For a moment, a vision of her with another lover almost destroyed his dogged detachment. It took time to suppress the image enough for him to proceed with his analysis.
Her persistent attempts to spy on the Hellions indicated that her goal lay within that group. Apparently one of the members had something she wanted, and she had not yet found what she was seeking.
If he stayed close to the Hellions, she would probably appear again, but he was tired of waiting. Thoughtfully he tapped the end of his pencil on the leather surface of the desk as he considered other avenues of pursuit.
Jane had been very knowledgeable about the writings of L. J. Knight. Her claim to be the writer was probably false, but she might move in circles where the man's work was routinely discussed. Perhaps she frequented the salons where writers, artists, actors, and assorted other eccentrics rubbed shoulders and talked about life, politics, and art. In such a place she would have learned that the essayist was a recluse and that she could safely claim his identity, at least temporarily.
He had always enjoyed the salons himself—they had the liveliest conversation in London—but he had been too busy to visit any of them recently. It was time to make the circuit again. He would start at Lady Graham's. She was a wealthy widow with liberal opinions and a gregarious nature, and her fortnightly gatherings drew some of the most interesting and controversial people in Britain. Surely there he could find someone who knew a rising comic actress.
He laid down his pencil, feeling that he had finally made some progress. But it was time to set aside the mystery of Jane and prepare for dinner with Lord Mace. With luck, tonight he would be told when the next Hellion ritual would be held. On that occasion, he could be formally admitted into the group. That should bring him closer to finding the traitor.
As he tied his cravat, he smiled wryly. Perhaps Jane would turn up tonight, her leggy frame and mobile features disguised as one of Mace's footmen. If she did, this time he wouldn't be fool enough to let her out of his sight.
Chapter 15
As soon as Lucien stepped inside Mace's house, a dark, heavy cloth was dropped over his head and a voice—Roderick Harford?—said portentously, "The moment of truth has arrived, Strathmore. To become a Hellion, you must undergo initiation. Do you choose to go forward into the unknown, or will you withdraw and never become one of us?"
Lucien suppressed a sigh. He should have known the Hellions would do something juvenile like this. "I wish to be part of your fellowship," he said gravely, "so I shall proceed."
"Obey all orders," Harford intoned. "Expect only the unexpected, and let the hellfires transform you."
Anonymous hands tugged the dark fabric down over Lucien. Apparently it was a shapeless, hooded robe that completely covered the face. After his hands were loosely bound in front of him, he was led through the house and outside to a carriage. A low voice warned him of steps and turns, but it was disorienting to be without sight. Cynically he guessed that the treatment was designed to undermine a man's confidence and make him more susceptible to whatever nonsense followed.
The carriage ride was long and took them out of London. No one spoke, but humans are seldom totally silent. From the sounds of breathing and shifting weight, he guessed that three men accompanied him.
Eventually the carriage lurched to a stop, and someone helped Lucien climb out. The chill wind carried the damp, earthy scents of the country and the sound of lapping waves. After a short walk over soft turf, he was urged into a flat-bottomed boat. It had the narrowness of a punt, designed to be poled through shallow waters. It rocked precariously when he stepped inside, so he sat down quickly.
Three more lurches as the others climbed in. The punt was pushed from the bank, and it glided smoothly through the water. Ahead of them a church bell began to toll somberly, as if counting the years of someone who had just died.
The journey was short and soon the punt crunched into gravel. The passengers disembarked, Lucien banging his shin on the gunwale in the process. More men waited on the shore, for he heard shufflings and a muffled cough. It was a much larger group, perhaps two dozen people. Someone turned Lucien to the right, then tugged at the head of his robe. It fell away, and suddenly he could see again.
On the hill above sprawled a medieval castle, the full moon gilding the ancient stones with cold, uncanny light. The mournful, doom-laden tolling of the church bell made Lucien's hair prickle. He schooled his face to mask his reaction. It was merely theater, but damned effective. If he were superstitious, he'd be frightened half out of his wits.
