Lord of Fire (6 page)

When he had gone,
Alice took a turn around the room, exploring its shadowy regions.
What a curious place!
she mused. Her weariness from the day’s travel fell away in youthful curiosity. Furtively padding over to the great wardrobe, she undid the latch with a careful twist. The wooden door creaked loudly in the stillness when she pulled it open. Peeking inside, she found a single piece of clothing hung there. Unsure what it was, she reached out and touched the coarse brown wool, puzzling over it; then curiosity got the best of her. She pulled the shapeless garment out and held it up before the fire, examining it.

It was a domino, a robe like a monk or medieval friar would have worn, only quite new and clean. It had wide voluminous sleeves and a large hood that hung down the back. A length of cording cinched the waist. She suddenly heard a burst of laughter as a few people passed in the hallway beyond her door.
Aha, not
all
the guests had vanished,
she thought. Hearing the voices pass by, she hurried over to the door, opened it a crack, and peered out. Several figures wearing long, hooded robes like the one in the wardrobe glided by. When they had disappeared down the dim hallway, she closed the door again silently, gnawing her lip in thought.
So, that’s what the robe is for.
Apparently, Lord Lucien’s soiree was some kind of costume ball. It was late October, after all, and nearly Hallowe’en. A bit of a sulk passed over her face to think that, as usual, she had to miss out while Caro got to have all the fun.

With a huff at the unfairness of it, she changed out of her carriage dress and slipped on her comfortable morning gown from earlier. Then she took down her hair and brushed it out. The maid soon came with her supper tray, and Alice sat down to a feast of almond soup and warm bread, a fillet of beef with mushrooms, and an apricot pudding for dessert, the lot washed down with an excellent glass of burgundy. Later she reclined lazily on the massive bed and dozed, her long hair strewn around her, a cozy warmth in her body from the wine. She rested her head back on her arm, gazing into the flickering hearth fire, waiting with growing impatience for Mr. Godfrey to bring Caro to her.

She was beginning to worry. Maybe the butler had forgotten about her request or had chosen to ignore it.
Alice knew her sister-in-law. If Caro was at a costume ball, she would drink too much and have too sore a head to leave tomorrow morning at the crack of dawn, as they must if they were to make it back to Hampshire by nightfall, as promised. Well, she thought, pushing up to a seated position with a determined look, if Lord Lucien’s servants were not going to fetch Caro for her, she would simply go to the masque and collect the baroness herself. Clad in an unadorned morning gown, with her hair flowing freely over her shoulders, she knew she was not dressed for any sort of gathering, but the domino would hide that fact. Besides, she would only go for a few minutes, she reasoned, just long enough to find Caro.

Moments later, she slipped out of her room, her blue eyes glowing from the shadowy depths of the hooded brown robe. In perfect anonymity, she stole silently down the hallway in the direction the other guests had gone, her heart pounding with the fun of her adventure, leavened a bit by the wine. She wished her friend, Kitty Patterson, were with her, for they would have laughed like errant schoolgirls every step of the way, and truthfully, the mazelike house was rather eerie.

Venturing on alone, she explored the web of dim corridors, making several wrong turns before she found the second, smaller staircase that Mr. Godfrey had led her up earlier. She went down the steps and peered into several hallways until she spied the grand staircase of dark-colored oak, where the marquess’s painting hung over the landing. He seemed to wink at her in sly complicity as she crept down the staircase, biting her lip to hold back a nervous giggle. She couldn’t believe she was doing this.
I’m never going to find my way back.
In the entrance hall at the bottom of the stairs, a footman in maroon-and-buff livery looked at her attentively. She withdrew deeper into the voluminous hood, shielding her face.

“The Grotto, ma’am?” he asked politely, failing to recognize her.

She nodded. He pointed a white-gloved finger toward the hallway on the left. Spying Mr. Godfrey chastising one of the servants in the adjoining salon, she hurried on before her escape from her room was discovered. Another footman waited at the end of the next hallway and again pointed the way. The third footman she came to opened a modest-looking wooden door for her and gestured to the darkness within.

“This way, ma’am.”

Nervously,
Alice approached the pitch-black vault. She looked at the footman in doubt. Surely he was jesting, but his obliging smile did not waver.
Alice peered in.

Beyond the door, a narrow staircase led down into what she surmised were the wine cellars beneath

Instantly, the dank chill in the air licked at her skin like the clammy kiss of a frog prince. Holding onto the banister,
Alice descended into the ebony gloom. She had only gone down a few steps when she became aware of a constant, soughing whisper like soft breathing; the sound was familiar, but she could not distinguish it. By the time she reached the packed-earth floor of the cellar, there was no sign of the laughing people she had heard, only another obliging footman in livery posted beside the yawning mouth of a cave. He bowed to her and swept a gesture toward the cave’s mouth.

She paused with prickling chills running down her spine. Just what kind of man had her sister-in-law become involved with? she wondered in growing uneasiness. Caro had described Lucien Knight as a worldly, sophisticated, dangerously cunning
chargé d’affaires
of the Foreign Office who spoke six or seven languages, but what sort of man kept armed guards posted around his house, required a password at his gates, and held a party in an underground cave? She knew she should turn back, yet the soft, whispering sound drew her onward. Her heart pounding, she slowly walked into the cave.

