He knew how incredibly fortunate he was in his friends. It was no one's fault that even deep friendship could not repair the damage to a soul that had been torn in half.
As he drained his glass, he remembered the incident in the hall. "I had to separate Roderick Harford from one of your chambermaids, a girl named Kitty. He wanted to expand her duties in a way that didn't appeal to her."
Rafe grimaced. "Harford is an oaf. I hope you won't ask me to invite him here again; that might strain even the bonds of old friendship. Is the girl all right?"
"Shaken but not injured. I told her to skip the rest of her duties and go to bed—that I would make it right with you."
"Very well. I'll speak with the housekeeper in the morning to make sure the girl isn't punished for dereliction of duty." Yawning, Rafe got to his feet. "Will you leave with the others tomorrow, or stay on for a few days?"
"I'll be going back to London. I have a long way to go before I become a real Hellion."
"Oh, I don't know about that. Just think back to that first year when we were all in London."
They both laughed, then Rafe left. Lucien continued gazing at the fire. As a man who disliked excess, he wasn't looking forward to trying to infiltrate the Hellions. Yet he had no choice. Though what he had told Rafe was the truth as far as it went, what he hadn't said was that his finely honed hunter's instincts were in full cry.
The original Hellfire Club of fifty years earlier had been notorious both for its debauchery and for its exalted membership, which included many of the most influential men in England. The club had been founded by Sir Francis Dashwood, a man of great wealth and inventive depravity. Besides raising vice to new heights, members had reveled in mocking religion and had played political games with far-reaching consequences. If not for the Hellfire Club, it was quite possible that the American Colonies would not have revolted and become a separate nation.
The Hellions of the present day made no such exalted claims. In theory, it was only a jolly drinking and wenching society, little different from a dozen similar groups. Yet Lucien sensed there was something very wrong going on behind the group's facade, and he intended to discover what.
A pity that he didn't enjoy orgies.
* * *
The next morning the great hall of Bourne Castle was noisy as the guests and their servants prepared to leave. Under cover of the racket, the duke said to Lucien, "I asked the housekeeper about that chambermaid. Harford has cost me a servant—it was the girl's first day on the job, and apparently he distressed her so much that she ran off in the middle of the night."
Lucien thought of the maid's air of vulnerability. "She seemed shy. I hope she has the sense to seek her next job in a quieter establishment. A vicar's manse, perhaps."
"One odd thing—the housekeeper said that the girl's name was Emmie Brown, not Kitty."
Surprised, Lucien said, "Could it be two different girls?"
"No, Emmie Brown was unquestionably the chambermaid you talked to, and there is no other Kitty employed in the household."
Lucien shrugged. "Perhaps Kitty is a childhood nickname that the girl blurted out because she was upset."
It was a plausible explanation. Yet as he drove back to London, more than once he found himself wondering about the girl with two names. It gave her an air of mystery, and he did not like mysteries.
Chapter 4
The next step in Lucien's campaign to become accepted by the Hellions took place the evening after his return to London, when he visited a tavern called the Crown and Vulture, site of the group's monthly carouse. Roderick Harford had invited him to come and said that his brother, Lord Mace, would be there.
A cold rain was falling, and Lucien was glad to enter the smoky warmth of the tavern. The taproom at the front was full of roughly dressed working men. After one look at Lucien's expensive clothing, the bartender jerked a thumb over his shoulder "Yer fine friends are that way."
As Lucien walked down the hall to the back of the building, a roar of laughter met him. The Hellions were in a good mood.
He paused in the doorway to survey the room. It was his first visit to the Crown and Vulture. Lit by a fire and a handful of candles, it was a welcoming scene on a wintry night. About two dozen men lounged around the tables, tankards in their hands. Most were young, but several older men were also present.
There was also one woman, a saucy barmaid who was trading quips with her customers. Tall and voluptuous, she had a heavily painted face and an untidy mass of garish red curls rioting from beneath her cap. Her amazing figure was further emphasized by the apron tied around a remarkably slim waist.