Surrounding him were perhaps thirty men wearing deeply hooded white robes and clasping tall, lighted candles. They looked like a conclave of ghosts. His own robe was black, presumably because of his novice status.
The nearest man was Roderick Harford. Raising his arms, he cried, "What is our password?"
The false monks chorused, "Do what thou wilt!"
"What is our goal?"
"Pleasure!"
"Come, then, brothers, to our sacred ritual."
A man wearing a medallion around his neck started up the hill and the rest of the group fell in behind him, marching single file. The wind whipped the flames of their candles, sending wild shadows careening across the landscape. Harford gestured for Lucien to join the end of the line, bringing up the rear himself.
The castle was surrounded by high walls. A heavy iron gate admitted the marchers into well-kept gardens. The path wound between shrubs and dimly glimpsed pieces of statuary. As nearly as Lucien could tell in the dim light, one statue was a twenty-foot-high marble phallus. Pure wishful thinking, no doubt.
Their destination was the chapel, which appeared to be the only building intact. As they neared, he saw that the doorway was bracketed by statues of a naked man and an equally naked woman, each holding a finger to the lips in the sign of silence. Both were so well-endowed physically that the average person would feel sadly inferior. Carved above the entrance were the words, Fay ce que voudras. Do what thou wilt. The phrase had sounded familiar earlier, and now Lucien recognized it as the motto of the original Hellfire Club. He wondered what Jane would think of all this masculine self-indulgence, then suppressed a smile at the thought.
The iron-banded door swung open with a squeal, and the procession entered the chapel. Braziers glowed around the sanctuary, filling the air with eye-stinging fumes of incense. Though care had been taken to maintain an atmosphere of crumbling antiquity, Lucien guessed that the structure had been recently restored. Certainly the dozen stained glass windows depicting the apostles in lewd acts were new and undeniably imaginative.
He glanced upward and saw that the vaulted ceiling had been decorated with an equally obscene fresco. As with the rest of the abbey, the images were an eclectic blend of Christian and pagan. Goat-footed satyrs coupled with angels and lustful monks pursued Greek nymphs. The Hellions obviously liked variety.
As the monks formed a circle around the edges of the room, Harford whispered, "Walk to the altar rail and prostrate yourself. After the priest bids you to rise, stand at the railing throughout the ceremony. Address the priest as Master."
Lucien obeyed with the irreverent thought that if he had known he would have to wait so long for his dinner, he would have eaten first. Prostrating oneself on cold stone was no fun on an empty stomach.
A door behind the altar opened and footsteps approached with a rustle of brocaded scarlet robes. Lucien refrained from looking up, but Mace's husky voice was readily recognizable when he asked, "Do you understand the gravity of what you are about to undertake, Novice?"
Trying to feel a proper sense of awe, Lucien replied, "I do, Master." The flagstones were gritty beneath his cheek.
"Rise and face me, Novice." After Lucien obeyed, Mace continued, "Do you swear solemn allegiance to this brotherhood, knowing that falseness will bring the curse of the Hellions down on you?" His words rolled like thunder, and there was danger in his eyes.
Lucien's levity vanished. Reminding himself
never to underestimate the other man, he said, "I do so swear, Master."
Mace's gaze probed and judged. Finally he nodded. "So be it." He turned and used a candle to ignite a fire in a stone basin atop the altar. The acrid scent of burning herbs joined the heavy incense.
The service that followed was not a black mass, but a strange mixture of pagan and blasphemous Christian, both portentous and self-mocking. Speaking in Latin and French as well as English, Mace's voice rose and fell in a rhythm that wove a potent spell of mystery.
As the smoke thickened, Lucien began to grow lightheaded. He guessed that the burning herbs included narcotics such as belladonna and henbane. The pungent blend produced a receptive state where it was easy to believe that mystical powers were being invoked. He forced himself to take rigorous mental notes, for analysis kept him detached. He preferred it that way; sacrilege had never been his style.
At the climax of the ritual, Mace cried, "Thou art one of us!" He dipped his fingers into a black chalice, then sprinkled brimstone-scented brandy over Lucien in a parody of baptism. "Within the fellowship of Hellions, our new member will be known by the mystical name of Lucifer."
