The Passion of the Purple Plumeria

by Lauren Willig

  His throat felt tight. The images were choking him. “I thought Kat was sitting prettily in a garden under a tree. A tree . . .”

  “Stop that!” Gwen said harshly. Her fan swung down from its string as she grabbed his arm, her fingers biting into his sleeve. “I won’t have it. You were thousands of miles away. How were you to know?”

  “I ought to have made it my business to know.”

  “How often did you write them?”

  William bristled. “As often as there was a ship to carry the letter.”

  They had both written back, regularly. He might have been suspicious otherwise. He hadn’t realized it was all lies.

  Gwen looked at him from under beetled brows. “Was there any way to have kept them with you?” She leveled her fan at him, poking him in the ribs, well below his bandages. “Don’t fib! I’ll know if you’re lying. Did you send them away for your own convenience?”

  William shook off her hand, stepping back. “Don’t be absurd!” His voice echoed uncomfortably loudly off the marble and gilding. He swallowed hard, modulating his tone. “I hated to send them away. They were . . .”

  Little Lizzy, all childlike exuberance, yanking him by the hand, creating elaborate and imaginative excuses as to why eating all the jam out of the pot was really a favor to him; Kat, the oldest, protective of her status as the lady of the house, bullying him with all the confidence of seventeen.

  “They were the best part of me.”

  “Well, then.” That was all she said, but William felt as though he had somehow gone through a tribunal and been exonerated. She fixed him with a look of staggering smugness. “Hadn’t you better stop flagellating yourself and get on with it?”

  The smugness of her expression startled him into a laugh, hoarse and raw, but a laugh all the same.

  He took her hand in his, looking down at the gloved fingers. “You are a remarkable woman, Gwen Meadows.”

  Gwen emitted a delicate sniff. “There’s hardly much in the way of competition here. I shine by comparison. Besides, I can’t have you wasting time in moping. I didn’t patch you up just to have you go jump off a balcony.”

  “For all of that,” William said gently, squeezing her hand before letting it go, “I thank you.”

  Gwen shrugged, not quite meeting his eyes. “As you say, it is what it is. One does what one must.”

  She did like to hide affection behind the guise of duty. He remembered her hands, gentle, washing the grime of the sickroom off his face in the inn room, the infinite patience with which she had spooned soup between his slack lips. There was a tender heart beneath that prickly shell, however hard she tried to hide it. On an impulse, William slid a finger beneath her chin, lifting her face towards his. “You seem to be making a practice of patching me up.”

  Her eyes were gray, a gray so deep that they looked almost purple against the frame of her headdress. He wondered if the swains of her youth had compared them to violets, or her skin to cream. It wasn’t cream now, but ivory, strong and vibrant. With her hair pulled back away from her face under her absurd purple turban, he could see the strength in her face, the clean, bold bones, but the weaknesses, too, the faint purple shadows beneath her eyes, the sensitive dent below her lips.

  She stuck her chin into the air. “You’ll just have to stop blundering into trouble, then, won’t you?”

  She did a good job of looking stern, but her lips hadn’t been made for sternness; they were full and generous, less a rosebud and more a Cupid’s bow. She might pull back her hair and button her bodice up to the chin, but she couldn’t hide those lips.

  “I think I already have,” he said honestly.

  “There you are!” The sound of Miss Wooliston’s voice broke the spell.

  They jerked away from each other like marionettes at the hands of an inexpert puppeteer.

  Miss Wooliston looked from one to the other with an expression of mild inquiry. “We were wondering where you’d got to.”

  It wouldn’t have been quite so bad but for the carefully suppressed amusement in her tone. The Chevalier, standing just beside Miss Wooliston, winked at him. William pretended not to notice.

  Bad enough to be behaving like a moonstruck calf, and worse still to be caught at it by the younger generation.

  “The caterwauling on the stage was too much for me,” said Gwen, stepping quickly away. Her skirts brushed William’s legs as she walked past him. “It sounded like a bunch of cats being swung by their tails.”

  “That is most unkind, and untrue, as well.” Miss Wooliston linked arms with her chaperone. “I thought it was an excellent production.” She frowned. “Except for the third violin, which was sorely out of tune.”

  “I didn’t think Fiorila was in her usual voice,” offered the Chevalier.

  Gwen eyed the Chevalier narrowly. “Know her, then, do you?”

  She managed to imply that he was a rake, a rogue, a seducer, and a despoiler of opera singers. It was beautifully done.

  “Not personally, no,” said the Chevalier, unruffled. “But I have had the pleasure of hearing her sing many times in London.”

  “There’s no music like the sound of the wind through the wool,” contributed Mr. Wooliston poetically. He jammed his periwig back on his head. “I don’t hold with this foreign entertainment.”

  Gwen looked at him with imperfectly concealed scorn. “Artaxerxes is an English opera, sirrah.”

  “No. Can’t be.” Wooliston shook his head, the tail of his periwig swaying mournfully. “What kind of name is Xerxes? No, the man’s not an Englishman.”

  “Would you prefer that the opera be called George?” demanded Gwen.

