Chapter 1
Just outside London, England
Mid-January 1760
‘Fais ce que tu voudras.’
That was the inscription scrawled in stained glass above the entranceway of the former Medmenham Abbey. Latin in origin, its meaning was—Do What Thou Wilt.
And how appropriate it was.
No other quote could sufficiently express the infamous nature of the Hellfire Club, or its members’ carnal lust for flesh and debauchery. Davien Elswood, the current Duke of Blackburn, hailed as such from a long and revered familial line, had intimate knowledge of these ceremonial gatherings, for he had condemned himself to be a part of their rites—a mere beast destined to partake of the depravity laid out for him like a sacrificial offering. The whole procedure sickened him—from the orgies, to the pagan rituals, right down to the white silk robe that every Brother was made to wear—all but the Abbott, who was cloaked in red.
Davien wandered over to one of the tower’s dark windows to find a moment’s reprieve from that evening’s entertainment, where their latest female appointed was tied down naked to a crude, wooden table and feasted on in a variety of ways. A loud guffaw sounded, followed by a deep-throated moan, but Davien’s black, fathomless eyes stared unflinchingly at the icy rain pelting the glass; the deep recesses of the River Thames beyond. The occupants of the two-story, stone edifice remained warm, ensconced inside its wicked walls, as a sudden blast of freezing wind caused the bare trees outside to sway precariously.
Perhaps it was Davien’s imagination taking flight, but this winter storm seemed particularly ruthless. But not even the fury Mother Nature unleashed could compare to Davien’s own, stark mood. So many times, since his return to England six months ago, had he stood in this very spot and desired to be anywhere else but here, living this life of vice and sin.
So why stay?
He narrowed his obsidian glare, clenching his jaw until it ached, for he knew that answer. He was already intended for purgatory, and this place was simply another stepping stone on the road to his descent into hell. Twenty years ago, he had begun that gradual slide into utter darkness never knowing that one, fateful evening would seal his fate.
Davien flexed his hand, and resisted the urge to run it through his thick, black hair, free of an adorning wig or powder, as so many of his comrades preferred.
How many times had he sworn not to go down this same path, yet still he submitted himself to the horror again and again? At seven and thirty, he’d lived with these tortured memories for years, the experience of that dark night turning him into an empty void. After years of searching for answers, he’d finally returned to England and his estate in the hopes of finding some semblance of peace until the blessed moment death came to claim him.
That’s when Sir Frances Dashwood had approached him with a proposition . . .
Davien sensed the hand on his shoulder before the other man actually touched him. He instantly spun around and grabbed the intruder in his tight grasp. “I’ve told you never to approach me when my back was turned,” he growled without a hint of apology.
John Wilkes raised a neutral hand. Giving a shaky laugh, the action betraying his easy manner and pale face, he said, “No harm done. I was merely sent to tell you that you have been specifically requested by one of the women.” After giving Davien a quick once-over, he murmured a bit more boldly, “By the looks of you, I would suggest more than one.”
Instead of taking the fellow Brother up on the offer, Davien released him, and then spun on his heel. “Another time, perhaps. Give Dashwood my regards."
John was left to gape at Davien’s retreating form as he exited the tower and made his way down the winding, spiral staircase. When he threw the door open and began walking across the sodden earth, feeling the sting of the rain upon his face, he felt that he could finally breathe. But while some of the tension had eased somewhat, it wasn’t enough. It was never enough. He was helpless to escape from what was always there, the darkness that always lurked, and that would follow him until the end of time. He’d traveled to the ends of the earth and back in search of the light, but it was always just out of his grasp.
Davien climbed into his coach. He issued a curt order to his driver before they sped off into the night.
~ ~ ~
Dashwood looked out the same colored window that Davien had left so abruptly. Flanking him were two more officers of the Order of the Friars. They silently watched Davien’s departure with concern.
“I’m beginning to worry about Blackburn,” one man observed. “His attentiveness during the last few sessions has been declining rather considerably.”
“Indeed,” the second comrade agreed. “Should we act?”
Frances held up a silencing hand, his gaze shrewd and calculating. “Not at this time, although I believe he should be watched carefully. We wouldn’t want the Order to be disrupted.”
The other two men bowed their heads. “It shall be done, Your Eminence.”
