“And you would never have discovered the second piece had anything to do with the Harley Street gallery if I hadn’t puzzled it out.”
He shrugged again.
“So why do you think you’ll be able to make sense of this third part of the drawing by yourself?”
Had he growled? He looked frustrated enough to have done so. “Let me see it, Edmund. Please?”
He let out a long, annoyed breath. “Oh, all right.” He swung out of bed and walked naked to his desk. Mmm. With his strong legs and muscled back and buttocks, he looked like a statue of a Greek god come to life.
She scrambled off the mattress and found her nightgown under the bed. “I already looked in your desk.”
“I know. The sand I left on the top was disturbed.”
“Oh. And here I thought you were just not very tidy.” She slipped the nightgown over her head and went to stand next to him. How could he be so casual about his nakedness? She couldn’t look anywhere but at him. She ran her hand over his arse and around toward—
He stepped out of her reach. “I thought you wanted to see Clarence’s sketch.”
“I do.” His penis had gone from dangling by his legs to standing straight out from his body in a matter of seconds. Fascinating. She reached for him, but he dodged her hand, stooping quickly to pick up his towel and wrap it around his waist.
“You have an odd way of showing your interest.”
“Oh?” How could she show more interest? He kept dancing away from her.
“In the sketch! Your interest in Clarence’s sketch.” He made an exasperated noise, half sigh, half laugh. “Will you stop looking at me like that?”
“Hmm?” The towel didn’t do a very good job of hiding his penis. It looked rather like he’d affixed a small tent to his front. “Like what?”
“Like you wanted to eat—Oh, never mind.” He opened one of the desk drawers—a completely empty drawer, she knew since she’d looked in it earlier—and fished around inside. She heard a little click. Then he pulled on what she’d thought was merely some decorative carving on the back of the desk. A section of the desk swung open, revealing a narrow space behind it. Edmund pulled out a piece of paper.
“How clever! I never would have found that.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I hope you wouldn’t. I paid a man a hefty sum to build it so even a person used to looking for such hidden places wouldn’t find it.”
He spread the paper on the desk. This was the lower left corner of the sketch. More members of the ton were behaving shockingly. Lord Easthaven knelt on the floor under an unruly potted tree while a footman wearing Baron Cinter’s livery—oh, dear. She averted her eyes only to encounter the ancient Duke of Hartford. At least he was engaged with a woman—well, two women and neither was his wife. A balloon coming from his mouth said, “I love a lusty wench—the more, the merrier!” And in what would be the center of the picture…
“Do you have the other sketches?”
“I do. I brought them up from the safe downstairs. I’d intended to look at them all after my bath.” Edmund went over to the chair where he’d left his coat and pulled the papers from his pocket. He arranged them so they fit together. Jane studied the area where the pieces met.
“Damn.” She scowled at the drawing. Why had Clarence even bothered sketching this figure? All one could see was the man’s—or woman’s—long cloak.
“There’s not much to go on, is there?” Edmund said.
“No.” She traced the intricate pattern around the cloak’s hem. There was something familiar about it, but she would swear she’d never seen a cloak like this. “Do you think this pattern is actually embroidered on Satan’s robe—if this is Satan—or is it something Clarence added?”
“I don’t know. It is distinctive, isn’t it?” He pointed to the torn edge of the new sketch piece. “We may finally learn something when we have the last section. See, the robe is pushed back slightly. It looks like he or she is holding something.”
“Faugh!” Jane straightened. “There’s not enough here to give us any indication of Satan’s identity.” She would gladly have strangled Clarence at the moment if he weren’t already dead.
Edmund nodded. “Unfortunately we do need that last piece. Now let’s see if Clarence has given us a clue as to its hiding place.” Edmund got a magnifying glass out of a desk drawer and examined the new sketch piece. “Damn!”
“What?”
Edmund held the magnifying glass over the bottom corner, by a man riding a goat. Hmm. Perhaps not precisely riding the goat…well, all right—riding but not riding.
