He obeyed, his hands clumsy with eagerness as he bared his strong, leathery body. Then he crouched on his hands and knees. She laid the whip across his spine with furious strength. He gasped and raised his head to stare at her, pupils dark.
She had gone too far, too soon. This was the most difficult part, holding back while she slowly raised the level of pain. If she proceeded too quickly, she would lose him, and a great deal more.
She cracked the whip again, more gently, and he relaxed with a rasping moan of pleasure. As carefully as an artist painting a portrait, she began flicking the lash all over his body, monitoring his degree of arousal with hawklike intensity.
She also cursed him, calling him every filthy name she knew, telling him what an utterly loathsome creature he was. Her diatribe added fuel to the flame of his excitement.
When the soft whip reached the limit of its effectiveness, she exchanged it for one with a harder thong that raised blood at every blow. He began to writhe under the rhythm of her whip, welcoming strokes that would have been too painful earlier. Finally, she was free to strike with the full viciousness of her rage. She slashed him again and again, violence possessing her until she was scarcely human. His mewling cries became louder and louder, filling the room until his sweat-soaked body began shuddering with ecstasy.
Then it was over, and he lay sprawled on a sheepskin rug, his blood staining the white wool, his whole body Ump with repletion. "You are superb, mistress, " he panted. "Superb."
Choked with self-loathing, she spun on her heel and stalked from the room.
Chapter 11
Kit awoke shivering, her body drenched with sweat. It had been the most vivid nightmare yet, and it left her feeling nauseated. She tried to make sense of the images, but without success; the nightmare was so alien to her experience that it was like trying to understand Chinese. Only the emotions were recognizable: rage and anguish so intense that they threatened to drown her.
Viola rose from the foot of the bed and strolled up the blankets with a soft meow. Kit almost cried with relief when the cat gently butted her cheek in an unmistakable request for breakfast. The normalcy of the cat's plea helped Kit counter the torrent of misery that had engulfed her.
First she relaxed, muscle by muscle, until her shivering stopped. Then she filled her mind with positive emotions-peace, love, hope-until all of the wretchedness was washed away.
When calm had been restored, she climbed from the bed and drew on a robe against the chilly morning air. Then she draped Viola over her shoulder and headed to the kitchen, telling herself determinedly that she was making progress. She had gotten through the previous night without disgracing herself, and she had had the opportunity to study one of her suspects closely enough to eliminate him. Though that was negative information, it was another small step forward.
She fed the cat, put on the kettle, and brought out a loaf of bread. Then, as she lifted a knife to cut a slice, her mind suddenly flashed an image from the nightmare.
Though the details were vague, it was clearly some kind of mechanical toy. She froze, knife poised in midair and stomach churning. She knew only one man capable of creating such a device. Dear God, don't let it be Lucien, she prayed. Please don't let it be him.
Yet if it was…
She stared blindly at the glittering edge of the blade. Even if the man she sought was the Earl of Strathmore, she would not be deterred from her goal.
Glumly Lucien eyed the piles of information he had gathered on the Hellions. It was a positive embarrassment of riches about their finances, their politics, their love affairs, their public vices, and secret virtues. Yet he knew no more after sifting through the material than he had deduced through pure intuition. Most of the Disciples had chronic financial problems. Several had direct access to government secrets, and all moved in circles where information might be gleaned from the careless words of officials. Any one of them might have taken French money.
He wasn't doing any better in his search for his mystery woman. For two days his investigator had been canvassing Soho with the sketch of Jane. Some residents and shopkeepers thought she looked familiar, but no one could put a name or address to her. Perhaps the flaw was in the sketch, but he suspected that the problem was her chameleonlike ability to look very different at different times.
On impulse he decided to put his papers away and go to dinner at his club. An amiable evening among friends might clear his fuzzy thinking.
Business and pleasure combined when Lucien found Lord Ives at his club. Though he did not suspect Ives of being the Phantom, there was always a chance that the youthful Hellion would say something interesting about other members of the group. More to the point, Lucien enjoyed the younger man's company. Anyone who could laugh at himself after being whacked in the nose with a bust improver was worth cultivating.
Over the port, Ives said, "I'll have to leave soon. I'm going to the theater tonight."
"Drury Lane?"
"No, the Marlowe, that new place on the Strand. Have you been there?"
"Not yet, though I've been meaning to attend," Lucien said with a stir of interest. "I've heard that it's giving the two royal patent theaters a run for their money."
"It's true-they're first-rate at comedy." Ives grinned. "And they have the most luscious opera dancers in London."
"You have your eye on one?"
"I've had more than my eye on her," Ives said with a touch of endearingly youthful pride. "Would you care to join me tonight? I'm not meeting Cleo until afterward, and I'll have the whole box to myself. Tonight there will be a performance of the company's most popular play. I can vouch that it's very diverting."
"I'd like that. I've always enjoyed the theater, but lately I've been too busy to attend."
The younger man began discoursing knowledgeably about the stage, past and present. Clearly the subject was a passion with him. He also mentioned that he had met Lord Nunfield through a mutual interest in the theater, and that acquaintanceship had led Ives to the Hellions.
As they finished their port, Lucien remarked, "The theater is a special place, and its people are a special breed."
"I admire the carefree way they live their lives," Ives said pensively as they left the club dining room. "Wouldn't it be wonderful if all females were as uninhibited as actresses?"
"I'm not sure the world is ready for that." Lucien signaled for their hats and cloaks to be brought. "When you marry, will you want your wife to be as free as an opera dancer?"
Ives gave a rueful smile. "Point taken."
Each man took his own carriage so they could leave separately later. They reunited in the box lobby of the theater and went up immediately since the performance had already begun.
Only the two theaters that held royal patents, Drury Lane and Covent Garden, were allowed to present "serious" drama. Other theaters, such as the Marlowe, skirted the law by including music and dancing so performances could be billed as concerts. Lucien and Ives took their seats as the house orchestra finished a spirited rendition of Handel's "Water Music."
After the music came the main event. According to the playbill, the title was The Gypsy Lass. It was an enjoyable bit of nonsense that started with a dashing young nobleman called Horatio being disowned by his stern father, the Duke of Omnium, after a wicked cousin made it appear that Horatio had disgraced the family name. Brokenhearted, the young man went into the wilderness, where he was saved from death by a troop of Gypsies.