  “I prefer Harry, myself,” contributed William blandly.

  “I believe, sir,” said the Chevalier smoothly, “that Xerxes was a Persian potentate.”

  “They make such lovely carpets,” said Mrs. Wooliston.

  “I rather think Xerxes was too busy conquering the world to weave,” said Miss Wooliston peaceably.

  “Only webs of intrigue,” said the Chevalier, and bowed over Miss Wooliston’s hand. “Many thanks for a most lovely—and edifying—evening.”

  Throughout the extended and elaborate leave-taking, Gwen was quiet. Too quiet.

  William joggled her arm lightly with his elbow. “All right, there?”

  Ignoring William, Gwen turned to her charge and said, “Go on without me. I’ve remembered something I have to see to.”

  A look passed between her and Miss Wooliston. “We’ll send the carriage back for you,” Miss Wooliston said, and, without seeming to do so, neatly turned her parents towards the exit.

  “Not so fast,” said William, grabbing Gwen’s arm before she could slip away into the crowd. “What is it?”

  For a moment, she looked as though she meant to argue. Arriving at her decision, she said, in a rapid, low tone, “I just saw one of the men who ambushed us in the alley. He went that way. If you’d unhand me, I might be able to follow him.”

  William followed her. “Not without me, you’re not.”

  She didn’t waste time fighting with him. “If you must come, keep quiet and try to keep up.”

  He still wasn’t feeling entirely robust, but he would have keeled over rather than admit it. “I’ll do my best not to swoon on you.”

  She cast him a long look over her shoulder. He could see the concern in her eyes, but they both knew there wasn’t time to argue. “If you m
ust swoon, do so quietly. Now, hush!”

  She moved rapidly through the crowd, William following a pace behind. Their erratic route took them out a side door, away from the crowd waiting for their carriages, and around the back of the theatre, just in time to see a door slam shut.

  Holding her finger to her lips, Gwen took hold of the door handle, waited ten seconds, and then pulled it open. In front of them was a long flight of stairs leading down, perilously steep. There was a red glow of light at the bottom. Gwen beckoned to William. He eased the door carefully shut behind him and followed her down into the darkness.

  The landing let out in a cellar. To one side, he could see the storerooms of the theatre, boxes, crates, and barrels. But that wasn’t where the light led. A lantern had been hung from a rough iron hook beside an aperture in one of the walls. Without hesitating, Gwen dropped down on her knees and crawled through.

  Trying not to put too much weight on his bad side, William did the same, following the waggle of his companion’s backside down a short tunnel. It let out into an edifice of stone that looked like an advertisement for a stonemason’s junk shop, bits of statuary and fallen masonry littering the ground. A ramp of sorts curved off to the side, lined with the remnants of columns. Staying close to the wall, they started down.

  “You’re sure he went this way?” William murmured.

  “Someone placed those torches to be followed,” was all Gwen said.

  Where in the devil were they? William felt as though he’d stumbled into the more fantastical sort of novel. Flaring torches marked their path, spaced at uneven intervals. In the patches of light, William caught sight of more fallen masonry and other tunnels leading out in other directions, an entire complex beneath the opera house.

  “What is this place?” William whispered.

  Gwen turned her head just enough to answer. “Roman ruins. The city of Bath is built on them. They must have unearthed them when they were building the new—”

  She broke off abruptly, bumping into William as she backed up. His arms automatically went around her, keeping them both steady.

  “Down!” she hissed, and pulled him back, behind an outcropping of stone.

  They had come out onto a clear space, the remains of what had once been a form of balcony, looking out over a sunken area below. There was a stair that led down to their left, the steps cracked and treacherous.

  From their vantage point, William could see that theirs wasn’t the only open archway. There was a regular pattern of them, semicircular openings overlooking a great rectangular area below. There must once have been ornamental stonework creating a balustrade, but most of it had crumbled away, leaving uneven piles of rubble, some carved with what looked to be some sort of frieze.

  There was a piece lying on the ground next to him, featuring the torso and part of the leg of a woman as she lolled in a position of considerable abandon. The carving was still clear and sharp, showing the sensuous curve of breast and hip.

  “An old bath,” Gwen murmured, without moving her lips. “The place is riddled with them.”

  There was no water now in the giant sunken area. Above them, the ceiling rose in a grand arch, so high that the top was lost in the shadows. There were darker spots among the shadows, and a sound, as of wings. William’s lips set in a grim line. Bats, he’d be willing to wager. He wasn’t afraid of the wee beasties, but that didn’t mean he had to like them, either.

  Around them, a series of arches, in various states of disrepair, overlooked the old bath. There was a tiered descent into the pool, ten steps down. What must once have been a fountain dominated one end, a satyr tugging at the legs of a fleeing water nymph, all floating draperies and bare limbs. Around the base of the fountain milled men, if men they might be called. They were all garbed in robes of a shiny black material that caught and reflected the torchlight.

  Underneath the black hoods, their faces shone an eerie white in the uncertain light, their lips an unnatural red.

