Beyond A Wicked Kiss (59 page)

"Mary told me the kitchen is always in use," Ria explained. "It is because of the hours the bishops keep. Everything must be in readiness for them at all times."

West knew the girls were subject to the same demands. He suspected his friends required no further explanation to arrive at the same conclusion. When he glanced around and saw their grim faces, he took it as confirmation that they had.

Ria lifted a lamp from the scarred oak table and lighted it. She held it up as she led the others out of the kitchen and through the pantry, scullery, and ironing room. She stopped when they came upon a door heavily embellished with carvings of clusters of grapes along the frame. The center panel was a deep relief of the Greek god Dionysus overseeing a harvest celebration in his honor. The revelers around him danced and drank, and in some exquisitely lewd examples of artistic liberty, debauched.

Ria turned her back on the door quickly and groped behind her for the handle. "The wine storage," she said unnecessarily, unable to quite meet anyone's eye. "We must go through here."

West reached around her for the handle before she could twist it. "Let me go first."

She surrendered the lead without argument and stepped inside the cool, slightly damp interior of the room only after West indicated that she could. At East's request, she raised the lamp higher so they could see the interior more clearly.

There were long racks of wine, four deep at the center of the room. From floor to ceiling, the walls were lined with still more racks, most of them holding the full complement of bottles.

"Dionysus, indeed," Eastlyn said under his breath. "I do not think even Prinny has such a collection." He gave the room a second cursory glance. "But where now? There is no other exit."

"There is," Ria said. "This way." She brushed past West and went to the wall of wine opposite the door. The floor was cold on her bare feet and the lamp shook slightly in her hand. She was grateful when North relieved her of it. "Forty-three and thirteen," she told them. "We must count, starting from the left, then down that row from the ceiling."

West came upon the bottle first. He put his hand on the neck and waited for the others to confirm it was the correct one. "Do I pull it out? Or twist?"

Ria shrugged uncertainly. "I don't know."

Examining the clearance in the room, trying to determine if the rack would swing in or out, or perhaps slide sideways, West made his decision quickly. He pushed the bottle in. They all heard the telltale click. It was the last sound they clearly caught. Once the secret panel opened a mere fraction of an inch, the cries and shouts from the other side deafened them to even the sound of their own thoughts.

West glanced back at the others and saw they were prepared to advance. North pressed the lamp into Ria's hand again, and she had to give ground as he and the others stepped in front of her. Satisfied that she was protected in that way, West gave the nod that they would move ahead.

"I should rather like to flatten one of these bishops," he said over the din, harkening them all back to their Hambrick Hall days.

South grinned. "Brilliant."

"Excellent," East agreed.

"Top drawer," North said. "Really, top drawer."

West pushed the panel harder. It swung another foot into the adjoining room and then began to slide sideways. The activity in The Flower House's deepest chamber subsided slowly as North, South, East, and West filled the threshold shoulder to shoulder.

Nothing they had seen, heard, or knew from their own experience prepared them for the tableau they were facing now. Behind them, they heard Ria's sharp intake of breath and realized at once they had neglected to fully protect her from the view.

Jane Petty was at the center of the marble temple, positioned on the altar as a sacrifice, her arms and legs secured by short gold-plated chains. A wide collar of beaten gold was attached to a ring in the altar so that she could not lift her head, nor easily turn it to the side. The thin pink lines crisscrossing her pale skin and the delicate batiste fabric lying in shreds around her were proof that a lash had been used repeatedly to strip her of her gown.

At each corner of the altar were Jane's handmaidens. Their gold bracelets were fastened to iron rings in the marble base. They knelt in attitudes of prayer on the smooth, cold floor, their drawn features tearstained but stoic. The fluted marble column, with its Ionic influence at the capital and base, supported another young woman, who was stretched so tautly by her bonds that her toes barely scraped the floor. The chamber's final female occupant was seated on a bench, untethered by any chains or rings or straps, but positioned in a way that she was forced to detach herself from the drama and watch it as one of the audience.

The bishops were almost unrecognizable in their dark-ruby cassocks and full-head masks, every one of them a likeness of a beast. They stood in various postures of astonishment, some with their arms thrown up, others trying to shield their shriveling erections, all of them breathing hard enough to mimic the great snorting beasts they had imagined themselves to be.

Lord Herndon stood beside the column, his right hand still on the tender, pink-tipped breast of his captive. West recognized that long-fingered, rather fragile-looking appendage as the same one he'd seen stroking the delicate orchid petals in his conservatory.

Sir Alex Cotton stood at the head of the altar. He continued to absently stroke Jane's fine silky hair, his fingers curved like talons against her scalp, while his distinguishing blue eyes stared fixedly from behind a falcon's mask.

It was Beckwith who had wielded the whip. He stood at the back of the altar, his cassock open from collar to cock, his hand hovering at the level of his ram's head, the wrist poised to snap and strike. The lash dangled darkly from the end of the handle, twisting like a serpent until it lay still.

So this is where they'd fled to, West thought. At South's entrance, Beckwith had raised the alarm, and those who could move swiftly to this hellish sanctuary had done so. It was not entirely clear if this theatre of venal indulgence was the desperate final act of men in expectation of being cornered, or if the bishops were celebrating their narrow escape. West believed it was probably the latter. It was not like the Society to anticipate defeat. If further proof was required, it lay in the fact that there was no avenue of escape from the room.

