St. Raven, page 8
She’d already let slip a desire to travel with him. She kept to herself the pull of “dutiful” indulgence in the arts. To have her own quartet, however. To support artists and poets whose work she admired. To see young artists blossom because of her care!
Ah, there was a prospect to enchant.
Then the coach slowed.
She looked out of the window and recognized the small village that lay a half mile from Stokeley Manor. Nearly two hours had passed with her scarcely noticing them.
She longed to command that they drive past the gates, that they carry on into the night in this pleasant companionship. But that voyage was at an end, and she was here to get the statue, or at least the jewels.
And then they would forever part.
Lyne pulled out a silver watch and flicked it open. “Almost two hours to the dot. Well guessed, Tris.”
“Accurate estimation,” St. Raven corrected, looking out of the window at the moonlit scenery. Was he regretful, too?
Soon the road carried them through fields, and then through trees—the trees around Stokeley. She’d always felt they gave the house a secretive, concealed atmosphere. She’d never much cared for Stokeley and wouldn’t regret its loss except for the money it represented and the jewels in the statue.
The road followed the low wall around the estate, and she knew a break in the trees would soon reveal the house.
“It’s on fire!” she exclaimed.
St. Raven leaned across her to look out, but then he relaxed. “Theatrical effect. Thin cloth streaked like flames and hung in some of the windows.”
He settled back into his place. “Now we know Crofton’s theme for the night, however. Welcome to hell, Miss Mandeville.”
Chapter Seven
Their coach stopped, and for a moment it seemed a direct response to his words. Then Cressida realized that there was a queue of carriages. “Such a line waiting at the gates of hell,” she remarked.
“But, of course. Doesn’t Satan have the monopoly on all the most amusing occupations? Is there an inn in that village we just passed?”
She bit back an argument. “The Lamb.”
“Then let’s get out here.” He gave the command to let them down. “We’ll summon the coach when we’re ready, Cary.”
“Right you are.”
St. Raven opened the door before the groom reached it and climbed down. Then he turned to grasp Cressida at the waist, to swing her through air to earth. . . .
She shivered. “The breeze is quite cool, isn’t it?”
It wasn’t the summer night, however, but his touch and her inadequate clothing that unsteadied her. She’d never been outdoors in such flimsy covering, not even on the hottest summer day.
Or perhaps it was the shouts, chatter, and even screams from the waiting carriages. Screams of laughter, she hoped.
St. Raven wrapped an arm around her and drew her past the raucous carriages toward the gates. Her pulse fluttered with nerves for a dozen different reasons, but by his sandalwood side, she felt that nothing could harm her, nothing could go wrong. Tonight, he was Great Suleiman and she was Roxelana. They would play their parts in this wild company, find the statuette, take out the gems, and leave.
Tomorrow she would be home again, her mission accomplished. But she would carry extraordinary memories with her, perhaps to record in a secret journal—memories of a scandalous evening in the company of this delightfully scandalous man.
And he was scandalous. As they strolled past the line of carriages, he was recognized. Women hung out of windows to issue blatant invitations, and were dragged back by complaining men.
“What charming friends you have, sir,” she remarked after one raucous woman nearly fell out of the window.
“Don’t nag, or I’ll send you back among the houris.”
One was supposed to act the part at a masquerade, so Cressida held her tongue. Keeping to her role would help avoid a revealing slip, and they’d decided she would put on a foreign accent to disguise her voice.
She used it now, trying for something guttural and German. “At least there would be no drunkenness in a harem, Great Suleiman.”
“But all kinds of interesting drugs, I gather.”
“St. Raven, by Hades!”
A fat red-faced man poked his head out of his carriage window. “Swap partners, St. Raven, there’s a good fellow! Give you a monkey.”
He was dressed as Henry VIII, and looked the part too well.
“Not this early in the game, Pugh.”
St. Raven drew Cressida on. They could see the open door of Stokeley Manor now, and it was beginning to look like a haven despite the hellfire effect.
Henry VIII was yelling offers after them. “A thousand, St. Raven. Come on, man! Stap me vitals, look at the tasty rump on the wench!”
Cressida froze, but a strong arm forced her on. Heat rushed over every inch of her overexposed skin, and she wanted to go back and pull the stupid man’s flat hat down over his stupid ears!
“There’ll be more of that sort of thing. Ignore it.”
“Ignore—?”
“Yes.” It was a command, and she realized they were close to the throng of people spilling out of carriages and into the house. “It is, after all, very flattering, nymph.”
“I have absolutely no desire to be flattered about my posterior!”
In the red-tinged light from the house, his eyes laughed flames at her. “Then make sure to always face the enemy.”
He swept her forward, and she didn’t resist. This was her enterprise, it was important, and she had insisted on attending. Her reasons had been valid, but she had also been spurred by curiosity. She’d expected—anticipated—shock and scandal, and now she had it.
The scene near the open door was a good start. The paneled entrance hall must be full of red lamps to give such an infernal impression. Carriages disgorged fanciful creatures who rushed into the flames.
Thank heavens this had never been a true home to her and her family. To see it desecrated like this would be agony.