"Welcome, Lucifer!" the monks chanted.
Mace turned and flung a handful of powder onto the altar fire. Violet flames shot up toward the ceiling while clouds of smoke swirled in all directions. Above the altar the smoke thickened into a menacing shape, as if the devil had come to call. The air in the chapel became electric with tension.
Mace raised his arms and barked an unintelligible phrase. The diabolical figure began to dissolve, and with it the tension that had gripped the onlookers.
Lucien admitted to himself that the smoky apparition had been a good effect. Given a bit of time, he didn't doubt that he could reproduce it himself. Apparently, Mace was using his technical skills for something more than obscene toys.
Mace lowered his arms, the exalted glow fading from his eyes. "Come, brothers, and let us feast."
A monk pushed aside a black drapery in the corner, revealing a passage that led into a banqueting hall. Instantly the solemn atmosphere was replaced by a cheerful babble of voices as the Hellions streamed into the hall and sprawled on the Roman-style couches that lined the walls.
As Lucien hesitated, Mace gestured toward the head of the room. "Come sit beside me, Lucifer." He settled onto his own couch. "What do you think of the service?"
"Impressive," Lucien said truthfully as he reclined on the leather squabs. "It's certainly not as simple as the devil-worship of the Hellfire Club. It must have taken considerable study to weave together such a unique blend of classical, Christian, and pagan customs."
"I knew you would be capable of appreciating the multiple levels of meaning. Not all of our members are as learned." Amusement showed in his eyes. "Certainly one must give the devil his due, but Satanism is too banal, a mere reversal of Christian customs. It's far more intriguing to invent one's own religion."
He was describing his research when a bevy of serving girls swirled into the hall, garbed in translucent silk costumes that revealed every enticing curve and cleft. Only their faces were invisible, concealed behind elaborate feather masks.
Nunfield had taken the couch on the other side of Lucien. As the serving girls entered, he said, "Tonight's theme is Turkish. Personally, I like it when the tarts dress as nuns—the habits leave so much to the imagination. But many of our brethren prefer the obvious." He beckoned to a server carrying a jug. The woman leaned forward and poured wine into their goblets, her lush breasts swaying behind the veils that floated above her torso.
"Lovely creatures, aren't they?" Appreciatively, Mace caressed a round buttock. The woman gave a throaty chuckle and rubbed against his hand. "Roderick is in charge of arranging for the girls, and he has excellent taste."
"Are they professionals?" Lucien asked, unsurprised to learn that Roderick was chief pimp.
"Most are, but not all." Mace gave a satyr's smile. "Some are women of the highest rank, the sort one might meet in the queen's drawing room. That is why they are masked. If you had a sister, you might find her here. Or a wife."
Lucien suppressed a surge of distaste. "A tantalizing thought. What a pity that I have neither."
Mace raised his goblet. "To debauchery!" After a challenging glance, he drained his cup with one swallow. Lucien did likewise. When in Rome...
Another serving girl arrived bearing a platter of steaming sausages that had been shaped to resemble phalluses. Lucien took one and bit off the end. The things he did for his country.
The feast rapidly degenerated into a latter-day version of a Roman orgy. Whenever possible, the food was formed into suggestive shapes, and wine and spirits flowed freely.
As the night progressed, giggling serving girls were pulled onto the couches. Some of the couples, including Nunfield and a busty brunette, engaged right there; others rose and stumbled off toward the private chambers that lined an adjacent hallway. After Mace disappeared with one of the women, Lucien rose and surreptiously slipped away into the gardens, feeling that he couldn't bear another minute of the fetid atmosphere.
The chilly air was refreshing, though he still felt dizzy from the amount of alcohol he had consumed. Matching Mace drink for drink was enough to strain even the hardest head.
He wandered through the moonlit paths, automatically noting the layout in case the knowledge might someday prove useful. When he climbed a stone staircase to the top of the wall, he discovered that the castle was not on an island. The water that he had crossed was a moon-silvered river that curled halfway around the hill. The castle itself was probably a remnant of Norman times that had been rebuilt by the Hellions.
