Pearce glanced out the carriage window at the dark city. “Where exactly are we going?”
“To a special club meeting. That’s all I can tell you for now,” Howard answered, pleased at the idea of mystery.
But Pearce wasn’t pleased at all with the secrecy. The only consolation he had was that Merritt and his men were following behind, unseen in the darkness. In case anything went wrong.
“There are no clubs in this area.” Not here. They’d long ago left those behind in the west, but they hadn’t yet reached the Tower Hamlets, where less exclusive entertainments dominated. They were currently rolling through Walbrook, where the streets were unlit, the old buildings shuttered for the night, and no one was out in the cold drizzle.
“Not the usual clubs, no.” Howard tugged at his white gloves. Just like Pearce, he was dressed in all white beneath his overcoat. “But this one is very private and incredibly exclusive.”
“So is Brooks’s,” Pearce grumbled, “but I don’t have to dress up like a ghost and prowl Cheapside in the dead of night to attend it.”
“Far better than Brooks’s. None of that St James’s Street pretense. At this club, we take our traditions very seriously.”
Hence the white clothes, Pearce was certain.
“But we also do whatever we like.” He chuckled in private amusement. “It’s our motto, you might say. I’ll introduce you to the other men in the trust, of course. But I think you’ll also have a good time tonight, if you let yourself.”
Howard rapped his cane against the ceiling to signal to the jarvey to stop.
“You’ll like our little club, Sandhurst, I’m certain.” He bounded down to the street and tossed up a coin to the driver, leaving Pearce to climb out more cautiously. “You might want to consider joining.”
Oh, he seriously doubted that. Especially when the hackney drove away, leaving them standing in the middle of a deserted street framed by buildings that had seen better days a hundred years ago but now lay derelict, dark, and silent.
“This way.” Howard gestured toward the end of the street, in the direction of an abandoned church. He led Pearce through the rusty gate of the churchyard, down an overgrown path, and to the front door of the old stone building.
Pearce glanced around. No one else was in sight. An uneasy tingle started down his spine. “Where are we?”
“At the entrance to hell.” With a grin, Howard pounded his fist against the door.
The heavy wooden door swung open with a spine-jarring creak, and a wave of cold, musty air engulfed them. A man in a friar’s robe with the hood drawn low over his face stepped into the doorway and silently held up a hand, barring their way.
“The pale breast of Venus,” Howard gave the password quietly, and the monk stepped aside. As they passed into the church, the monk gestured with his hand in mock blessing—an inversion of the sign of the cross.
“What the hell is this place?” Pearce demanded as he followed Howard through the abandoned church, which was lit only by a handful of offering candles at the altar.
“You know of the old Hellfire clubs that were popular fifty years ago?” Howard led him to the entrance of the crypt and down its spiral stone steps. “This is our version. Just as secret, just as exclusive, but a deuce of a lot more fun.” He selected two of the white monks’ robes lying over a nearby tomb and handed one to Pearce. “Put this on, along with that white cap I sent you.” Howard shucked off his greatcoat and beaver hat and tossed them onto the next tomb. “We’re like Almack’s, you know.”
Pearce arched a brow.
“We have a strict dress code. None of the brothers can go any farther without proper attire.”
Apparently, they also possessed a flair for the theatrical.
But his curiosity was piqued. Donning the robe and cap, he followed Howard through the crypt which most likely hadn’t seen a burial since the reign of the Stuarts. A second hooded monk guarded a narrow and short stone doorway tucked away, nearly unnoticed, at the rear of the crypt. They descended down another steep set of stone steps. When they reached the bottom, their way was blocked by a wooden door and a sign overhead that marked their arrival.
Pearce read the French inscription, “Fais ce que tu voudras?”
“Do what thou wilt.” Howard grinned and shoved open the door.
Muted lantern light filled the old Roman ruins, along with smoke and the pungent odor of incense. The noise of loud conversation and laughter echoed off the stone, until the sounds swirled around them and Pearce couldn’t tell where they were coming from. Gentlemen wearing the required white robes and caps sat on the original stone benches lining the walls, while others lay draped across Arabian-style silk mattresses scattered across the floor, all of them holding golden wine goblets. Middle Eastern music drifted through the ruins, so did feminine laughter and cries of surprise.