Ria wanted to hold West where he stood. Her hand hovered near the small of his back, and she could feel the faint tremor in her fingers as she fought the urge to grab a fistful of his shirt. She would not do it, though. She understood his need to go forward and take them on. It was no different for the others. All four of them were fairly vibrating on the threshold, their rage all the more terrible because it was restrained with such consummate confidence.

At Hambrick, she remembered, West and his friends had gone looking for a fight when one found them. This time they would strike first, spreading out like the points of the compass they had always meant to be. Ria held her breath as she watched them go.

The bishops were six strong. Not one of the young women could be depended upon to assist in their defeat.

It hardly seemed fair, she thought, then she realized she should have known better. To level the playing field, the Compass Club paused in their tracks and divested themselves of their weapons, handing them over to her.

Soldier. Sailor. Tinker. They waited as one until the spy among them planted the first facer. When Beckwith's ram's head crumpled under the force of West's blow, they threw themselves into the fray.

Epilogue

It was still in the earliest hour of the morning when Ria and West arrived at his residence. The sun had not yet appeared above the horizon, but a thin carpet of light was already spreading across London rooftops in advance of it.

West waved off his friends as he and Ria mounted the steps to his home. He wasn't surprised when they remained hovering on the walk until he had Ria safely on the other side of the door.

The foyer was crowded with servants in varying states of wakefulness. Some had positioned themselves in an awkward recline on the stairs. Two were sitting on the floor with their legs drawn up, their heads lolling uncomfortably to the side. Finch was sharing a small bench with the rather large housekeeper. They remained upright by supporting each other shoulder to shoulder.

It was the butler who responded to the summons at the door. He clapped his hands smartly, rousing all of the employees in his charge to alertness, and offered West a rather stiff, though not embarrassed, explanation of the vigil.

"They needed to know Your Grace was safely returned," Mr. Blaine said. "And there was particular concern about Miss Ashby."

West and Ria were not so bone-weary that they were not touched by this welcome, though giving voice to their appreciation was considerably more difficult. They managed to smile through the haze of their exhaustion, but for those who had spent a restless, uncertain night in waiting, it was as if twin suns had broken the horizon.

With morning clearly upon them, the servants quickly dispersed and took up their tasks as the butler and housekeeper assigned them. A maid ran ahead of West and Ria to turn down their beds, while Finch closely followed their slow ascent up the stairs as though he anticipated having to catch one or both of them.

West escorted Ria to the chamber that was made ready for her and stood in the doorway until she simply dropped onto the bed. He was quite certain she was asleep before her eyes were properly closed. Satisfied that she would rest soundly for a few hours at least, West left her under the care of one of the maids and accepted Finch's directive to retire to his own room.

Almost as boneless as Ria, West found it hard not to collapse in a heap on the bed as she had. He managed to keep himself upright while Finch removed his boots, though in the end he was propped on his elbows in a half recline. "Do you think the servants noticed Miss Ashby's unconventional attire?"

Finch set the second boot down and straightened. "I'm uncertain what you mean, Your Grace. In what way was she not the first stare of fashion?"

West found he still had the wherewithal to chuckle. He took it as an encouraging sign that his world was slowly righting itself on its axis. There had been some attempt to find Ria's clothing before leaving The Flower House, but the search had given them nothing. She had arrived on his arm, still wearing his shirt and South's coat, bare legged and barefoot. He had wanted to carry her up the walk, then later up the stairs, but she had refused those offers of assistance and demonstrated she could not only carry herself, but could do so with the bearing of one of the royal family. Given so much regal confidence, perhaps it was true that none of the servants had noticed the state of her clothing, or perhaps it was truer that it was of no consequence.

"You're a good man, Finch," West said.

"Your Grace is kind to say so." Finch plumped two pillows and helped West stretch lengthwise along the bed. "How long will you wish to sleep?" When there was no reply forthcoming, Finch simply drew the comforter over his employer, closed the drapes, and quietly backed out of the room.

* * *

The faint scent of lavender made his nose twitch. Silky threads of the fragrance touched his cheek and lips. When he opened his mouth, he could taste it on his tongue.

Smiling sleepily, he nuzzled the crown of Ria's head with his chin. His day's growth of beard rasped pleasantly against her hair. Untested by hours of sleep, his voice was edged by its own soft rasp. "You shouldn't be here."

Ria burrowed more deeply into him, finding the perfect fit for her bottom against the curve of his groin and thighs. "Throw me out."

West slipped an arm around her waist instead. She was no longer wearing the frock coat, but it was still his fine linen shirt that was next to her skin. He could tell she had recently bathed. Her hair was lightly damp and the warm fragrance of the salts clung to her. "Was no one sent to Oxford Street to retrieve your clothes?"

"Yes."

When she offered nothing else, West merely pressed his smile against her hair. He heard her soft sigh, felt the last traces of tension slip away, then the even rise and fall of her gentle breathing. In moments he was deeply asleep beside her.

It was the steady tattoo of dripping water that woke Ria. West was no longer beside her, nor was he in the room. The heavy damask drapes were still drawn, but by the slender beam of pale light slipping through a part in the panels, she saw that dusk was already upon them. Except for a single, brief bout of wakefulness, Ria realized she had slept almost the entire day.