A Wild Night's Bride (The Devil DeVere #1)(9)

“A key?” Phoebe picked it up with a frown.

“To the costume warehouse.” The older woman flashed a rare smile that revealed two missing teeth. “I tell you, no duchess in all the land can boast of better finery than the wardrobe mistress of Covent Garden Theatre.”





CHAPTER FOUR




King’s Place, St. James Square




Ned and Ludovic entered the notorious King’s Place brothel, the most elite of the once-famed courtesan, Charlotte Hayes’ four exclusive houses of pleasure. Escorted by loincloth-garbed lackeys who inspected their invitations, they advanced into the central receiving chamber, transformed into an enchanting tropical paradise.

Ned was struck at once by the intoxicating and nearly overwhelming fragrance of exotic flowers, the vivid and vibrant visual display of colors, and the hypnotic reverberation of pulsing drums. His gaze was drawn to the soaring ceiling where a massive chandelier was cleverly disguised as a full moon by a huge blue-tinted, blown-glass bubble that hung suspended over a pool of water in which frolicked a half-dozen beautiful and very naked young women. This scene, laid out amidst a veritable jungle of potted palms and tropical blooms, illuminated by the smoky, flickering flames of myriad flambeaux, stole his breath.

“Our Queen Oberea truly has outdone herself.” DeVere flashed a delighted smile and freely caressed the bare breast of the sultry island maiden who offered them each a small, discreetly wrapped package and drinks served in hollowed coconut shells.

Ned accepted the former with an inquiring look.

“Cundums, my friend. Nifty little implements to ensure one’s safety,” DeVere answered. He accepted the bowl, inspecting the greenish-tinged contents with a dubious look. He sniffed and made a face. “Horse piss smells better! What the devil is it?”

“It is called kava kava.” The girl giggled. “’Tis the native drink of the Otaheitians, guaranteed to fill you with well-being. Also believed to have aphrodisiac properties,” she added with a wink.

“My cock needs little encouragement,” DeVere said. “But what the hell.”

“It has a very bitter taste,” she warned. “Best to drink it all at once.”

DeVere handed a bowl to Ned with a challenging lift of his brow. “Time to enter into the spirit of the game, ol’ chum. Bottoms up.” Raising the bowls, they drank at once, DeVere laughing as Ned sputtered.

Ned feared he would embarrass himself by gagging at the nasty assault but somehow managed to swallow it down. Almost immediately his mouth became tingly and his tongue distinctly numb. “Gad! I’d have liefer thwallowed the horth pith!”

DeVere roared and beckoned the girl for another round.

“Not on your life,” Ned managed to enunciate more clearly. He scanned the room, noting about two dozen other men, such as Charles Fox and Lord Carlisle, notorious gamesters both, and DeVere’s frequent carousing partners dating back to their university years. Ned’s attention rested on the youngest of the exclusive coterie who laughing the loudest and dallying with the serving wenches, already appeared well into his cups. He was a slightly rotund fellow but very richly dressed. “Is that who I think?” he asked, still struggling to make his tongue function properly.

DeVere cast his gaze on the group. “Our newly liberated Prince of Wales? It is, indeed. The king and queen kept him on a very tight leash while he was in his nonage. Until only a few months ago, the poor chap was followed everywhere by his priggish governor who, of course, reported his every movement to our equally sanctimonious king. Now turned one-and-twenty, he appears quite intent on making up for lost time.”

Ned had to agree. “Taking up with the likes of Malden and Charles Fox, he must be bent on causing his father an apoplexy. A prince after your own heart, DeVere?”

DeVere smirked. “Given he’s already forged alliances with all His Majesty’s most vocal opponents, he just may be, indeed. Perhaps they’ll make a proper king of the pup yet.”

When Ned turned back to DeVere, the viscount was shedding his clothes. “What the devil are you doing?” Ned asked.

DeVere tilted his head to the half-dozen nymphs bathing in the makeshift lagoon with a low chuckle. “If I am to get my two hundred pounds worth of lovely, feminine flesh, I intend to begin now.” Divested only of coat and cravat, his progress arrested when the mistress of ceremonies appeared.

Although the bloom was long gone from the rose, she had lost neither her talent for theatrics nor the ability to command a room. In the regal style of the island queen she portrayed, Charlotte Hayes made her grand entrance on a carpet of flowers amidst a fanfare of drums and waving palm fronds. Her elaborate coif was adorned with flowers and plumes, her gown woven of red feathers with a girdle intricately embroidered with hibiscus and accented with seed pearls.

Like a queen attending her court, she mounted an altar-like pedestal erected beside the lagoon and addressed her guests with an ebullient smile and a flourish of her red-feathered fan.

“My esteemed lords, dear gentlemen, and lovely ladies,” she mouthed the latter with a wink. “As my most honored guests, you are privileged this night to behold the ceremonial feast in which I, Queen Oberea, shall present to you the most beautiful and unsullied Otaheitian maidens whose bodies, hands, and mouths have been schooled in the arts of love in all of the diverse and delicious varieties.”