Sally MacKenzie Bundle (216 page)

“No, we do not have a plan—at least not a detailed one. We will pretend we are there for the party; we’ll stroll through all the open rooms, keeping our wits about us and our eyes open. Hopefully we’ll stumble upon Pan.”

Jane raised one eyebrow in an extremely skeptical manner. “You have no idea where Lord Griffin might keep it?”

“I’m happy to say I’m not familiar with Griffin’s house.”

“And men don’t gossip about such things?”

“No.” There were too many other, far more scandalous things to gossip about concerning Lord Griffin’s gatherings.

“I see. And when—if—we find Pan, what do we do then? Relieve him of his penis in the middle of the party?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

Jane snorted. “So you haven’t the vaguest idea.”

“No, that’s not true. What I’m hoping will happen is we’ll come upon the statue in a deserted room shortly after we arrive, remove the sketch, and leave, but I’ve been at this long enough to know what I hope will happen rarely does.” The coach was slowing; they were almost there. “Here, I want you to have this—just in case.” He took a smooth black cylinder out of his pocket.

“What is it?”

“A folding knife I had made to my specifications. You push this button—” He suited action to word, and the blade snapped out. Jane drew in a quick breath, jumping back. He chuckled, folded it up, and handed it to her. “Now you try it. You have to press firmly, but the button shouldn’t be too stiff for you to manage.”

She took the knife from him gingerly. “I’ve never seen anything like this before.”

He grinned. “Let’s just say I had a special need for such a tool. Can you press the button?”

“Yes.” The blade snapped out again. “It’s very smooth.”

“And very sharp.” He closed it for her. “Keep it in the robe’s pocket. I hope you won’t have to use it, but at least you’ll have it should something unforeseen occur. Now let me tie on your mask.”

She handed it to him. He made certain it was on securely and her hood was pulled down to hide her hair and as much of her face as possible; then he tied on his own mask and pulled up his hood. When the coach stopped, he opened the door, let down the—

“Ow!” Jane hit his back. “Be careful. I’m attached to you, remember?”

“Damn. I’m sorry.” He examined her wrist. This being physically linked to another person took some getting used to. “Are you all right?”

“Yes—if you ignore the fact I almost had my arm ripped off.”

“You’re exaggerating.”

“I am not.”

“My lord.” Jem’s voice floated down from the coach’s driver’s seat. “The horses are getting restless.” He coughed significantly.

Edmund glanced around. “Blast it, we’re attracting some attention. Come on. We have to go. Hold on to my arm so I don’t move too quickly and jerk you again.”

“All right.” Jane grasped Edmund’s forearm as she maneuvered down the stairs. She glanced up when she reached the pavement. A man in a purple coat, yellow waistcoat, and elaborate wig was examining them through his quizzing glass. His companion, a very large, unattractive woman, her garish, wide-skirted dress the same shade as the man’s waistcoat, giggled. She…

Jane blinked and looked more carefully. Then she leaned close to Edmund and whispered, “Is that woman…I mean, she’s wearing a dress, but, well, she looks like—”

“Yes, he’s a man. Don’t stare.”

Jane dropped her eyes to her slippers and clung to Edmund’s arm as they entered Lord Griffin’s house. Edmund didn’t sound at all shocked; had he seen men in dresses before? Well, it was true women had not been allowed to perform in plays even in Shakespeare’s time, so perhaps men in women’s clothing was not so terribly odd.

“Welcome,” someone said. “I see you are ready for the evening’s devotions.” Jane stole a quick glance—Lord Griffin, dressed in hose and doublet with a huge golden codpiece, smirked at them. And by his side…

She looked down at her feet again. There was no doubt as to the gender of his companion. The woman wore a golden collar and golden slippers and nothing else. The poor thing must be freezing.

“Of course.”

Jane kept herself from looking this time. She knew it was Edmund speaking—the sound was right by her ear—but his voice was very different. It was higher and thinner, with a slight French accent.

“We must see how the spirit moves us,” he said.

Lord Griffin laughed. “Splendid. Until then, do enjoy yourselves. There are rooms upstairs if you prefer privacy, but, as you’ll see, many of my guests don’t. You may find yourself inspired, eh?”

Edmund laughed in a decidedly nasty fashion. She did look up then and unfortunately caught the baron’s eye.

“And you, madam, are you also eager for inspiration?”