Did people really do that with animals? Surely not!
Jane focused on the other magnified bit. A man and a woman—rather a tame pairing for old Clarence—were wearing hooded robes like the shadowy partial figure in the sketch’s center, but, except for their faces, there was nothing shadowy or indistinct about these people. Clarence had drawn all their bits in loving detail.
Loving—or rather, just happy swiving. The woman was sprawled on what looked like a marble casket, her robe fallen open so her body was completely on display. The man’s body was covered except for his enormous cock sticking out of his robes. The couple was surrounded by an army of randy Pans, their prominent penises echoing the robed gentleman’s. One of the Pans was even grinning.
“What does this mean?” Jane pointed to the words in the bubble by the woman’s head: “Fay ce que voudras.”
“‘Do what you will.’ It’s carved above a doorway at Medmenham Abbey, which was the site of a sort of hellfire club about sixty years ago.”
“Sixty years ago?” Jane frowned. Was Edmund joking? None of the members of that club—or, at least, very few—could still be alive. But Edmund looked completely, unpleasantly serious. “Why would Clarence care about something that happened sixty years ago?”
“That’s the question, isn’t it? My guess is Satan has started a new hellfire club—or taken an existing club in a new direction. At the Palmerson ball, Stephen said he’d heard rumors to that effect.”
“Oh. And what do hellfire clubs do?” Jane gestured at the papers. “Engage in various forms of debauchery?”
“Yes. Hopefully that’s all they do. But there is a strain of devil worship that can infect these groups. Put a number of drunken men—and women—together and sometimes people get hurt. Add someone like Satan and I would wager people get killed.”
“Oh.” Jane felt the same chill she’d felt when she’d realized how close she’d come to death this afternoon. “Like your runaway carriage.”
“Precisely.”
“And Clarence’s odd demise.”
Edmund nodded. “I expect so.”
She turned back to look at the small picture. “But what can we do? We have to find the last piece of the drawing and Clarence hasn’t left us a clue.”
“But he has.” Edmund pointed to the casket. Clarence had drawn a rampant griffin—and its wings and claws were not the only things in the air. The creature was very obviously male, its dimensions rivaling the Pans’.
“That’s rather obscene.” Jane wrinkled her nose. She’d never be able to look at heraldic devices in the same way again.
“And the Pans aren’t?” Edmund snorted. He did have a point. “And look here. On this side of the griffin, he’s drawn the planet Saturn three times, and on the other side, a clock showing eleven with a crescent moon above it.”
Jane rubbed the back of her neck. “That’s all very well, but I have no idea what it means, do you?”
“Unfortunately, I believe I do.” Edmund did not look happy. “The griffin represents Baron Griffin—”
“The sweet old balding man who is such a philanthropist?”
Edmund grunted. “There are some who think his good works are merely penance for his sins—and the more he sins, the greater penance he does.”
Jane’s eyes widened and her eyebrows shot up. “I believe he just gave a very generous donation to the Foundling Hos
pital.”
“Exactly.” Damn. Was that for something Griffin had just done—or was about to do? He didn’t like this situation at all.
“So what do the other pictures mean?” Jane ran her finger over the casket.
Should he tell her? She’d want to be part of it if he did—and the most damnable thing was, he probably did need her help. “The three Saturns mean the third Saturday of the month; the clock and moon, eleven at night. Griffin is known to host a masquerade then.”
“Really? I’ve never attended. I’ve never even heard of it.”
“Of course not. It is not for respectable women. Even many of the male members of the ton choose not to go. At best it’s a drunken orgy; at worst—” He shrugged. There had been rumors for years of bestiality and animal sacrifices. Stephen had told him a few of the darker, more recent tales before he left England, stories about prostitutes and children from the Foundling Hospital going missing. Many influential people were concerned, but no one had any proof atrocities had been committed or could identify the perpetrators.
Damn. He would much prefer to have nothing to do with Griffin’s gathering, but it very much looked as if he had no choice—nor any choice about Jane’s involvement. Men said if you didn’t come as part of a couple, you’d be paired with one of the extra whores.
