Mace raised the cone to his eye and peered inside, then sucked his breath in. "Fascinating. It holds some kind of lens that breaks the world into a number of identical images?"
"Exactly." Lucien drew a second one from his pocket and looked through it. The room immediately splintered into multiple images. "I know a natural philosopher who is interested in insects. He once told me that dragonflies have faceted eyes and must see this way. It sounded intriguing, so I decided to try to reproduce the effect. A lens grinder made these lenses to my specifications, and I had them mounted. For lack of a better name, I call it a dragonfly lens."
He blinked when his casual sweep of the room brought Sally into view. A dozen pairs of lush breasts swayed before him, and a dozen slim waists. The effect was rather overpowering.
"Do you make other mechanical curiosities?" Mace asked.
Lucien lowered the dragonfly lens, reducing Sally to singularity again. "I design and build the mechanisms myself, but I have a silversmith make the exteriors."
"I do the same." Mace gave a small, secretive smile. "Over the years I have created a collection of mechanical devices that is utterly unique. Perhaps I'll show them to you some day."
When he tried to return the dragonfly lens, Lucien waved it away. "Keep it if you like. I had several made."
"Thank you." Mace regarded Lucien thoughtfully. "Would you like to attend the next time we have a ritual?"
Success. "I'd be delighted."
Mace raised the lens again and studied Sally. "A rather overblown female. The girl who is usually here is more to my taste—slimmer, less vulgar."
"That's another thing we have in common."
A man approached to talk to Mace, so Lucien relinquished his seat. Tankard in hand, he surveyed his companions. Most of the Hellions reminded him of boisterous university students, more wild than wicked. Across the room a very drunk youth unbuttoned his breeches and said brashly, "See what I have for you, Sally?"
After one bored glance, she retorted, "I've seen better." In the howls of laughter that followed, the beet-faced young man buttoned himself while the barmaid sauntered from the room.
Lucien grinned, then turned his attention to the older Hellions, who included some of London's most notorious rakes. Several were sitting together, so he joined them when Sir James Westley beckoned.
"Glad to see you, Strathmore. Wanted to say how much I enjoyed the visit to Bourne Castle." The stout baronet hiccupped, then swallowed another mouthful of punch. "Good of you to arrange it with Candover. I've seen him give set downs that would fell an elephant, but he was a very amiable host."
His neighbor was Lord Nunfield, a cousin of Mace and Roderick Harford who shared the same lanky build. In a bored drawl he said, "You're fortunate to have a friend who lives in such good hunting country, Strathmore." His mouth curled into a characteristic sneer. "I understand that you and Candover have been the closest of friends since school days."
The sexual innuendo was unmistakable. With deliberate ambiguity, Lucien said, "You know what school is like."
"Boys will be boys," agreed Harford. His gaze went to the barmaid, whose breasts bobbled delightfully as she poured punch at a nearby table. "But I think schools should have female students as well. It would make lessons much more interesting."
A spark of interest showed in the eyes of Lord Chiswick, the last man at the table. The son of a bishop, he had devoted his life to breaking as many of the Ten Commandments as possible. "I've been getting bored with false nuns. It might be amusing if our little playmates dressed as schoolgirls at the next service. A delightful contrast of innocence and experience."
Harford nodded thoughtfully. "Worth considering. Makes me think of the gamekeeper's daughter, when I was fourteen." He began to describe the encounter in detail that was as graphic as it was tedious. His anecdote was followed by reminiscences from the others. Even Lucien contributed a story, though his was fabricated from whole cloth; it was not his custom to discuss his affairs with anyone.
It was a dull evening, with the conversation seldom rising above the waist. However, from Lucien's point of view the time was well spent. By the time midnight struck, all of the Hellions seemed to have accepted him as one of their kind.
To counter boredom, he kept an idle eye on Sally during her frequent comings and goings. Tart and teasing, she was expert at amusing her customers while dodging occasional groping hands. She was hardly the sort of female who usually caught his fancy, but something about her intrigued him, an elusive sense of familiarity. Perhaps he had seen her somewhere before.