Torches jutted from the walls, illuminating the glistening stalactites here and there like great dragon’s teeth. As she ventured deeper into the cave, the mysterious sound grew louder; then she smelled the bracing scent of freshwater and suddenly realized what it was—an underground river. She had seen the cascade flowing out of the rock when her carriage had crossed the little wooden bridge. Her guess was confirmed when she rounded a bend in the tunnel and came to the river itself. At last, she saw people. Here the footmen were assisting the robed guests into fanciful gondolas. On the bow of each playfully shaped boat, a torch burned, reflecting the glossy onyx surface of the subterranean river. One of the servants beckoned
Alice over.

“Hurry, please, madam. We can fit you aboard this one,” he called briskly.

Alice
hesitated, her heart pounding wildly. If she got on that gondola, she knew she might not get another chance to back out—but then the people in the boat began yelling at her, as rowdy and impatient as they had been on the road.

“Hurry up!”

“Are you daft, woman?”

“Don’t just stand there. We’re already late!”

Simple, obstinate pride barred her from fleeing like a coward in front of so many people. Not daring to think what her dear brother would have had to say about this, she hurried forward and accepted the servant’s hand, climbing aboard the gondola. After she had taken a seat, the boatman shoved off with his pole, slowly ferrying the passengers deeper into the limestone caves. She tucked her slippered feet under her and folded her hands primly in her lap.

“Now we’re going to be even later,” someone grumbled in the seat behind her.

Alice
glanced anxiously over her shoulder. She was beginning to feel jumpy and scared, but it was too late now.

“Don’t mind them,” the portly drunkard seated next to her slurred. Short and balding, he looked like Friar Tuck from the Robin Hood tales, his sloppy brown robe pulled taut over his potbelly. “We’ve probably missed the service, but personally, I only come for the party.”

Service? she wondered, eyeing him in trepidation.

He smiled at her, his eyelids sagging with intoxication. “What about you?” he prodded. “Lady of pleasure or a true believer?”

Alice
just looked at him warily, edging away from him in her seat while the gondola glided gracefully through the ink-black water. She did not talk to strangers, especially leering, drunken males. Besides, she had no wish to reveal the fact that she had no idea what he was talking about.

He studied her with a shrewd sparkle in his small, brown eyes. “You can call me Orpheus.”

He spoke with the hard
r
’s and exaggerated vowels of an American, which seemed odd, since
England and
America were at war. The newspapers had reported that British ships were still blockading the bay at
New Orleans, just as they had off and on since 1812. Just then, the fluttering of some bats above distracted her. She quickly looked up and wrapped her arms around herself with a grimace, only to realize she should have been more worried about Orpheus, who sidled ever closer to her with a slight, lewd grin.

“You’re new, aren’t you? Shy little thing. Young, too,” he whispered, laying his hand on her thigh.

The violence with which she recoiled from him rocked the boat. “Sir!”

Orpheus withdrew his hand, laughing at her. “Never fear, little one, I know the rules. Draco gets first crack at you.” He pulled a flask out of the inside of his robe and uncorked it. “To Draco, Argus, Prospero—Master of Illusion and Lord of Lies,” he said cynically. “No doubt he will enjoy you.”

Alice
stared at the man in shock. “Who?” she blurted out.

“Why, Lucifer, my dear. Who else?”

She gulped. Her heart was pounding hard and fast as the ferryman brought them drifting to a halt on a gently sloped landing. It seemed highly imprudent to get out of the boat, yet her fellow passengers were disembarking in high spirits. They tumbled out of the gondola and trekked merrily up the shallow steps carved into the limestone toward a low, rounded door.

“Come, come, little one. Don’t dawdle!” Orpheus grabbed her wrist and tugged her along with them.

She winced in distaste when she saw the carving that adorned the arched door—the jolly, gnomelike figure of Priapus, the Celtic fertility god, who wore nothing but a wide grin and a ludicrously outsized erection. Priapus was depicted with his finger laid over his lips, as though binding to secrecy all those who entered this door.

“He rather looks like me, don’t you think?” Orpheus asked with a chuckle; then a man ahead of them hauled the door open.

At once, a rush of sound, music, and the low roar of many voices poured out from the subterranean cavern beyond, engulfing them. The music startled her, part plainchant, part war drums, punctuated by the shimmering clash of cymbals and the deep, buzzing drone of exotic Turkish instruments. The smell of frankincense wafted out from the soupy blackness beyond the open door.

“Come on, blue eyes,” Orpheus said jovially.

Alice
knew it was a foolish idea to follow him into that darkness. She sensed danger here, but knowing that her sister-in-law was somewhere in that darkness, she
had
to go. Whatever Caro had gotten herself into,
Alice knew it was up to her, as usual, to get her out of it. Keeping her face well shadowed in the depths of her hood, she held tightly to her courage and followed the portly American through the arched door.

What
Alice saw inside froze her motionless. She could only stare—stricken, amazed. It was a moment she would remember for the rest of her life, clipping her history neatly in two: her naive existence before