Perhaps Jane would see reason and refuse to come, but then who would he find to take her place? He definitely didn’t want to be burdened with a light-skirt.
Jane frowned at the sketch. “How could Clarence have been part of all this? I only met him once, but he certainly didn’t appear to be a monster. And his sister is one of Mama’s friends.”
“I’m sure he wasn’t a monster. People get drawn all the time into situations they don’t like.”
She leaned back to give him an extremely skeptical look. “Would you have gotten involved with this group?”
His gut twisted. He was far too particular to be part of Griffin’s set. “Good God, of course not.”
“So you admit there was something wrong with Clarence?”
“I admit there was something odd about Clarence.” He had a good idea what that was—Clarence must have had unusual sexual proclivities—but he wasn’t about to share that with Jane. “That doesn’t make him a monster. I imagine he was appalled by what was going on, and that is why he went to all this effort to reveal it.”
Jane frowned. “For heaven’s sake, why didn’t he just tell Cleopatra?”
“Perhaps because he knew the knowledge would put her in danger. Who knows? He might even have known his life was at risk. At least he did this much.”
“Yes. So are we going to this masquerade? Tomorrow is the third Saturday.”
“I know.” He paused. He wished he could come up with a way to keep Jane far away from Griffin’s house.
“You’re not going to try to tell me I can’t go, are you?” Jane glared at him. “I might not have solved this puzzle, but I’m sure I can be useful once we arrive at this gathering. And you can’t leave me home. It wouldn’t be fair.”
“Fair has nothing to say to the matter. If I could, I would indeed leave you here. I’d lock you in your room and set Jem to guard you.” He sighed and ran his hand through his hair. “But I’m very much afraid I do need your help.”
Jane grinned. “Of course you do, but I’m surprised your thick male skull allowed that thought to settle in your brain.”
Bloody hell. He grabbed her shoulders and shook her slightly. “Jane, this is not a game. You will be forced to rub shoulders with some of the most depraved members of the ton and likely women—and men—from the roughest sections of London as well. You may see and hear things that no one—not a gently bred woman or the lowest slut—should see or hear.”
Jane’s face paled. “Edmund, you are scaring me.”
“Good.” He did feel an acid sense of satisfaction. If she was frightened, perhaps she would be cautious, and if she was cautious, perhaps she would get out of this damnable situation in one piece. “You need to be scared.”
She lifted her chin. “And where will you be?”
He sighed. “Chained to you, my love. Chained to you.”
“Did you sleep well last night, Miss Parker-Roth?” Edmund’s aunt Louisa looked up from her kippers and The Morning Chronicle.
“Yes, thank you.” Blast. Jane felt her face flush. Could anyone tell just by looking at her that she was no longer a virgin?
Louisa’s greyhound padded over to sniff a very embarrassing location. Jane pushed her head away.
“Diana!” Louisa said. “Behave yourself.”
Diana returned to her place by Louisa’s chair. Jane fled to the buffet.
She would have stayed in her room to have chocolate and toast in solitary splendor—if she’d been solitary. But she’d wanted a bath after the night’s activities, and then Lily had discovered a red stain on the back of her nightgown. Since her courses weren’t due for another couple weeks, Lily was ready to call a doctor or her mother, or both, immediately. She was finally able to persuade Lily she must have cut herself—and then Lily wanted to inspect the cut. She’d put her foot down at that—and then had bolted for the breakfast room.
Oh, dear, how was Edmund going to explain the blood on his sheets?
“You do look very flushed.” Cordelia, the only other aunt in the room, took a bite of her strawberry scone and washed it down with some tea. “I don’t believe it’s exceptionally warm in here. Are you sure you’re feeling quite the thing?”
“Yes. Yes, I’m fine.” Jane selected a few slices of toast—her stomach did not feel up to anything more substantial—and took a seat as far away from Diana as possible.