At the open door they tangled with a devil with a curly tail, a man in a toga, a nun, and a woman whose red costume she could not decipher. They greeted St. Raven as intimates and eyed her curiously.
The men were doubtless gentlemen by status if not by nature, and the women were not ladies in any sense of the word. Cressida remembered saying that she’d rather be a nun, but this nun’s black habit was open at the front from the waist down, and she certainly wasn’t wearing drawers.
The other woman’s tight red dress was slit in at least four places, showing plump bare legs as she walked. Her large breasts were covered only by a wisp of veiling.
Cressida tore her eyes away, then froze at the sight of Lord Crofton welcoming his guests. He, too, was dressed as a devil, but he wore no mask. He leered at the daring lady, then snatched the veiling from her breasts. The woman shrieked.
Crofton swung her around so she was in his arms, back to him, and put his hands under her breasts, thrusting them up. The tips were painted as scarlet as Cressida’s lips.
“Now, here’s a fine welcome,” Crofton called. “Come in, come in, and kiss hell’s tits!”
Cressida’s breath stopped. She couldn’t ignore such a cruel assault.
St. Raven’s arm tightened. “It’s Miranda Coop,” he murmured in her ear. “Very much a professional.”
She surrendered but watched, appalled, as St. Raven cradled the woman’s right breast and kissed the upper swell. “Adorable as always, Miranda,” he murmured.
The whore purred.
Those behind were pushing forward, the men eager to pay Crofton’s fee for admission. Then a woman in a clinging black gown and tiara of stars took up the invitation. Mistress Coop slapped her so hard her tiara flew off, and in moments they were at one another’s throats.
Crofton and some other men lunged to control them.
“Rather them than me. Trust Violet Vane to cause a riot.” St. Raven steered them away from the screaming mêlée. Cressida twisted to look back, but he forced her onward.
The entrance hall wasn’t large, and the yells and shrieks made Cressida want to clap her hands over her ears. Sounds of the fight had other guests pouring out of nearby rooms, assailing her with more din and stink, and crushing her between St. Raven and a bony man in a Harlequin costume.
Someone squeezed her bottom!
She jabbed back with her elbow as hard as she could, delighted to feel it connect. St. Raven laughed and switched so he was between her and the worst of the crush. They popped into a haven of space at the base of the wide, dogleg stairs.
St. Raven blew out a breath. “All right?”
“Of course.”
And she was. Out of the press, she wanted to laugh at it all. It was as fascinating as a menagerie.
She ran up three steps to get a better view of the scene. The women were in the grasp of a couple of men each, but were still screaming at each other and trying to get back to the fight. The woman in black was bare-breasted now, too, and her pointy nipples were as red. Did all whores do that?
The crowd was cheering and urging them on.
Cressida looked down at the duke. “I suppose this sort of havoc happens at every orgy, since you aren’t interested?”
He grabbed her at the waist again and swung her down. “I’d be pleased to ogle the show, but I, at least, remember our purpose. Which way to the study?”
Cressida swallowed a temptation to squabble for the fun of it, and tugged him through an alcove to the right of the stairs. This opened into the back corridor. It was deserted at the moment, though a couple of wall lamps provided light. The noises faded, and this area looked so like the house she’d lived in last year that she swallowed around a lump in her throat.
“It must feel strange.” He was disconcertingly alert to her feelings.
“Yes, but this wasn’t my home. We spent only last December here. Most of the furnishings came with the house.”
She had herself in command again and led the way to the study. She listened but heard no sign that anyone was inside, so she turned the knob and went in.
She paused. It was so unchanged, she could imagine her father sitting at the large central desk keeping his meticulous records. They’d known each other for only a year, and these days she was furious that he’d thrown them into this disaster, but he was an interesting man. His talk of travel and trade and limitless possibilities had filled an empty place in her mind and heart.
A hand on her back pushed her farther into the room; then St. Raven closed the door. “Where are they?”
Cressida looked around. “Not here. They’re not here!”
“Hush. Remember, I didn’t think a man like Crofton would ignore such things.”
“But what if he’s sold them? Or given them away?”
“If they’re as intriguing as you say, they’ll be on display. Anything else you want while we’re here?”
She stared at him, remembering that he never had explained the highway robbery. “Larceny in the blood, I see.”
“One famous ancestor was a pirate. So? We’re short of pockets, but if there’s anything you want, I’m sure we can manage.”
She thought about it, but her father had taken his important papers to London with him. The house, including this room, was scattered with his mementos of India, and she begrudged them to Crofton, but not enough to try to collect them now.
St. Raven had picked up something from the desk. A dagger, but with a design of flames around the edges and tip. “What’s this?”
“A wisdom sword. I don’t remember the Indian name for it. It represents cutting through knots of confusion and deceit.”
“We need one of those.”
Tris considered the flaming sword wryly, wondering what the devil he’d been thinking, to bring a lady to this event, particularly dressed as she was. Pugh wouldn’t be the only one trying to buy her, nor Helmsley the only one to grope her. And she’d been witness to Miranda Coop and Violet Vane at their worst. The sooner they had the jewels and were out of here, the better.