What held the men enthralled, however, was her quick cockney tongue. When a youth asked reproachfully, "Why have you taken an instant dislike to me?" she replied tartly, "It saves time."
A burst of laughter rang out. After it died down, another youth declaimed, "You've won my heart, darling Sally. Come away with me tonight and we'll ride to Gretna Green."
"Go all that way on a bony nag?" She waggled her lush hips suggestively. "I can find me a better ride here in London."
The double entendre produced more hilarity. When it quieted, her suitor said with an exaggerated leer, "You'll find no better rider than me, Sally."
"Be off with you, lad," she scoffed. "You don't know a thing about riding, and I can prove it."
"How?" he asked indignantly.
She tilted her pitcher and splashed more drink into his tankard. "By pointing out that if the world was a sensible place, all men would ride sidesaddle."
Her comment brought the house down. Even Lucien laughed out loud. Having won the encounter, the wench strolled from the room, swaying provocatively. She had an earthy sensuality that would catch the attention of any man.
"So Lucifer has deigned to call. My brother said that you might," a deep voice drawled. "You should feel quite at home amongst the denizens of hell."
Lucien glanced to his right and saw Lord Mace lounging in a corner from which he could watch everything that went on in the room. As tall and lean as his younger brother, Mace was a compelling figure with dark hair and lightless eyes.
Taking Mace's comment as an invitation, Lucien ambled over to the empty seat next to him. "I'll do my best."
He started to say more, then stopped, arrested by an unexpected sight. Behind Mace stood a wooden perch, and on it was a huge hooded bird that moved restively from one foot to the other. "Who is your feathered friend?"
Mace's thin lips stretched into a smile. "That's George, the vulture this place is named for. The tavern owner used to be an actor, and he rents the bird out whenever a theater needs one." He glanced affectionately at the vulture. "Lends a nice touch, don't you think?"
"Definitely atmospheric," Lucien agreed.
Sally appeared with a full pitcher in one hand and a tankard in the other. She plunked the tankard in front of Lucien. "Here you go, my 'andsome lad. Enjoy your devil's punch."
Then she undulated away. Her eyes had been averted, and her face was obscured by her garish hair, but the fleeting glimpse he had of her features showed that she was so heavily painted that she might be trying to cover up smallpox scars. Not that it mattered; few men would bother to look as far as her face.
The tankard proved to contain mulled ale with a hefty dose of spirits added. "I see why this is called devil's punch," he observed. "It burns like the fires of hell."
"After two tankards, you'll be able to recite scripture backward," Mace said with sardonic humor.
"Or I'll think I can, which comes to much the same thing." Lucien nodded toward the barmaid. "Does she ever attend your ceremonies? She looks like a lively piece."
Mace's eyes narrowed. "What do you know about our rituals?"
"Rumor says that the Hellions dress as medieval monks. After a ceremony, each 'monk' chooses a partner from among a group of 'nuns' enlisted from the ranks of London's better prostitutes. It's said that some of the nuns are actually society ladies out for a lark."
Lucien gave a wicked chuckle. "I heard that once a monk and nun were appalled to rip off their robes and discover that they were husband and wife."
Mace's heavy brows drew together. "You're well informed."
"When half your members drink like fish, you can hardly expect secrecy." Lucien gave a faint smile. "I thought your group sounded amusing. Life has been getting dull lately, which is why I accepted your brother's invitation."
"We do our best to stave off boredom." Mace studied Lucien's face, frank skepticism in his eyes. "Roderick said that you were interested in joining us. I was surprised. You give the impression of being too fastidious, too much the dandy, to want to be part of a group dedicated to dissipation."
"I enjoy contrasts. I also enjoy intrigue." Lucien made a minute adjustment to his cuff. "Most of all, I enjoy confounding people's expectations."
Mace smiled faintly. "Then we have something in common."
"We have other mutual interests, I think. I've heard that you're interested in mechanical toys." When Mace nodded again, Lucien pulled a cone-shaped silver object from his pocket. "Have you ever seen anything like this? Look through the small end."
