chapter 6 Francesca noticed Luther Kenway’s

Francesca noticed Luther Kenway's butler was blindfolded before it registered that he was also stark

naked. She stood at his threshold, seized with astonished indecision.

"I'm…" She'd quite forgotten why she'd come. In fact, she'd forgotten her name.

"Countess, welcome. Do come in." As stately as any yeoman, the man stepped back and widened

the door for her, sweeping a grand gesture toward the interior of the Kenway estate.

Swallowing a surge of nerves, Francesca picked up the hem of her crimson garment and entered as

he bade her.

She wasn't certain which disturbed her most: the blindfold; the nudity of an elegant, if portly, man

well past his prime; or her own ensemble, a shimmering robe the color of the devil's own blood, and

an intricate porcelain mask hand-painted by a masterful artisan in the form of a fox head.

Francesca paused on the landing of the grand entrance and absorbed the cornucopia of curiosities

before her. She hadn't exactly known what to expect when she'd made her way through the London

night following the exact route her invitation had specified. She'd been unable to identify travelers

with a similar possible destination, and she would have, as the hour was late for the beginning of a

soiree of any kind.

A midnight masquerade, it seemed.

Devotion. It was the only word on the invitation upon which the map had been depicted.

On her arrival, she'd been ushered through the gate by a man in a black robe, and directed to a

dark fabric tent where her costume had been draped from a rather eerie-looking mannequin. She'd

donned it, as directed, abandoning her clothing to the makeshift dressing room. It was a long affair

with a grand train. A hood covered her hair, and behind it an adornment that would have done Queen

Elizabeth proud sprouted from the shoulders and framed her features, creating the perfect canvas for

her mask.

She'd felt rather silly drifting up the grand walkway in nothing but this gossamer robe and

disguise. Had she still been a girl, she might have been enchanted. But as a woman possessed of

almost thirty years, she couldn't quite imagine what she'd get up to in a fox mask. Or perhaps she

didn't want to. She was just glad the only light to guide her glowed from the steps of the manor, and

she'd followed it like the proverbial light at the end of a dark tunnel.

To a destination unknown. Feared. And perhaps hoped for.

"My lady," the butler murmured unobtrusively. "You are welcome to go inside. Barclay and

Smythe will provide you with refreshment, and whatever else you desire."

Francesca swallowed around a dry tongue. Barclay and Smythe were two silent sentinels

bracketing the entrance to the grand hall. They, too, wore nothing but blindfolds, though it was

immediately apparent they had fewer years than the butler and decidedly more physical vocations.

Her neck was going to ache by the end of the night with the immense effort it took to not look

down.

Beyond the guards, bodies clad in robes similar to hers mingled beneath chandeliers with only afew candles to illuminate them. The gas lamps remained unlit.

The revelers might have been ghosts. Specters of scarlet iridescence, their robes dragging behind

them across the dark parquet floors like slicks of blood in the moonlight.

Objectively, the tableau was as beautiful as it was bizarre.

"Are you not going to announce me?" She turned to the butler, who shook his head.

"A woman of your eminence needs no introduction." He bowed, a most supplicant motion, and

again gestured toward the ballroom. "Do enjoy yourself, my lady, and may I be the first to say we are

most pleased to reintroduce the Cavendish line into the council."

Francesca's blood cooled. Chilled. And her entire body bloomed with hair-raising gooseflesh.

Unable to thank him, she inclined her head and had to look away as he turned back toward the

door, presenting her with a decidedly hairier back end than she'd been prepared for.

As she neared the arched entrance, it became apparent that Smythe and Barclay were not the only

—footmen?—in service thus attired. Or rather, unattired.

Others stood at strategically placed intervals around the room. As still as statues, they were

offering trays to the guests. Some laden with goblets of drink, others with succulents and hors

d'oeuvres.

A few serving women hovered around the frozen footmen. They made certain silver trays were

filled and artfully arranged, that the men were coiffed and their blindfolds secure. They silently took

empty goblets from guests and offered linens or refills with gentle gestures and pleasant, questioning

eyes.

These women were also brazenly naked but with one marked difference.

Rather than blindfolded, they were gagged.

In the flowing sleeves of her robe, Francesca's fingers curled and tightened until her nails dug

against her palms.

She'd wondered why such a concealing costume didn't come with gloves. Now she knew. They

wanted nothing to impede tactile sensation.