  William shook his head. “What in the devil—”

  “White lead and lip rouge,” whispered Gwen.

  “I’d gathered that,” William whispered back. “But who are they?”

  Gwen held up a hand to silence him. “Something is about to happen.”

  Smoke was belching from the old water pipe, billowing into the sunken pool, twining around the legs of the hapless water nymph. As the smoke rose, William caught a whiff of a familiar scent: opium, and a lot of it, mixed with some sort of incense, unless he missed his guess, sickly sweet and undeniably narcotic.

  Down in the pit, the ghoulish revelers fell silent, turning away from the fountain, towards an arch at the other end.

  Through the mist strode a man in a black cloak wider, larger, shinier, than the others. Where the others wore hoods, his was thrown back, revealing a face painted a dead white, his lips crimson. He must have been wearing lifts of some kind, for he seemed to tower over the others, taller than a normal man. As he passed, the other robed figures sank to their knees, touching their heads to the ground in obeisance.

  Accepting the homage as his due, he strode through the ranks of his followers, jumping up onto a platform formed by a stone placed over the remains of two pillars. As he turned, William finally saw what it was that he carried before him.

  In his hands, he held a human skull.

  Slowly, the leader raised the skull over his head. Somewhere in the back of the room, William could hear the faint beat of a drum, only barely audible in the expectant silence.

  “Brethren!” the leader called in a voice rich and dark. “Lords of the night!”

  “Merciful heavens,” murmured Gwen. “We’ve stumbled into a meeting of the Hellfire Club.”

  William had heard tell of a similar organization in Poona. “Orgies, debauchery, and general idiocy, all in fancy dress costume?”

  “Precisely,” said Gwen. Her eyes were shining with excitement. “What luck! I’ve always wanted to see one of these.”

  William wasn’t so sure he would have called it luck. The atmosphere in the subterranean chamber was decidedly eerie. And there had been stories about that society in Poona, stories that had shocked him, world-weary old campaigner that he was. He had taxed Jack with them, Jack who had sold the young idiots the opium.

  “What do I care as long as they pay on time?” Jack had said.

  But William had cared. He had cared when they had raped the daughter of a friend, a half-caste, like Lizzy, in one of their debauched pseudo-ceremonies.

  But by then, Jack had been gone.

  Downstairs, the minions were getting restless. William could practically feel their intensity, like the crackle in the air before a storm.

  “Rise, brothers!” the celebrant called. “Rise and greet your sacrifice!”

  The men in the bath clambered to their feet. Slowly, then faster, they began clapping, clapping in time with the drums. The frenzied drumming pounded faster and faster, hands clapping, feet stamping in time to the beat, the hollow echo of booted feet against the old stone floor echoing through the hollow vault, bringing the pounding to a fever pitch, thrumming in and around them.

  With a burst of flame and a whiff of sulfur, two women appeared, clad only in wisps of red gauze, their nipples rouged, red ribbons around their necks, their ankles, spiraling up their arms. They bore between them a litter, draped in black gauze, heaped with white flowers whose sickly scent warred with that of the drugged smoke.

  Pale against the black cloth lay a young woman. She lay on her side, as though in sleep, her gown falling aside to display her leg as far as the knee. She was all that was innocent in her white night rail, the thin muslin edged with white lace and satin ribbon.

  Over the side of the litter trailed her long, unbound hai
r, the red-brown curls bouncing with the movement of the litter.

  William found himself leaning forward, his heart in his throat, his hands clutching the masonry, knuckles white, hunting for a glimpse of her face, praying and fearing, all at the same time.

  The drumbeat rose to a frenzy pitch as the bearers slowly tilted the bier forward.

  Chapter 15

  “What ghouls be these?” marveled Sir Magnifico.

  “No ghouls, sir, but members of a society so secret that even those with secrets know not what this society is. Tonight, they practice their ancient rites, with skull, tome, and torch. Hark! Silence! Their leader comes. . . .”

  —From The Convent of Orsino by A Lady

  “It’s not Lizzy.” William let out a deep, shuddering breath. “Thank God.”

  Gwen’s hand briefly touched his arm before dropping again to her side. “God has little to do with this place.” She looked critically down at the revelers. “Although if I were the devil, I’m not sure I would want to lay claim to it either. It looks to be a highly ramshackle operation.”

  William wasn’t diverted. He edged forward, trying to get a better look at the bier. “Is it the other girl? Miss Wooliston?”

  “No.” Agnes was a paler copy of Jane. Her hair didn’t have even the hint of a curl, and she still had all the gawkiness of youth. Even underneath that virginal white gown, one could tell that the woman on the litter sported the curves of a woman grown.

  “It’s someone’s daughter.” William started forward.

  Gwen’s hand closed over his arm. “Stop. Look.”

  As the bier tilted forward, she could see that the woman on the elaborate litter was older than she had originally supposed, and that what she had imagined as a drugged stupor was a pose of carefully staged languor. Gwen recognized her from her perambulations backstage.

  “She’s one of the ballet girls. She works here at the theatre.”

  William paused, his muscles tense beneath her fingers. “Hired?”