Mace raised the cone to his eye and peered inside, then sucked his breath in. "Fascinating. It holds some kind of lens that breaks the world into a number of identical images?"
"Exactly." Lucien drew a second one from his pocket and looked through it. The room immediately splintered into multiple images. "I know a natural philosopher who is interested in insects. He once told me that dragonflies have faceted eyes and must see this way. It sounded intriguing, so I decided to try to reproduce the effect. A lens grinder made these lenses to my specifications, and I had them mounted. For lack of a better name, I call it a dragonfly lens."
He blinked when his casual sweep of the room brought Sally into view. A dozen pairs of lush breasts swayed before him, and a dozen slim waists. The effect was rather overpowering.
"Do you make other mechanical curiosities?" Mace asked.
Lucien lowered the dragonfly lens, reducing Sally to singularity again. "I design and build the mechanisms myself, but I have a silversmith make the exteriors."
"I do the same." Mace gave a small, secretive smile. "Over the years I have created a collection of mechanical devices that is utterly unique. Perhaps I'll show them to you some day."
When he tried to return the dragonfly lens, Lucien waved it away. "Keep it if you like. I had several made."
"Thank you." Mace regarded Lucien thoughtfully. "Would you like to attend the next time we have a ritual?"
Success. "I'd be delighted."
Mace raised the lens again and studied Sally. "A rather overblown female. The girl who is usually here is more to my taste—slimmer, less vulgar."
"That's another thing we have in common."
A man approached to talk to Mace, so Lucien relinquished his seat. Tankard in hand, he surveyed his companions. Most of the Hellions reminded him of boisterous university students, more wild than wicked. Across the room a very drunk youth unbuttoned his breeches and said brashly, "See what I have for you, Sally?"
After one bored glance, she retorted, "I've seen better." In the howls of laughter that followed, the beet-faced young man buttoned himself while the barmaid sauntered from the room.
Lucien grinned, then turned his attention to the older Hellions, who included some of London's most notorious rakes. Several were sitting together, so he joined them when Sir James Westley beckoned.
"Glad to see you, Strathmore. Wanted to say how much I enjoyed the visit to Bourne Castle." The stout baronet hiccupped, then swallowed another mouthful of punch. "Good of you to arrange it with Candover. I've seen him give set downs that would fell an elephant, but he was a very amiable host."
His neighbor was Lord Nunfield, a cousin of Mace and Roderick Harford who shared the same lanky build. In a bored drawl he said, "You're fortunate to have a friend who lives in such good hunting country, Strathmore." His mouth curled into a characteristic sneer. "I understand that you and Candover have been the closest of friends since school days."
The sexual innuendo was unmistakable. With deliberate ambiguity, Lucien said, "You know what school is like."
"Boys will be boys," agreed Harford. His gaze went to the barmaid, whose breasts bobbled delightfully as she poured punch at a nearby table. "But I think schools should have female students as well. It would make lessons much more interesting."
A spark of interest showed in the eyes of Lord Chiswick, the last man at the table. The son of a bishop, he had devoted his life to breaking as many of the Ten Commandments as possible. "I've been getting bored with false nuns. It might be amusing if our little playmates dressed as schoolgirls at the next service. A delightful contrast of innocence and experience."
Harford nodded thoughtfully. "Worth considering. Makes me think of the gamekeeper's daughter, when I was fourteen." He began to describe the encounter in detail that was as graphic as it was tedious. His anecdote was followed by reminiscences from the others. Even Lucien contributed a story, though his was fabricated from whole cloth; it was not his custom to discuss his affairs with anyone.
It was a dull evening, with the conversation seldom rising above the waist. However, from Lucien's point of view the time was well spent. By the time midnight struck, all of the Hellions seemed to have accepted him as one of their kind.
To counter boredom, he kept an idle eye on Sally during her frequent comings and goings. Tart and teasing, she was expert at amusing her customers while dodging occasional groping hands. She was hardly the sort of female who usually caught his fancy, but something about her intrigued him, an elusive sense of familiarity. Perhaps he had seen her somewhere before.