How was she supposed to answer that question?

“Your pardon,” Edmund said, still in that odd accent, “but my companion is mute. We have a wager, a game, if you will. She swears she will not make a sound all evening. I say I shall make her scream before the new day dawns.”

Lord Griffin grinned. “A delightful wager. I wish you luck in winning it.” He leaned toward Jane. “And, madam, I’m sure you know you will win most if you lose this bet, eh?”

Did Lord Griffin never clean his teeth? His breath stunk worse than Lord Wolfson’s. She forced a smile and then ducked her head again.

“What a well-behaved pet you have, sir. When you tire of her, let me know, hmm? I’ll be happy to take her.” Lord Griffin’s voice was disgustingly unctuous and male. She’d like to kick the toad in a very sensitive location—wearing spurs. It would be a cold day in hell before she had anything to do with him.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Did Edmund’s words have a slight glaze of ice? Good.

They moved away, into a small room that held a large punch bowl and not much else. At the moment, it was deserted.

“That man is a pig,” Jane hissed. “A revolting, odious, repulsive, repugnant worm.”

A corner of Edmund’s mouth turned up. He did have a very nice mouth. The mask rather emphasized his lips. “I guess you don’t like him.”

“Of course I don’t like him. How dare he talk that way about me?”

Edmund pulled her a little closer as a man dressed in flowing robes and a turban, leading a woman by a gold leash, passed through. The woman’s clothes were so gauzy Jane could see the freckle on her oversized arse.

“He didn’t know who you were,” Edmund whispered. “He thought you were a whore.”

She glared at him. “He shouldn’t talk that way about any female. And he had a woman standing right next to him. Did he think she was deaf? I can’t imagine she was flattered to have that oaf make salacious insinuations about me.”

“She
is
a whore, Jane. This is all a business arrangement to her. As long as she gets paid, she doesn’t care what Griffin does. If he’s busy with someone else, she earns her fee for less work.”

She wasn’t an idiot; she knew the woman was a whore, and she knew whores got paid to do certain things with gentlemen. But now that she’d done those things—or at least some of those things—herself, her understanding had changed. “So she gets paid for doing what I did last night?”

He stiffened, and his mouth turned sharply down. “No. It is not the same at all.” Another couple passed through the room. “And this is not the place for this conversation.”

“How is it different?” Jane looked at him. He could be anyone with that mask on. She looked away. “Have you been with whores?”

“I am not a monk”—he snorted—“notwithstanding my current garb, but what a man does with a whore…” He shrugged. “The physical act may look the same, but it isn’t—just as the man we saw outside looked like a woman, but wasn’t. Now can we please concentrate on the problem at hand? If we linger here any longer, we will cause talk.”

Two couples came in together then and stopped by the punch bowl. They were laughing—and staring at Edmund and Jane.

Edmund grinned and whispered, “We’d better give them something to see.”

“What do you—oh.”

He caught her chin with his free hand and tipped it up. Then his mouth covered hers, his tongue slipping past her lips to plunge deep. She couldn’t help it—she sagged against him. His hand left her chin to slide down her back and grasp her bottom, bringing her tight against him.

“Huzzah! Have another cup of punch, Albert, ladies, and let’s watch the show.” That was a man’s voice.

Jane stiffened. He was talking about her and Edmund, of course.

A woman with the rough accents of the street laughed. “Do ye suppose they’ll take the robes off?”

“It would certainly improve the entertainment, wouldn’t it, Betty…Bessy…oh, hell.”

“Just call her Breasty, Rafe. That’s why you chose her, ain’t it?”

Edmund put his tongue back in his own mouth and whispered, “Remember, we are acting a part tonight. Just keep your head down and don’t speak.”

“All right.” She couldn’t resist a quick glance to see who the idiots were—Sir Raphael Flindon and Mr. Albert Isley. In normal company, they were rather bland. Sir Raphael was thin and spotty and had a marked tendency to swallow his words; Mr. Isley was portly and chinless. Here they were dressed rather spectacularly in matching red velvet tunics and green tights. The “ladies” wore Grecian style draperies that ended at their knees—and silver sashes tied around their waists and their escorts’ wrists.

Sir Raphael grinned at Edmund and Jane. “Have some punch, Brother Mystery—and here’s a glass for your lady.” He sniggered. “If that is a lady in there. Rather hard to tell; would have thought a different costume would’ve been much more, er, decorative.”