The council didn't sample merely what was on the trays of the footmen, but anything else they

wished to put their hands on. Every sort of body imaginable was on display. Pale, dusky, or dark.

Slim, stocky, soft, or solid. Elegant or rough.

Francesca did more than stare. She gawked, feeling guilty as she did so. Were these people here of

their own volition? Not only women scored the footmen's backs with their nails or reached between

their legs for a feel. For a stroke.

But men did as well.

Likewise, the serving girls were idly caressed and handled, and they bore it patiently. Gladly, it

seemed, pausing their work to make themselves available.

The chamber quintet on the corner of a raised dais were likewise nude, in fact. Just about anyone

who would have been considered service staff performed their duties without a uniform of any kind.

Many other guests turned when Francesca entered, and she immediately realized why. Beasts of

every genus and species were represented in the room, but no two masks were alike. She spotted a

bear and a bee, a stag and a snake, and just about everything in between. Each mask was a work of

art, a white porcelain base with vibrant details done in monochromatic tones. Not all robes were

crimson. A few were a ghostly shade, not white and not quite silver. Only a handful, though, were

adorned with the same hood and stiff collar as hers.status symbol, it seemed, though one she didn't understand.

Did they know who she was behind this mask? Did they know one another? How many of them

would she pass on the street and recognize as an acquaintance without knowing what they got up to at

night?

How many of these people were responsible for the Mont Claire Massacre, or knew about it and

did nothing?

She suppressed a shudder at the very thought, suddenly very aware of how alone she was.

Serana knew of her whereabouts, of course, and so did the Rogues, but that would do blessed little

to help her if things went sideways.

She'd made peace with her fate before she'd stepped a foot on the Kenway grounds, so there was

only one thing to do.

Plunge into the crowd as if she belonged there and get what she came for.

Walking with an affected air of superiority, she went to a large Moorish fellow who stood taller

than most. He had the loveliest, smoothest complexion she'd ever seen, and his shoulders and head

gleamed even in the lowest of light.

She did her best not to peek … down below and failed utterly. It wasn't that she'd never seen a

naked man before; of course she had. But she'd always averted her eyes. Despite her boldness in so

many aspects, the vulnerability of these people made her want to squirm.

Uncertainty tugged at her. Was it disrespectful to be curious? Was it awful to look?

Probably.

But she looked. And she'd be lying if she claimed not to like what she saw. Not just the African

with the impressive physique, but also the slim and pale androgynous man with the long waist to

match his impressive sex. He contrasted splendidly with a rather square fellow with a wealth of hair,

bulky muscle beneath a healthy layer of padding, and what she considered to be a much less

intimidating organ.

The women intrigued her, too, all told. The differences and similarities. The placements of their

hips and breasts. The abject wickedness of so much flesh on display, and the anonymity her mask

provided.

No one knew where her eyes drifted, and there was a certain freedom in that. She'd be lying to

claim that freedom didn't titillate her somewhat.

Even as something primal in her responded to the situation, she shriveled from it, as well.

The others gathered, maybe seventy or so in number, greeted her in reverent whispers. No one

called her by name, but they seemed to understand she had a "my lady" status.

She nodded and returned their greetings with a low murmur, somehow feeling that she'd stumbled

into a church. She didn't want to meet the God to whom these people swore fealty. The one who

gagged women and blinded men, who displayed them vulnerably and subjected them to

objectification.

A familiar feeling swept over her on the tail of that thought.

The breath of a ghost on her back. Not quite chilling, but neither was it warm. Warning bells

clanged in her head, in her body.

At least, by now, the sensation was familiar, and always accompanied by a subsequent encounter

with Chandler—or whomever he pretended to be at the moment.

Was he here? Was that the danger she sensed?She'd been doing her utmost not to think of him these past weeks. Not to want. To yearn. To seek

him out and …

And what? Apologize? Explain? Confess?

Francesca shook her head and lifted a glass from the proffered tray. The mask she wore left her

lower lip exposed, and the goblet conveniently fit to her mouth so she could drink.

She used the sip as an excuse to survey the gathered crowd in low light.

The figures in white were few, maybe seven, and it appeared that some of them intended to make

their way toward her, drifting through the river of red like specters swimming upstream through a lake

of blood.

