A Wild Night's Bride (The Devil DeVere #1)(6)

“A what?”

“A hammam. It’s a type of Turkish bath and a true delight to the senses. There are several now established in London, and though they do not compare with the baths of the east, one is served by the loveliest and most accommodating attendants. I must take you to one. But not tonight. Tonight, we rest, for tomorrow I have something altogether special in mind.” He regarded Ned with an iniquitous gleam.

“And what might that be?” Ned felt a hint of trepidation.

“In due time, my friend.” DeVere’s lips curved wickedly. “All in due time.”

Though spoken innocuously enough, DeVere’s evasive response left him with a peculiar sense of foreboding.

***

His host’s claim regarding his table was no boast due to the exceptional quality of his wine cellar and the efforts of the first-class chef he’d procured through the Duke of Bedford’s lost racing wager. After multiple courses of salads, jellies, beef, fish, game, and fowl, the two men waved away the cheese and pastry trays to settle down to port. DeVere sprawled in his chair, a glass dangling carelessly in his hand and looking like Dionysus himself as he considered his guest.

“I’ve wondered about you, dear Ned, about what it would take to crack that boorishly respectable veneer you’ve honed since leaving my sphere of influence. Indeed, I’m vowed to become your savior, to save you...from yourself.” He took a long drink and commanded his footman with a mere flick of a finger to refill their glasses.

Although Ned himself was no stranger to drink—no self-respecting country gentleman was—his mind and body were already abuzz with a pleasant languor. He picked up his port, eyeing it appreciatively before draining the glass and remarking with a lazy smile. “Not every man is a voluptuary like you, DeVere. I happen to enjoy quiet country living and rustic pursuits—hunting, fishing, tending my estate. Simple taste does not equate to a deficiency in or of life. One man’s potion is, indeed, another man’s poison and all that.” He emphasized his point with a clumsy wave of his hand.

DeVere eyed him pointedly. “Very well then; as a purveyor of such poison, I must needs ask, if you are so blissful in your reclusive rustication, why have you really come to London?”

“I’ve told you, Ludovic, to find a house for the season.”

“You could have easily hired an agent for the task,” DeVere countered with a shrewd smile. “No, my friend, I fear you deny the truth. You were bored to distraction and came to town in desperate need of diversion. You sought me out knowing I’m precisely the man to answer that need.” DeVere reached into his breast pocket and retrieved an elegantly scribed gold-foil invitation, handing it to Ned.

Mrs. Charlotte Hayes presents her most respectful compliments to the Viscount Ludovic DeVere and humbly requests his presence at her establishment at King’s Place tomorrow evening for the Otahetian Feast of Venus where under the tuition of Queen Oberea…in which character Mrs. Hayes herself will appear…a dozen exquisitely beautiful and untainted nymphs who breathe health and vitality will perform the celebrated fertility rites as practiced at the exotic Isles of the Antipodes. This most exclusive subscription-only event is offered for the modest sum of two hundred pounds to the first four and twenty guests who respond. RSVP is most humbly requested.

Ned looked up with a puzzled frown. “Feast of Venus? Queen Oberea? Fertility rites? What devilish manner of theatrics is this?”

Ludovic chuckled. “Apparently, our delightful Mrs. Hayes’ nose was put out by the success of the Grand Bal d’Amour hosted by her fellow abbess, Mrs. Pendergrast, last month. What a deliciously salacious masquerade that was with the toasts of the demimonde appearing in puris naturalibis. Ladies—and I use that word loosely—Henrietta Grosvenor and Margaret Lucan appeared as Mothers of Eve with their faces rather than their nether parts concealed by fig leaves. Damn, but it was a night, Ned! Now, not to be outdone, it appears our revered mother Hayes is inspired by Captain Cook’s latest voyage to the South Pacific.”

“I give the woman credit for creativity.” Ned laughed. “Have you read John Hawkesworth’s account of the voyage?”

Ludovic’s brows lifted ever so slightly. “Come now, Ned, do I truly look like a man who entertains himself with books?”

Ned raised a hand in mock apology. “My mistake. Though surely, you are acquainted with the lewd poetry inspired by the sojourn in the Antipodes.”

“Indeed, I am, as well the amazingly detailed account of the fertility rites that Mrs. Hayes is so eager to reenact. By the by, Ned, before you can make your excuses, you should know I have already responded that I will be accompanied by a dear friend in particular need of entertainment.”

“You didn’t.”

“Indeed, I did. The gracious madam Hayes kindly replied that for the right price, one might even procure said unsullied nymphs for a private engagement following the entertainment.” Ludovic’s eyes held a diabolical gleam. “As I said, my friend, London offers unique delights to those who seek them, and amusement of a unique and titillating kind is precisely what I intend to provide.”





CHAPTER THREE




A private house on Drury Lane




Phoebe awoke shivering, the damp morning chill penetrating her very bones. For the first time in recent memory, she missed the two younger sisters with whom she’d used to share a bed. Though crowded, their combined body heat meant they had rarely suffered the cold as she did on this morning. A brief pang of longing for her old life added to her discomfort. She cast a disparaging eye to the brazier, realizing her meager coal ration had burned out hours ago in the tiny garret chamber, but she durst not ask Mrs. Andrews for more. She had imposed enough on the woman’s kindness, and now they were both unemployed.