By one in the morning, most of the Hellions had left and Lucien was thinking that it was time to go home himself. Then he saw the most vocal of her youthful admirers, Lord Ives, lurch to his feet and purposefully follow the barmaid out of the room. Though she seemed quite capable of taking care of herself, Lucien was unable to suppress his protective instincts. After saying good night to those of his companions who were still awake, he rose and quietly followed Sally and Ives.
The old tavern was a maze of flagstoned passages. Briskly the barmaid went down one, heels tapping, and turned left, then left again, ending in a storeroom half filled with kegs. Apparently unaware that Ives was close behind her, she set her candle on a keg, then stooped to draw off a pitcher of ale.
Lucien paused in the shadowed passage. If his assistance wasn't needed, he would fade away. It would be bad for his pose as a rake if he kept defending beleaguered damsels, and where the Hellions went, damsels were beleaguered regularly.
As the barmaid straightened, Ives asked in a slurred voice, "If you won't run off with me, pretty Sally, will you at least give me a quick tumble before I go home?"
She started, the ale sloshing from her pitcher, then said good-naturedly, "Even if I was willing, which I'm not, I doubt you'd be much use to me, lad. Alcohol may increase the desire, but it takes away the ability."
Lucien was startled to hear a Shakespearean quote from a barmaid. Still, there was no reason why Sally shouldn't enjoy the Bard as much as an aristocrat.
Less literary, Ives said, "If you doubt my ability, try me and I'll prove otherwise."
Her carroty curls bobbed as she shook her head. "My man is called Killer Caine, and he wouldn't like it one bit if I spread myself around." She gave Ives a playful push. "You go home to your bed, lad, and sleep off the punch alone."
"Give me a kiss, then. Just a kiss."
Before she could reply, he pulled her into an embrace, his mouth crushing hers and one hand squeezing her bounteous breast. Lucien guessed that Ives meant no real harm, but in his drunkenness he didn't realize his own strength, or notice that the woman was struggling to escape. Unpleasantly reminded of the chambermaid at Bourne Castle, Lucien decided to intervene.
He started forward, but before he could enter the storeroom, Sally stamped hard on her admirer's foot.
"Ouch!" Ives yelped and raised his head. Keeping his hand on her breast, he asked reproachfully, "Why did you do that?"
"To get rid of you, lad," Sally said breathlessly.
"Don't go," he pleaded, his hand kneading the ripe globe that filled his palm.
She shoved against his chest and managed to break his hold. Before he could embrace her again, she snapped, " 'Tisn't me you want, it's these."
Reaching into her bodice, she wrenched out an enormous bust improver and threw it into her assailant's face. "Have a good time, lad."
Ives released Sally and rocked back on his heels as the soft, pillow-like object bounced off his nose and fell to the floor. After staring in befuddlement at the undulating cotton curves, he raised his gaze to the barmaid. The folds of her bodice now fell loosely over a chest of modest dimensions.
To his credit, the young man began laughing. "You're a false-hearted woman, Sally."
"It's not me heart that's false," she said pertly. "Now get along with you so I can do my work."
"I'm sorry—I behaved badly," he said. "Will you be here next time the Hellions meet?
"
She shrugged. "Maybe yes, and maybe no."
Blowing her a kiss, Ives left the storeroom by the other door, which led toward the front of the tavern. Sally was watching him go when she heard Lucien's chuckle. She jumped, then spun and spotted him in the shadows. "If it isn't old Lucifer himself," she said waspishly. "Did you enjoy the show?"
"Immensely." He moved forward into the storeroom. "I had thought you might need help, but obviously I was mistaken."
"Lucifer to the rescue?" she said with heavy sarcasm. "And 'ere I thought you wanted a piece of my padded arse."
Now that the bust improver was gone, it was obvious that only her slim waist had been natural. Take away the hip padding and she would have a lithe, feminine form that Lucien found more appealing than her exaggerated cotton curves. "Why do you conceal a figure that is perfectly pleasing as it is?"