Their masks were all the same. Stags. Great, sharp antlers branched from their crowns, holding the

hoods in place.

They seemed all like rather large men. Security, perhaps?

"I wasn't certain you'd come."

Francesca whirled at the disembodied voice, nearly colliding with the footman from whom she

took her wine. Next to him, a figure with the mask of a lion tilted his head down to look at her. He had

a high collar behind his cape, as well. And his mane was extraordinary, reminding her of the sun.

Not Chandler. Her shoulders fell.

Luther Kenway.

Francesca did what she always did when she was frightened: She lifted her chin, squared her

shoulders, and bared her teeth.

Figuratively, for now.

"I would have RSVP'd if you'd have preferred, but alas…" She let the insinuation drift away.

When he didn't reply, Francesca continued. "You certainly went through a lot of costuming trouble for

someone you weren't sure would attend." She took another drink.

For a man with so much money and influence, he had shit taste in wine.

"I said I wasn't certain you'd come, but I'll admit I was confident." The mask lent his voice a

certain growl, as if the soul of the lion did, indeed, inhabit his body.

"And what inspired this confidence?" she asked, turning so she stood shoulder-to-shoulder with

him, rather than facing the frightening mask.

"I know you are an inquisitive woman." His lips, both foreign and familiar, drew into a tight,

almost cruel smile. "I know you couldn't help but indulge your curiosity."

Something about the way he said this rankled at her.

What else did he presume to know about her?

"So this is the Crimson Council." She surveyed the room with an unaffected air she didn't feel.

Hard to believe she'd finally made it.

Now how could she irrevocably destroy it?

"All this could be yours," he murmured.

She looked up at him sharply.

"My dear Countess, you must know that I do nothing by degrees, and I did not offer my proposal

lightly. I think we could be good together, you and I."

"I think you mean I could be good for you."

He tilted his head in an almost doglike gesture of confusion. "Are you saying I have nothing to

offer you that you would want?"She shrugged "I am already a countess, so you could offer me no higher title," she pointed out.

"And while you may be wealthier than I am, I have enough money to last me generations. I have no

interest in politics, not really. And if I were to marry you, what is mine would become yours. How

exactly, is your proposal supposed to tempt me, Lord Devlin?"

Instead of angering him, as she'd suspected she might, he indulged her with a sound of amusement.

"A privileged woman, indeed," he said blithely. "I'm curious, then, as to why you would attend my

fete."

"Perhaps to see what else you had to offer." She tilted her head coyly and was rewarded with the

sense her answer pleased him.

"My lady, I can offer you what you most desire. All you need do is tell me what that is."

The truth. Justice. No, more than that, revenge.

"Freedom," was what escaped her lips. And the truth of it resounded in her soul.

"Look around, my dear."

She did. And what she saw confused, intrigued, and sickened her.

His hand landed on her shoulder, and it took every ounce of will she had not to duck away from it.

"Freedom is exactly what I'm offering. It is what these devotees of the council seek."

She looked up in genuine amazement. "I would have thought power. Or wealth. Political influence

or—"

He shook his head both immediately and violently the moment she began to speak.

"Our wealth helps us to gain our influence," he conceded. "And therein we find power … but I'll

tell you a secret, little vixen." He leaned closer, tilting his head down as if the lion and the fox might

kiss. "Power is an illusion, one we certainly maintain as a tool to accomplish our main objective, one

that aligns with your own."

"I'm … not following."

"Freedom," he said, his voice ardent as he nudged her toward the dais, where a sensual cello

refrain drifted around them.

"Nothing about this room speaks of freedom to me." She gestured with her chin to a gagged woman

offering her wares to a group of guests.

If Francesca watched for too long, she feared she'd become violently ill.

"Think, my lady, about where we have been told for centuries upon centuries that our loyalties

must lie? Think about the order of importance."

When she said nothing, he elucidated. "Your God first, then your nation. Family. Community, and

then, finally, the individual." He paused, turning to face her. "What does that sort of philosophy get

you?"

Francesca frowned. She wasn't particularly religious; nor was she patriotic. She was British

because she was born so. Anglican, perhaps, because of the traditions of her ancestors. But she'd

seen too much of the world, of humanity, of spirituality to believe in or completely discard almost any

possibility. She had no such creed, and told him so. "I wouldn't know. That isn't how I live."