He followed Howard deeper into the complex, and a series of Roman chambers the size of drawing rooms unfolded, one after the other, long ago buried and forgotten as London grew above them. All of the chambers were freshly decorated with mythological figures and phallic symbols, including mosaics and paintings of men reveling in drunken debauchery. Antechambers led off the main passageway that weren’t lit by lamps, although Pearce could tell by the rustle of movement in the dark shadows that each was busily occupied.
Do what thou wilt, indeed…although based on what he saw in the rooms as they passed through, most of the fifty or so men gathered in the old Roman complex couldn’t have cared less for the privacy of an antechamber. Drink of all kinds was provided in an endless supply by half a dozen hooded monks, distinguished from the members by their brown robes. Exotic hookah pipes mixed the sweet scent of tobacco with the stronger odor of American cigars, and veil-clad belly dancers moved seductively to the cheers of men gathered at their feet. Prostitutes draped themselves over the laps of the seated men, wearing open green robes over flimsy, translucent gowns that hide very little of the dusky nipples and feminine curls beneath.
“The brothers share the nuns,” Howard informed him when a woman slinked past, blatantly running her gaze over Pearce and lifting her finger to her red lips to suck suggestively.
“Nuns…is that what you call them?” Pearce muttered.
“What man wouldn’t want to worship at that altar?” Howard grinned and turned around as he continued to stare at the woman, walking a few feet backward to let his gaze linger on her as long as possible. “If you see a nun you fancy, she’s yours. Find an empty alcove and enjoy yourself. The same with any of the drink or food. You’re our guest tonight. Make yourself at home.”
He had no intention of doing that.
“It’s all just a grand lark,” Howard explained as he led Pearce through the chambers. “The church, all the religious nods, the pagan nonsense… The idea came from the old church, actually. The Duke of Raleigh owns this chunk of London, and it was a great-great-grandfather or so who donated use of the land to the Church. Raleigh took it back when the Church forfeited it into disuse. But it’s put him in a pinch because he can’t tear it down or build on it—it’s sacred ground with a churchyard. His son is a member of the club, so he lets us meet here.”
“Convenient.” As they passed the opening to a dark tunnel, Pearce gestured at it. No door blocked it—or hooded monk guarded it—and no lamps lit its darkness. “What’s that?”
“The gateway to the River Styx.” When Pearce arched a brow, Howard grinned. “Come on. I’ll show you.”
He snatched up one of the torches hanging on the wall and led Pearce down the rough-hewn passage that sloped away from the other chambers. Soon, they were surrounded by musty darkness, with water droplets falling down the narrowing walls, and the distant music from above was drowned out by the sound of running water.
They reached the end of the passageway and found a small wooden door that opened easily with a push. The two men stepped through onto a wide stone ledge above a narrow but fast-running underground river. Discarded pagan decorations from the chambers above lay on the ledge, including a large stone Egyptian sarcophagus.
Pearce glanced around, taking in the roof that must have dated from the 1400s, based on the uneven size of the bricks and the slapdash use of heavy mortar. Stinking black water spilled past, just below his boots. Everything was covered with a thin layer of mildew and slime.
“The old lost Walbrook,” Howard told him, gesturing toward the river. “The club’s chambers used to be part of an old Roman bastion in the city wall. The story is that diggers found the ruins when they attempted to expand the crypt of All Souls-on-the-Wall about thirty years ago. The church was closed before work on the new crypt could begin, but the workers had already opened up the Roman ruins and dug this tunnel, thinking they could undermine the old wall, only to run smack into the river. We don’t use this part of the complex.”
“Because of the stench?”
“Because of the rats.” On that self-reminder, he waved the torchlight around at their feet. “But we occasionally use the sarcophagus for parties. The lid comes off. Makes for a fine tantalus in a pinch.”
Howard guided him back out of the tunnel, carefully closing the wooden door against the stench—and the rats.
With each step back toward the chambers, Pearce became more convinced that while the Hellfire club had ties to Scepter, it wasn’t part of the organization itself. No one present tonight seemed to take the club seriously enough, and too much debauchery was going on for a criminal group that existed under a veil of secrecy. Too much opportunity to be blackmailed for illicit behavior.
But he would take any opportunity that presented itself to get closer to Scepter’s leaders. Including being here.
When they arrived back at the club’s chambers, more men in white robes had arrived, and the smoke was even thicker.
Howard led him to the last room. “Welcome to the Inner Temple.”