Cordelia gave her a concerned look and then shrugged, turning back to her paper. “I was just perusing the gossip column in The Morning Post. There’s—”
Louisa snorted. “Why do you read that twaddle?”
Cordelia rolled her eyes and smiled somewhat acidly at her sister. “Because I enjoy ‘that twaddle.’ I like to be au courant.”
“Pshaw!” Louisa turned to the next page of the Chronicle. “Who cares what the ninnyhammers of the ton are doing?”
“I do. And we are members of the ton, you know, Louisa.”
“Well, of course we are, but not that part of the ton.”
“That part?” Cordelia’s eyebrows rose. “Which part would that part be?”
“The young and scandalous part, of course.” Louisa looked up from her reading. “Is there anything about us in there?”
Cordelia frowned. “No, and I find that rather surprising. I would have thought Edmund’s runaway carriage would have merited a mention.”
Jane’s stomach sank, and she put the piece of toast in her hand back on her plate. “Perhaps no one saw it. The park was rather deserted, and we weren’t in the fashionable section.”
That comment earned her an eye roll. “You tore down Oxford Street—not some little byway—in great commotion, Miss Parker-Roth, and then rode back at a snail’s pace with Elvira Hornsley.” She tapped the paper. “I would have thought half this column would have been about your antics, but no, there’s not even the briefest mention. Very odd.”
Jane took a gulp of tea to try to moisten her throat. It was too hot; she spat it—as discreetly as possible—back into the cup. The roof of her mouth and her tongue would be sore for days. She tried to smile. “I don’t believe I’ve ever made the gossip column before. Why should I start appearing in it now at my advanced age?”
Louisa laughed. “Even I know the answer to that question, Miss Parker-Roth—you’d not caught Edmund’s eye before.”
“Exactly.” Cordelia nodded. “Edmund’s sudden interest in you at the Palmerson ball was recounted in rather great detail, but since then, silence, even when you two darted out onto Easthaven’s terrace the next night. I don’t know what to make of it.”
Jane was afraid she did. No, she must be wrong. Satan couldn’t have that much control of what happened in Lon
don that he could keep something out of the newspaper, could he? “Perhaps there was too much other, more interesting gossip.”
Cordelia stared at her for a moment, her mouth slightly agape, apparently speechless. Then she took a breath and shook her head. “Miss Parker-Roth, I know you have not lived under a rock your whole life. The possible matrimonial interests of a wealthy viscount are always news. I’m sure half a dozen or more young—and not so young—ladies are checking this space daily to see if they must give up their hopes of catching Edmund in parson’s mousetrap.”
Louisa snorted again. “Silly chits. They don’t need a newspaper to tell them he’s been well and truly caught. All they need do is open their eyes and look.”
Jane was certain her face was as red as fire—it was certainly as hot. This conversation was headed in an extremely awkward direction. She had to deflect it. “Er, had you found something interesting in the paper, Miss Cordelia? I thought you were about to read aloud when I sat down.”
Cordelia’s left eyebrow rose, but she forbore to comment on Jane’s desperate change of topic. “Yes, actually. There was a very interesting note in the gossip column—well, on the same page.” She looked down at the paper. “Ah, here it is: The Earl of Ardley and Miss Barnett were married yesterday at the bride’s home. The happy couple sailed on the evening tide and will tour the Continent on their honeymoon. They plan to return to Town in a few weeks.”
“The Earl of Ardley married Miss Barnett quite precipitously.” Louisa put the Chronicle aside. “Whyever did he do that? It’s not as if he’s a young buck caught up in passion, surely—he won’t see fifty again. How old is she?”
“Louisa! I thought you weren’t interested in hearing the Post’s twaddle.” Cordelia smirked.
“No, I don’t care to hear it, but now that I have heard it, I am curious. How old is the woman?”
“Considerably younger than Ardley—about your age, wouldn’t you say, Miss Parker-Roth?”
Poor Miss Barnett—Jane had completely forgotten about her predicament. “I believe she’s a year or two older than I. Perhaps twenty-five or six.”
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