"I know." He held up a finger as if to say, Ah-ha. "You live to please only yourself."

"I wouldn't say—"

"Oh come now, you do not have to pretend here. You are of a like mind to us. To live crimson is to

live without shame."

"Crimson," she repeated, running out of patience. "Why the crimson? Does it represent the devil?The church? A pagan god, or demon perhaps? Is it something to do with Britannia, herself?"

She drew herself up short. Drat, she'd begun to rapid-fire questions again.

Instead of seeming frustrated or insulted, he seemed fascinated. Francesca didn't know whether to

be relieved or mortified.

"Think about the color red, Francesca. It's the color of extremes. It captures our attention, and it

warns us of danger. It represents all things visceral and primal. Blood. Danger. Violence." He

stepped in closer. "Passion, seduction, and even love. It colors the flags of nearly every powerful

empire, and yet it denotes districts in which we try to contain our vice in every European culture. We

give red roses when we are in love, and we see red when we are about to take a life in anger. Why,

Countess, do you think that is?"

Stymied, Francesca only shook her head.

"You've purloined it for your own moniker, I'm told. You and your red-headed rogues."

A beat of terror thumped behind her ribs. It wasn't as though she hid her relationship with the

Rogues, but neither did she advertise it.

If he knew about the Red Rogues … then he'd been watching her. Listening to whispers about her.

But how closely?

"Why hide behind your ridiculous masks if you do nothing to be ashamed of?" she demanded as if

she didn't already know.

His fingers tightened around his glass, his only outward show of emotion since she'd arrived.

"Because." He thrust his strong chin toward the milling crowd, even as a restlessness pervaded the

room. "Our ridiculous masks remind us that behind our civility, every human is just an animal. And

animals all have certain primitive understandings."

"Such as?" She injected insouciance into her voice to cover her excitement. Finally, some

answers.

"Survival is our first instinct, to be sure. Those in power convince the masses that they allow them

to survive. They pretend to help, to sacrifice the good of the few for the many and so forth … but it is

they who hold sway over our lives. They who squeeze the life right out of us. They take from us what

we are at our most base. Our most honest and raw form."

"What are we?" she whispered.

"Dear Francesca, we are desire."

She was so deflated, she puffed out most of the air from her lungs before she echoed him drolly.

"Desire?

"Yes." He nodded. "We are beings of need and of want. It is that simple."

Francesca clenched her jaw. Her thighs. Her fists. Frustration thrummed through every sinew of

her body. "You mean lust?" she huffed. "Tell me you didn't go through all of this hoopla to invite a

throng of perverts to just one more Caligulan orgy." She said this as if it was a waste of her time. As

if she'd been to several and they now bored her to tears.

It was a waste. She could think of no greater rubbish than if the entire Cavendish household had

been snuffed out because of the earl and countess's adventurous sex lives.

Nothing could be so laughably tragic.

"It's so much more than that," Kenway insisted. "We have urges, Francesca. Instincts. Ones we are

forced to quell by the strictures of society. What are we behind the frippery that confines us and the

machines we create? Unapologetic carnivores. Predators. We crave dominance. Power. Glory.Blood." He looked over at her, and his eyes seemed to glow from behind the see-through linen. "And

yes. Fucking. We desire pleasure and progeny. Immortality."

A distinct chill cooled her frustration. "And … you have convinced these people that you will give

them this … freedom?" To do what?

"No, this philosophy, this council, was around long before I joined, long before I rose to power.

No, Francesca, my job is not to give people these things, but to train them to take it."

"What?" She stared at him, aghast.

He stepped closer. "If I desired you, what's to stop me from taking you right now? Do you think

these people would lift a finger? Any of them?"

She searched the crowd, noting that some of them pretended not to watch them while others were

actively eavesdropping.

Sliding her fingers into her robes, she found the leather straps beneath which she'd sheathed a

knife against her arm. "I would," she said in a hard voice. "I would stop you."

His eyes flared. "I know. That's why you are here."

"Is that so?" she scoffed, again trying to seem unaffected, doing her utmost not to be alarmed to

notice that the stags in white robes had lurked closer.

"I wonder." Kenway moved behind her, causing her breath to catch in her throat. "I wonder if you

are worthy of the name you claim."

"I will prove to you, before this is over, that I will take exactly what I deserve." From him, she'd

take everything. She swore it.

