He gave her a disgruntled look. “I told you that you could trust me.”
“I do,” she said earnestly. “And I want you to trust me too.”
“For God’s sake, this isn’t about trust. This is about keeping you safe.”
“Don’t worry, I came prepared.” Reaching into her skirts, she pulled out her trusty pearl-handled pistol. “You know I won’t hesitate to use this if necessary.”
“You’re going to be the death of me.” He sounded aggrieved.
She tried her hand at flirtation to patch things up. “I promise to make up for it when we get home tonight.”
Despite his obvious frustration, his gaze heated. “Are you trying to sweeten me up?”
“I’m trying to show my appreciation.”
“That you’ll be doing when we get home this eve. In a manner of my choosing.”
The dominance in his tone caused her to shiver. When it came to sexual matters, she enjoyed surrendering to him. It was the one area of their relationship where she would gladly let him take charge.
“Whatever you want, Wick,” she said demurely.
His nostrils flared, but he said no more. Instead, he donned his mask and domino as the carriage came to its second stop that evening. He helped her down, nodding to the pair of guards perched on the carriage. Dressed in footmen’s livery, they were to keep watch outside, on the alert for any suspicious activity.
As Bea ascended the steps to the large, elegant mansion at the end of a leafy cul-de-sac, the pedimented windows discreetly shaded, she was reminded of the first time she and Wick met. Then, as now, they were both wearing costumes and masks to conceal their identity.
This time, it wasn’t pleasure they were after but a deadly villain.
Wick rang the bell, and the painted black door opened.
“Good evening. May I help you?” the butler asked courteously.
Nothing in the servant’s tone or demeanor betrayed that this was anything but a regular residence. Bea heard only faint sounds from within, muffled and indistinct, nowhere near the volume of what one would expect of a masquerade. Had Stuart Yard given them the wrong address?
Wick took out the watch. “I was hoping you could tell me if my watch had the correct time.”
“Gladly, sir.” Taking the proffered timepiece, the butler opened the cover and examined the face. “Everything appears to be in order. Would you and your guest care to step inside?”
Following Wick into the antechamber, Bea saw that it was walled off from the rest of the house, a pair of burly guards standing by yet another door. With growing excitement, she saw that this one was made of thick metal, like the door to a bank vault.
“Password, sir?” one of the guards said.
“Staff of Dionysus,” Wick replied easily.
The guards exchanged a glance, then one of them removed a golden key on a chain, inserting it into the door. A sharp click followed, and the partition opened to reveal a flickering corridor.
“Enjoy your evening.” The guard waved them through and shut the door, sealing them inside.
Her eyes adjusting to the dimness, Beatrice saw that the corridor sloped downward, in a spiral that prevented one from seeing beyond the next corner. Wall-mounted sconces cast eerie shadows.
“Shall we?” Wick’s eyebrows lifted above his demi-mask.
The passageway was narrow, requiring that they walk single file. Wick led the way, and she shivered at the crypt-like feeling of the place, the low ceiling and barren stone walls seeming to close in with each descending step. They soon arrived at another guarded door.
The watchman bowed. “Have an enjoyable evening.”
As he opened the door, sounds blasted through. Voices, laughter…and animalistic noises. A mélange of scents assailed Bea’s nose: perfume, spirits, and the musky scent of sex. She felt a quivery sensation low in her belly.
Wick took her gloved hand, her black skirts whispering as she crossed the threshold. She was glad for her mask then for it hid not only her face but her expression of shock. After attending that other masquerade, she thought that she’d seen the full spectrum of debauchery and that nothing could astonish her.