By one in the morning, most of the Hellions had left and Lucien was thinking that it was time to go home himself. Then he saw the most vocal of her youthful admirers, Lord Ives, lurch to his feet and purposefully follow the barmaid out of the room. Though she seemed quite capable of taking care of herself, Lucien was unable to suppress his protective instincts. After saying good night to those of his companions who were still awake, he rose and quietly followed Sally and Ives.
The old tavern was a maze of flagstoned passages. Briskly the barmaid went down one, heels tapping, and turned left, then left again, ending in a storeroom half filled with kegs. Apparently unaware that Ives was close behind her, she set her candle on a keg, then stooped to draw off a pitcher of ale.
Lucien paused in the shadowed passage. If his assistance wasn't needed, he would fade away. It would be bad for his pose as a rake if he kept defending beleaguered damsels, and where the Hellions went, damsels were beleaguered regularly.
As the barmaid straightened, Ives asked in a slurred voice, "If you won't run off with me, pretty Sally, will you at least give me a quick tumble before I go home?"
She started, the ale sloshing from her pitcher, then said good-naturedly, "Even if I was willing, which I'm not, I doubt you'd be much use to me, lad. Alcohol may increase the desire, but it takes away the ability."
Lucien was startled to hear a Shakespearean quote from a barmaid. Still, there was no reason why Sally shouldn't enjoy the Bard as much as an aristocrat.
Less literary, Ives said, "If you doubt my ability, try me and I'll prove otherwise."
Her carroty curls bobbed as she shook her head. "My man is called Killer Caine, and he wouldn't like it one bit if I spread myself around." She gave Ives a playful push. "You go home to your bed, lad, and sleep off the punch alone."
"Give me a kiss, then. Just a kiss."
Before she could reply, he pulled her into an embrace, his mouth crushing hers and one hand squeezing her bounteous breast. Lucien guessed that Ives meant no real harm, but in his drunkenness he didn't realize his own strength, or notice that the woman was struggling to escape. Unpleasantly reminded of the chambermaid at Bourne Castle, Lucien decided to intervene.
He started forward, but before he could enter the storeroom, Sally stamped
hard on her admirer's foot.
"Ouch!" Ives yelped and raised his head. Keeping his hand on her breast, he asked reproachfully, "Why did you do that?"
"To get rid of you, lad," Sally said breathlessly.
"Don't go," he pleaded, his hand kneading the ripe globe that filled his palm.
She shoved against his chest and managed to break his hold. Before he could embrace her again, she snapped, " 'Tisn't me you want, it's these."
Reaching into her bodice, she wrenched out an enormous bust improver and threw it into her assailant's face. "Have a good time, lad."
Ives released Sally and rocked back on his heels as the soft, pillow-like object bounced off his nose and fell to the floor. After staring in befuddlement at the undulating cotton curves, he raised his gaze to the barmaid. The folds of her bodice now fell loosely over a chest of modest dimensions.
To his credit, the young man began laughing. "You're a false-hearted woman, Sally."
"It's not me heart that's false," she said pertly. "Now get along with you so I can do my work."
"I'm sorry—I behaved badly," he said. "Will you be here next time the Hellions meet?"
She shrugged. "Maybe yes, and maybe no."
Blowing her a kiss, Ives left the storeroom by the other door, which led toward the front of the tavern. Sally was watching him go when she heard Lucien's chuckle. She jumped, then spun and spotted him in the shadows. "If it isn't old Lucifer himself," she said waspishly. "Did you enjoy the show?"
"Immensely." He moved forward into the storeroom. "I had thought you might need help, but obviously I was mistaken."
"Lucifer to the rescue?" she said with heavy sarcasm. "And 'ere I thought you wanted a piece of my padded arse."
Now that the bust improver was gone, it was obvious that only her slim waist had been natural. Take away the hip padding and she would have a lithe, feminine form that Lucien found more appealing than her exaggerated cotton curves. "Why do you conceal a figure that is perfectly pleasing as it is?"