The gardens were beautifully laid out, though the obscene statues rapidly became tedious. Once he turned a sharp corner and walked into a marble Venus who was bending to remove a thorn from her foot. She had been placed in midpath so that any newcomer would collide with her naked buttocks.
He found that he was not the only wanderer when he came across Lord Ives contemplating a statue of Zeus raping a swan. Lucien gestured toward the figures. "Call me a puritan, but I can't imagine becoming aroused by a swan. Unless I was a swan too, of course."
The young man grinned. "Leda would have been safe from me as well. Those Greek gods were a randy lot."
The men fell in together and continued along the path. Lucien said, "Taking a break to regain your strength before the next encounter?"
Ives hesitated, then gave an embarrassed laugh. "I was considering going home early, actually. You'll probably think I'm foolish, but I didn't really enjoy myself with the girl I chose. I kept thinking I'd rather be with Cleo."
"I don't think you're foolish." Lucien thought of Jane, who had more sensuality in one teasing glance than all of the underdressed serving girls put together. "Passion without emotion might satisfy the body, but the pleasure is gone as quickly as it came, leaving emptiness."
"That's it exactly. I'm glad I'm not the only one who feels that way." Ives grimaced. "If Cleo learned that I had bedded another woman, she'd leave me. She's not a Cyprian, you know. There are other men who would be willing to pay more for her favors, but she chose me because she preferred my company."
"If you feel strongly about the girl, perhaps you should drop out of the Hellions."
Ives nodded as if the suggestion confirmed his own thoughts. "I think you're right. It's foolish to risk losing something valuable for the sake of a few minutes' pleasure with a female whose name I won't remember in the morning."
Deciding to do some research, Lucien asked, "Do the Hellions take the rituals seriously?"
"Perhaps Mace does a bit—he's a pagan at heart—but it's really only for amusement. Most of us joined for the entertainment and the girls."
Their meanderings had brought them back to the chapel, where the sounds of carousal had faded. In the west the moon was setting. "When and how do people go home?" Lucien asked.
"Most sleep off their excesses here, but I'
m going to leave now. Would you like to go back to London in my curricle?"
Lucien hesitated, tempted, then shook his head. "That would be uncivil for my first time. I'll stay until the others leave."
The men said their farewells and Lucien reentered the banqueting hall. After the freshness of the night, the rank, overheated atmosphere was choking. Sleeping bodies littered the couches and floor, male and female tangled together. In one corner, Westley lay on his back giggling while a nude woman trickled wine into his mouth. No one else seemed to be awake.
Lucien was looking for a quiet spot to sleep away the rest of the night when Nunfield emerged from one of the private rooms, moving with the exaggerated care of the extremely drunk. Clinging to his arm was a lusty-looking wench wearing a half-mask of pheasant feathers and not much else.
"Lucifer! I've been looking for you." Nunfield hiccupped. "You've got to go with Lola. She's 'ceptionally skilled."
"Thank you, darling," she purred, her eyes gleaming behind the slits of the mask. "I do aim to please." She stretched out a sinuous hand and caught Lucien's wrist.
"Come with me and I'll try to live up to Nunny's recommendation."
Lucien was looking for a way to refuse when he saw the sharpness of Nunfield's gaze. To decline would be conspicuous, so he must appear to go along with the suggestion. Once he was alone with the woman, he would disengage as he had done at Chiswick's house. Donning the facade of drunkenness, he said with heavy gallantry, "It will be my pleasure, Madame Lola." He offered his arm and almost overbalanced in the process.
Deftly she caught his elbow and guided him toward a private chamber. He felt Nunfield's gaze boring into his back as they crossed the hall, picking their way around slumbering bodies.
The chamber contained a chaise wide enough for two. Lola tossed aside her mask and pushed Lucien down so that he was sitting on the edge. Then she straddled his lap and wrapped herself around him for a fevered kiss. As Nunfield had said, she was exceptionally skilled. Yet he sensed that under her extravagant display of passion was a nature as cold and calculating as that of a reptile.
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