“How about you give us a peek, sir?” Mr. Isley said, reaching toward Jane. She stepped quickly behind Edmund. She did not want to be touched by the disgusting snake—and she certainly didn’t want her identity revealed.

“My apologies, but the lady is very shy—and I’m extremely possessive.” Edmund smiled, but there was a clear threat in his tone and stance. Mr. Isley and Sir Raphael stepped back.

“All right, then.” Mr. Isley cleared his throat. “No offense meant, of course. Merely trying to be pleasant. Do as you will.” He cleared his throat again. “Believe we’ll go see what’s what in Bacchus’s temple. What do you say, Rafe?”

“Splendid. Excellent idea. Come along, girls.” He shot Edmund a wary look as he and the others left the room.

Edmund sniffed his drink, took a sip—and put both glasses back on the table. “I think we’ll skip the punch. It’s mostly gin.” He put his right hand over Jane’s where it rested on his arm. “Let’s start searching for that statue.”

They stepped into a room with wine-colored wallpaper and a wine-colored carpet—obviously the temple of Bacchus. A statue of the god graced a fountain in the center of the chamber, pouring wine from a large jug to fill a pool at his feet. A riotous crowd held their glasses under the stream or dipped them in the basin. Sir Raphael, Mr. Isley, and their female companions had apparently finished their punch and were now enjoying the fountain.

As Jane watched, one gentleman in a toga leaned over backward to catch the wine flowing from Bacchus’s jug in his mouth. His companions hooted with laughter, and then pushed him. He landed with a splash.

“Damn it, Clarden!” The man shook his head like a wet dog, spattering wine everywhere. “I borrowed this bloody toga from Genland. He’s going to have my arse.”

“Genland’s wanted your arse for years, Dattling.”

Everyone laughed but Dattling, who roared, scrambled out of the fountain, and flung himself at Clarden. The two crashed to the floor and started hitting each other as the spectators took bets on who would be the victor.

Jane flinched at the sound of fist meeting flesh. “Shouldn’t someone stop them from hurting each other?”

Edmund shrugged. “They’re too drunk to do much damage. They’ll forget why they’re fighting in a moment and be best of friends again.”

Just then Dattling hauled Clarden up and threw him into the fountain. Clarden whipped around, grabbed Dattling, and pulled him in after him. One of the women laughed and jumped in to join them—naked except for the red leash around her wrist.

The crowd cheered and more people shed their costumes to wallow in the wine.

“I’m suddenly not at all thirsty, are you?”

Jane looked at the bodies splashing in the fountain. “No, I can’t say that I am.”

“Let’s look for Pan here while everyone is otherwise engaged.”

They strolled the room’s perimeter, being certain to stay outside the range of wine drops, but, besides a sad little ficus tree, they found nothing.

“Blast. I was hoping we’d find the statue immediately and leave before the gathering got much more out of control.” The fountain frolickers were now spitting mouthfuls of wine at each other.

“Perhaps things are more sedate in the other rooms.”

Edmund gave her a long look. “You’re kidding, right? The farther in one goes, the worse it becomes, if this is like any other gathering of its ilk.”

“And you’ve been to many of these gatherings?”

“Not when I could avoid them. Come along.”

The strains of a waltz enveloped them as they crossed the threshold into the next room. An orchestra played at the far end and couples crowded the dance floor, but what they were doing…the Almack patronesses would have a collective apoplexy if they witnessed this ballroom behavior. A few were waltzing, but their bodies were pressed so tightly together it was amazing they didn’t trip over each other. Most ignored the music altogether. Two women—not Lady Lenden and Lady Tarkington, surely?—were kissing each other while a knot of men encouraged them, and off to their right, two men and two women were—Jane couldn’t quite figure out what they were doing, but whatever it was, they were all pressed very closely together.

She glanced at Edmund. Was he titillated by what he saw? She couldn’t tell. His hood and his mask hid his expression.

“Coming through.” A man with his shirttail hanging out and his fall partly unbuttoned dragged a woman with rouged nipples past them. They disappeared behind a red velvet curtain just a few steps to Jane’s right.

“Where do you suppose that leads?” she asked.

“It’s probably just an alcove. I imagine Griffin has a number of secluded places for men who have difficulty—” Edmund stopped and cleared his throat. “Who prefer privacy for amorous matters.”