He put the sword down. “You’ve had a taste now. Perhaps you’d prefer to wait.”
“You can’t leave me here!”
“There’s a key in the lock.”
“And master keys. And, anyway, you don’t know the right statue.”
Damnation, she was right, but her lush curves and veiled scarlet lips made him want to lock her in a dungeon. “Describe it to me.”
She shook her head. “I can’t. There are quite a few that are similar. I need to see them.” She cocked her head. “Anyway, this is a rare opportunity to explore a foreign land. I’d be disappointed if the most I saw was a squabble.”
“Here, however, be dragons.”
“Made of ribbon and papier-mâché.”
She was a child. “No. Here be dragons with real teeth and fiery breath. Don’t let the tinsel distract you.”
He’d given her a mask with narrow slits to mute the effect of her large eyes, but even so, he could sense them widening. Good. She had to understand the dangers.
“Be careful, and stay with me at all times. Yes?”
“Yes. Which is why you can’t leave me here.”
“Why do women always want the last word?”
“Because we’re right?”
He opened the door. No screaming, so the fight must be over.
“Come on,” he said. “We’ll try the drawing room or dining room first.”
“This way.” She took his hand and pulled him to the right. The touch startled him.
And her, judging by the way she paused and stared at him.
He smiled and curled his hand around hers. “Lead on.”
He’d touched many women’s bare hands, which was not something every gentleman could say, but he couldn’t remember when he’d last linked hands with a woman like this, in a friendly, almost childlike manner.
Cressida drew the duke toward the dining room, distracted by the effect of ungloved hands, by the way he’d wrapped his around hers. When had she ever linked hands with a man like this before?
At the end of the passage she turned to look at him again. He raised their joined hands and kissed hers. A strange unsteadiness swept over her.
This is a masquerade, Cressida. This is all playacting. And if there is something more here, if there is a man you like, don’t forget that he’s a rake. He kissed that woman’s breast with as little concern as he just kissed your hand!
She pulled free of him and led the way around the corner and into the small back parlor.
And stopped.
This wasn’t unchanged. The dull and rather dark paneled room now blazed with red lights—or rather, lamps with red glass chimneys. In this lurid glow, naked women posed on tables, obscenely.
Not entirely naked. They wore veiling, but every detail of their bodies was clear. With their slim hips and tiny breasts, they looked like children.
Men pawed at them, touching them in unthinkable places, and the girls only laughed. They had protectors—dwarves and hunchbacks dressed in black with horns on their heads. Imps from hell, she supposed. They didn’t protect them from much.
She turned to St. Raven and murmured, “Are they so young?”
“No, whores who can look young.”
“But why?”
He pulled her on. “Some men have strange tastes. Remember our purpose. I can’t see any statuettes here.”
The statuettes! The lurid light made it hard to be sure, but they certainly weren’t on display. She let him lead her away, despite a lingering feeling that she should do something about those posing girls.
The dining room was a relief. It looked almost normal. The lighting was simply from candles, and refreshments were laid out in a conventional manner.
In fact, it looked much the same as when she and her parents had dined here, sometimes with guests. Giggles threatened at the thought of the neighboring Ponsonbys, or the vicar and his wife at this feast.
She looked around the guests. Tight and revealing seemed popular. The fight must be over, because the woman in black was here—Violet something?—her dress clinging to every curve and torn open to expose her small, pointy breasts.
She was . . . flirting?—which did not seem to be the right word—with a pirate in thigh-boots, breeches, and a shirt open to his waist. Those breeches might as well have been painted on. A large bulge was unignorable, and Cressida knew what it was. She’d seen classical statues.
The woman in red was here, too, though on the other side of the room, breasts still exposed and marked by scratches. It didn’t seem to bother her. She was laughing as Henry VIII—Pugh?—fed her some sort of long pastry.
Cressida placed him. He attended some society events. Lord Pugh, fat, florid, and loud, but she’d never have guessed him debauched. She thought he was married.
She’d foolishly assumed these entertainments were for bachelors, but clearly not. St. Raven was a bachelor, but she didn’t suppose he’d change when he married Lady Anne, which made a mockery of that lovely moment in the theater.
And he recognized harlots by name.
She looked again at Pugh, and the harlot called Miranda, and couldn’t help but notice that as the woman slowly ate the pastry, her hand played around that strange article of fashion called a codpiece.
She’d always thought it peculiarly indecent. Even kings, such as Henry VIII, had worn it. She wondered what ladies had done in such times. They could hardly have pretended not to notice.
Then Cressida’s mind made a connection between the long scarlet protuberance at the front of Lord Pugh’s puff breeches and the long pastry he was feeding to the woman. . . .
After a moment she tore her gaze away—and found St. Raven watching her, darkly inscrutable. He picked up something from the table and offered it to her. Something long and cylindrical.
“No, thank you.” She hoped the words sounded like icicles.
“It’s only a half cucumber filled with—” He scooped some of the pink stuff up with his finger and tasted it, sucked it. “—potted shrimp.”
