on an extra petticoat followed by a plain fustian gown and apron. She took a few extra pains to pin up her long braid before concealing it under a modest, lace cap. Checking her reflection in the tarnished bit of glass, she smoothed her skirts and descended to the kitchen for breakfast.

“There you are, duckie,” Mrs. Andrews greeted Phoebe as she joined her for tea and toast. The elder woman appraised her modest garb with a critical eye. “Now
that
won’t do at all, love,” she said, pouring a cup of tea. “It seems we have much work to do on your appearance.”

Phoebe felt herself flush. She had scrubbed her face clean and already wore her best day dress. “What do you mean?”

With a sly smile, the elder woman slid a small silver tray across the table. It was littered with various squares of paper, each embossed with elegant script. Phoebe’s cup arrested in midair. Her eyes widened. Tea sloshed. The cup returned to the saucer with a click.

“Didn’t I say the gents would call if ye played Kitty?”

With her few minutes on stage, Phoebe had, indeed, played the brazen Kitty to the hilt, smiling coyly, adding a seductive sway to her walk, jutting her shamefully displayed breasts. As predicted, a half-dozen gentlemen had visited her borrowed dressing room following the performance.

Helping her to undress behind the screen, Mrs. Andrews had schooled her. “Receive them all, duckie, but pay no special heed to any. The gents thrive on competition, ye ken.” Phoebe had gasped as the wardrobe mistress gave a solid yank on her corset laces, thrusting her breasts high and tight. “Encourage and flaunt your wares,” she advised. “Ignite their interest and then turn them away. All of them. And if ye pay least heed to the one you really want,
he
will try all the harder.”

Tamping down her nervous qualms, Phoebe had emerged from behind the screen in a filmy gown selected by the wardrobe mistress, a garment meant to tempt and to taunt. Maintaining Kitty’s pouty lips and bedroom eyes, Phoebe had received the compliments of her backstage visitors with an affected aplomb, while Mrs. Andrews played the part of her duenna, gauging each prospective protector with a mercenary eye. After an hour or so, she’d shooed them all away. “Accept no invitation this first time, duckie, for there will be better on the morrow.”

Mrs. Andrews had proven a veritable sage.

“Where did all of these come from?” Phoebe asked in bewilderment.

“Delivered from the theater. Some was left last night. Others sent this morning. The finer gents don’t wait in line, ye see. They watch, first, from a distance. They don’t wish to appear too interested. Neither do you.”

Phoebe regarded her, perplexed. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s as I said, luv, a competition. You must be seen with many gentlemen, and you must string them all along. The harder you make it without spurning altogether, the more valuable you become. None covet easy game.”