Pearce gazed at the large, natural cavern around them. Lanterns blazed brightly to reveal more pagan scenes decorating the walls and floor. A raised dais sat at the far end, holding up a Greek altar stone and behind it a wooden throne.
“What do you think of our little club, Sandhurst?” Howard proudly slapped him on the back. “A bit theatrical, I’ll grant you, but it’s all in good fun.”
One of the nuns picked that moment to let out a high-pitched scream. Howard ignored it.
“The only rule involves secrecy. No one is allowed to divulge to the outside world what goes on here or who makes up the membership.”
Madame Noir’s words came back to Pearce, about how Howard liked to share too much. “And the punishment if he does?”
His grin faded. “The end.”
“Of his membership?”
“Of him.” The hard look Howard shot him proved how serious he was. “The brothers voted to allow you the privilege of a visit tonight, which means they trust you to keep our confidence about what you witness here, just as we’ll keep our confidences about whatever pleasures you decide to take.”
Pearce didn’t believe that for a second.
“But don’t cross us,” Howard warned. “You’ll regret it.”
One of the hooded monks stepped onto the dais, lifted a large ox horn to his mouth, and blew. The horn blast carried through the subterranean complex and echoed off the walls. Pearce felt the rising tension of excitement as the music and laughter stopped and all conversation ceased. The men filed into the Inner Temple, flipping up their hoods as they entered and pulling them down over their faces. With a nudge from Howard, Pearce did the same, and soon they were indistinguishable from the crowd.
A man wearing a red robe, his hood drawn low, entered the cavern. The crowd parted to clear a path for him, and with his hands pressed together in a symbol of prayer, he went forward to the dais.
Howard leaned in to whisper, “The abbot.”
The man in red held out his arms. “Brothers, you are welcome to the Temple of Bacchus.”
“Thanks be to Bacchus,” the crowd of men answered in unison.
“This is nonsense,” Pearce half growled beneath his breath as the group recited a pledge of allegiance to their club and its pagan gods. “I’m here to meet the other trustees, not to play at fancy dress.”
“The ceremony will be over soon,” Howard assured him as the brothers continued their call and answer, led by the abbot. “Then we’ll have dinner, and I’ll introduce you to the others.”
“Are you sure they’re here?” Pearce could barely make out any faces in the dim shadows and smoke cast up by the lamps, cigars, and incense. Seeing was made harder by the sea of matching white hoods covering so low over everyone’s faces that all he could see was a series of chins and a scattering of beards.
“Oh, Bacchus,” the abbot called out, “accept our sacrifice!”
As a shout went up from the group, the abbot pushed down his hood.
Pearce’s heart skipped. Arthur Varnham. Sir Charles Varnham’s younger brother.
“Now let us take our feast!”
Another cheer went up, so loud that it echoed deafeningly off the stone walls. Arthur Varnham jumped from the dais and charged through the group as they parted around him, and the brothers all followed after into the connecting banqueting hall, where tables had already been laid out for a grand dinner. Two tables laden heavily with platters of food flanked a center table that was covered with a sheet. Varnham approached the table and passed his hands over it in a mock blessing.
“Enjoy this most holy of holy days, this Feast of Venus!”
He whisked the sheet away.
A blond woman lay across the table, naked except for the bunches of fruit covering her large breasts and spilling down between her thighs. A cherry rested provocatively in her navel.
Varnham folded his hands behind his back and leaned down to pick up the cherry with his teeth.
Beside Pearce, Howard stiffened, his jaw tightening as he watched Varnham eat the cherry, then lean down again to swirl his tongue into her navel to lick up the drops of juice left behind.
“Come now, brothers!” Varnham gestured at the feast laid out before them and the woman spread out like an erotic buffet, and Howard’s narrowed gaze bore into the man. “Partake of the feast and satiate all of your hungers.”
The men rushed forward to fill their plates. But Howard remained where he was, still staring at Varnham as the man plucked a grape from the bunch covering the woman’s left breast, put it between his lips, and leaned down to decadently feed her, helping himself to a devouring, openmouthed kiss. She laughed.
Recognition snapped into Pearce’s head. He knew that woman. He’d seen her at Le Château Noir. The brothers share the nuns… He knew then how the blackmailer had gained information against Howard.
Amelia had been chasing after the wrong Varnham.