"You may like scrawny females, but most men prefer a buxom wench with a bouncy backside." When he grinned, she said acidly, "You may think it's a joke, your bloomin' lordship, but that cotton stuffing puts three quid a week extra into my pockets."
"I'm not laughing at you," he assured her. "I admire cleverness wherever I find it."
She ducked her head, apparently discomfited by his compliment. In the silence that followed, he was very aware of her innate sensuality, which owed nothing to her fraudulent figure. He was close enough to see that the skin under her heavy paint was not pitted, and he guessed she was younger than he'd first thought. "You'd also be prettier without the paint."
She raised her head and gave him a fulminating glance. "I didn't ask for your opinion, my lord. Believe me, I know me own business best."
Her eyes were clear and light, though he couldn't identify the color in the dim light. Again experiencing a nagging sense of familiarity, he said, "I have the feeling I've seen you before. Have you ever been on the stage?"
She looked horrified. "I may be a barmaid, but there's no call to be insulting."
"Not all actresses are whores," he said mildly.
"Most of 'em are."
Before he could reply, a voice bellowed from the taproom, "Sally, where the 'ell are you?"
She scooped up the bust improver, then ostentatiously turned away. "If you'll excuse me, I have to put me bosom back."
He found that he was strangely reluctant to leave. Sally intrigued him, and he wanted to know more about her. The impulse was dismaying, for he had never been given to seducing servants. Lightly he said, "Tell Killer Caine that he's a lucky man."
Yet as he left the tavern, he found himself hoping that Lord Mace would invite the barmaid to the next orgy, and that Lucien would be able to recognize her in a nun's robe.
Page forward for an excerpt from
One Perfect Rose
Book 7
Fallen Angel's Series
Excerpt from
One Perfect Rose
Fallen Angels Series
Book Seven
by
Mary Jo Putney
Meet Rosalind Jordan, heroine of One Perfect Rose:
Prologue
London, 1794
Silent as a mouse, the child stood in the alley, her gaze riveted on the young couple sauntering down the shabby waterfront street. The two were different from those who lived in the neighborhood, their clothing clean and their voices full of laughter.
And they were eating meat pies. The little girl sniffed the savory scent longingly. The tall gentleman made a sweeping gesture with one hand, and a sizable chunk of his pie fell to the dirty street. He didn't even notice.
The child waited with the patience bred of fear for the couple to move on a safe distance. But she daren't wait too long, because a dog or maybe a rat would get her prize. When she judged it safe, she darted forward to grab the scrap and stuff it into her mouth. It was still warm, the best-tasting food she'd had in forever.
Then the lady glanced back over her shoulder. The child froze, hoping not to be noticed. She'd learned quickly that it was better not to be seen. Bad Boys threw stones, and there had been the Bad Man who'd lured her close with the offer of a sausage, then picked her up and run his hot hands over her. He'd wanted to eat her, she thought, but he let her go quick enough when she bit his tongue.
Then he'd chased her, screaming bad words until she squeezed under a sagging fence and hid in a pile of trash. She'd eaten the sausage there, and ever since she watched out for the Bad Man, and for any other men who might get that queer look in their eyes.
The pretty dark-haired lady raised her brows and said with a smile, "There's a wee scavenger behind us, Thomas."
The smile was nice, but even so, the child started to retreat toward the alley.
The lady crouched so that her blue eyes were the same level as the child's. "No need to run, sweetheart. There's enough to share." She held out the rest of her meat pie temptingly.
The child hesitated, remembering the Bad Man, who had also lured her with food. But this was a lady, and the pie smelled so good.
She skipped forward and snatched the morsel from the lady's hand. Then she backed up a few steps and ate, keeping her wary gaze on her benefactors.
"Poor mite," the man named Thomas said in a deep voice that rolled across the street. "Her parents should be whipped for letting her roam the streets like this."
A rusty voice spoke from the shadows. "The brat ain't got no parents. She's been livin' in the streets hereabout for a couple of months."