"You've already taken so much, Countess. You've quite the craven reputation…"

She thought of Chandler then. Of the fact that he shamed her for her lovers. A pang of sadness

sliced through the fear. What a disappointment they were to each other.

Kenway leaned down to whisper in her ear as he gestured widely to the council. "Desire drives

you, Francesca, just as it does all of us."

"You have no idea what drives me," she retorted.

"Oh, I have some idea." He beckoned the men in white robes even closer. "I invited temptation

here for you tonight. To show you what life might be like. Even as a wife of mine, you would be

allowed all kinds of freedoms."

"Allowed?" she echoed archly.

"Encouraged," he amended. "You'll be encouraged to take what you want, to indulge, to share it

with me. You'll be part of a movement. Of a shift in society so extraordinary, the world will never be

the same."

Christ, he wasn't just evil, he was a lunatic. They all were.

"I am not inclined to … indulge … publicly."

"And so you shan't," he cajoled. "After this one display of devotion."

She swallowed. Hard. "Display? What sort of display?"

"Consider, Countess, how animals live. You are quite the equestrian, I'm told. You know horses?"

"Some," she hedged.

"Does a stallion care about pedigree when he mounts a mare? Does he ask her permission? Do

they care who is watching as they rut?"

A horror utter and complete rose within her as Francesca mutely considered her options.

"Do most creatures care about modesty, physical or social? Do they care about the feelings of theirprey? Does an eagle feel guilt for the adorable squirrel who is his meal? Does the lion not drive

away his offspring to make certain his kingdom is never questioned?"

She fought to remain calm. To not bolt. "S-some would argue we as higher-minded individuals

have evolved beyond such base instincts."

"Some would." The men in white robes broke from the crowd and approached the dais. A herd of

stags. "And others would say that we are merely the apex predators. That we are capable of such

feats. Such unsurpassable godlike feats if we were not tethered by the mythos of the past and those

who would keep us on our knees."

"The monarchy, you mean?"

He inclined his head. "The monarchy. Or republics. The church. Every prophet, warlord, and

prostitute who demanded someone bow down before them. To kneel."

He moved back into her line of vision, the stags making a half circle around her. "When is the last

time you knelt to anyone?"

Never was when, and she wasn't about to start now.

He traced some flare of art on her mask with his fingertip, a tender lion courting a fox.

"Did you know this place has never had a woman in our Triad of leaders? Perhaps it is time that

changes."

"Why select me to lead when I've never followed?" she asked. "I'm no devotee of yours."

"Perhaps that's exactly why I'm considering you." He reached out and adjusted her hood, his

fingers sliding through her hair.

It took every bit of her will not to shrink from his touch.

"You are bold and worldly enough to lead, but young enough to abide. This council grows stagnant

with old men and, to be honest, I'm in need of a physical heir to my earldom, as mine are no longer

viable."

At this, Francesca couldn't contain an audible gasp. How could he speak of his dead children like

that?

"You have a decision to make tonight, Francesca. You could take the first step toward becoming

the most powerful countess in the world. Or … the Mont Claire tragedy could be complete."

Simple enough. Take his offer or die.

Evil men called choices like that freedom, and idiots fell for it.

"What must I do?" she asked.

"You must only watch. And then you must decide."

Watch who? Decide what?

He turned from her then and motioned to the stags, two of whom parted from their compatriots to

open a cavernous set of doors to a dark hallway. An expectant hush fell over the crowd, and

Francesca felt certain the entire ballroom could hear the pounding of her heart.

She didn't know who or what she expected to emerge from the dark hall, but it certainly wasn't the

Lord Chancellor.

Had he escaped from the Secret Service? Or had he been delivered to this dangerous, powerful

man by agents from within?

As much as Francesca despised Sir Hubert, she fought a spurt of pity. Not because she'd forgiven

him his unforgivable sins, but because he appeared so pitiable. To see the man who held an office

arguably as high as the Prime Minister, a man who held power over all the courts of Great Brittan,stripped bare and brought so low was less than palatable.

For an old man, he had the body of a toddler, wobbly and potbellied, wrinkled and dimpled at the

joints. He walked without chains, cuffs, or ropes. The stags didn't touch him; in fact, it appeared that

the Lord Chancellor led them to the dais. The Crimson Council parted for him and then closed ranks

as he passed, like displaced liquid forming around a sinking ship.