The child recognized the voice as that of the grizzled old woman who spent every day watching from a shadowed doorway, a clay pipe clamped in her toothless gums. The old woman had once traded some food, and she'd thrown no stones. She was safe.
The pretty lady frowned. "The child has been abandoned?"
"Orphaned, more like," the old woman said with a shrug. "I hear she came off a ship with some female who up and died in the middle of the quay soon as they landed. A watchman tried to catch the brat so's she could be sent to an orphanage, but she hid. She's been scrounging around here like a sea gull ever since."
The pretty lady looked horrified. "Oh, Thomas—she can't leave her here. She's just a baby—she can't be much more than three years old."
"We can't carry her off like a kitten, Maria," the gentleman said. But his gaze went consideringly to the child's face.
"Why not? No one else seems to want her. The good Lord must have sent us down this street to find her. We haven't had a babe of our own yet and heaven knows it's not for lack of trying." The pretty lady looked sad for a moment. Then she turned back to the child and extended her hand slowly. "Come here, sweetheart. We won't hurt you." The child hesitated. She had learned the hard way to be wary. But Maria reminded her of a different lady from that other life before hunger and rags and filthy streets. Before... before....
Her mind veered away, unable to name the unbearable. Instead, she looked at the blue eyes. There was kindness there, and something more. A promise?
The child began to inch forward, her gaze flicking back and forth between the lady and the gentleman. If he'd moved she would've run, because men weren't always safe, but he stayed very still. His eyes were just as blue, and just as kind, as his wife's.
When she came within reach, the lady reached out and tenderly stroked her head. "Your hair is blond, isn't it? I didn't realize what was under the dirt. Very nice with those big brown eyes. Would you like a new mama and papa, sweetheart?"
Mama. Papa. Those were words from the distant, golden past. The child weighed the chance of danger against her desperate longing. Suddenly hope overpowered fear. The child ran the last two steps and flung herself into the lady's arms.
Maria swooped her up in a hug. Her arms were warm and soft, like that other lady in the past. Warm and soft and safe.
"Don't worry, sweetheart," she crooned. "Thomas and I may not be respectable by some standards, but you'll never lack for food or love." The child saw with wonder that there were tears in the lady's blue eyes when she glanced at her hus
band. "Don't look at me like that, you big Irish fraud. Your heart is just as soft as mine."
"'Tis not our hearts that are soft, but our heads," Thomas said wryly. "But you're right, we can't leave her here, and the sooner we get her into a soapy tub the better." He took the child's hand in his great warm grasp. "What's your name, darlin'?"
Embarrassed by his attention, the child shook her head and buried her face against the lady's neck. She smelled clean and sweet, like flowers after rain.
"I guess we'll have to name her ourselves." Maria's stroked the child's back tenderly. "Pretty as a rose, but so brave. Imagine, surviving on the streets for weeks when she's such a tiny thing."
"Then let's name her after Rosalind, the most intrepid of heroines," Thomas suggested. He squeezed the child's hand gently. "This is your lucky day, little rose."
"No, Thomas." Maria pressed a warm kiss to the child's temple. "The luck is ours."
Meet Stephen Kenyon, hero of One Perfect Rose:
Chapter 1
Ashburton Abbey, 1818
"Mortally ill."
The physician's words hung in the area, stark and lethal as a scorpion. Stephen Edward Kenyon, 5th Duke of Ashburton, 7th Marquess of Benfield, and half a dozen other titles too trivial to mention, went still as he donned his shirt after the medical exam. Mentally he repeated the phrase, as if study would somehow alter its significance.
Mortally ill. He had known that something was wrong, but he had not expected... this. The doctor must have made a mistake. True, in the last few weeks the pain in Stephen's belly had gone from mild discomfort to attacks of wrenching agony. But surely that meant only an ulceration—painful but not life-threatening.
Grateful for his skill in controlling his expression, he resumed buttoning his shirt. "That's a surprisingly definite statement for a physician. I thought you and your colleagues preferred to avoid dismal predictions."