Francesca was both mortified and mystified. Again, she clung to the knife she'd strapped to her

arm, waiting for someone to make a move.

It was the Lord Chancellor who spoke first. "As a member of the Triad, I prostrate myself at the

will of the wild. It is our way to prey upon the weak. To cast out from our presence one who has

failed us absolutely. I have endangered the council, have profaned its precepts, and in doing so I am

condemned by the laws of the realm to forfeit my life."

"What is it you desire?" Kenway asked, his voice echoing into fractures around the chamber,

seeming to come from many directions at once.

"I offer myself in the stead of the sacred seven. I will be the vessel of devotion. The bond that ties

our council together. My actions will renew our vow to Predonius Primus."

Predonius Primus. Francesca searched her knowledge of Latin. The alpha predator.

Kenway turned to the room at large. "The actions of this…" He paused and raked Hubert with a

withering glare. "Man robbed us of our sacrifices. The rite of devotion has always been a sacrifice of

innocence. Of blood. On this day, unfortunately, we will only be allowed one of these, as innocence

is beyond you. But … you offer something else that will redeem you, Hubert."

He did? Francesca watched with trapped breath screaming in her lungs. The Lord Chancellor had

not one redeeming quality. He'd been a cog in the machine that had caused the Mont Claire Massacre.

He'd captured young girls and kept them chained like dogs in the catacombs beneath Cecelia's estate.

He'd perverted justice of the realm during his tenure countless times to serve his causes. His and, it

would seem, the Crimson Council's.

She'd have not lost any sleep if he hanged in the tower.

So why did the thought of watching him die make her feel weak-kneed?

"In lieu of innocence you offer us influence. May your sacrifice be deemed sufficient."

"May it be so." Hubert lowered his head, and Kenway put his hand upon it as if he were the pope

blessing a supplicant.

Francesca readied herself for the worst. Tensed with a frenzy of thought. Would he stab himself?

Commit some sort of seppuku, right here in front of a crowd of onlookers?

Or would Kenway murder him in front of everyone?

What would she do in response?

She was supposed to watch. But could she really bring herself to witness a murder? A suicide?

She was in too deep. And she was utterly alone.

Suddenly she wanted Chandler. Because even though he fought with her, he would also fight

beside her. This she knew absolutely.

Kenway took a knife out of his robes and held it out to the Lord Chancellor, who took it almost

gratefully.

Francesca steeled herself, prepared for the worst. She'd known tonight would be strange, and

dangerous. This was the moment she'd hoped for and feared: She was bearing witness to something

she could use against them one day. This was what infiltrators had to do.And she had to remain silent.

The Lord Chancellor held the dagger against his forearm and sliced. Some of the crowd gasped;

others remained still as the blood flowed, but not so much as Francesca had feared.

Not enough to be fatal.

He brought the cut to his pale and doughy chest and drew the three-headed snake, or at least, she

thought it was. That finished, a bandage was brought to him by a nubile handmaiden and pressed to

the shallow wound before the stag-headed men relieved him of the dagger and escorted him out.

They didn't follow him, but closed the door behind him and returned to their half-moon arc around

her.

Sacrifice, indeed. Francesca rolled her eyes and let out a trapped breath on a sigh that was equal

parts relieved and deflated as the chamber orchestra struck up their seductive melody once again.

If ever there was a good time for an anticlimax, this was it. She didn't have to watch anyone die.

"Do I sense a bit of disappointment in you, Countess?" Kenway drifted forward and inquired sotto

voce. "He was your enemy, was he not?"

Francesca knew she must answer carefully so as not to give herself away.

He saved her from having to reply. "What would you have done to him, I wonder? Would you have

put him back in the cage from which he has been freed?"

Her temper rose at the thought of his freedom as she remembered those innocent girls locked away

for weeks.

"Would you have seen him hanged?" Kenway continued with a malicious glee. "Put him in front of

a firing squad? Tell me, Francesca, what your most dangerous desire would be. If it would not stain

your soul. Would you watch him die as your family died?"

Kenway knew, she realized with a twist of terror. He knew that she'd found the Lord Chancellor in

the safe house and interrogated him for information. Which meant he knew what the Lord Chancellor

had revealed to her.

Now more than ever, it was important that she remain unaffected. "What happens to Sir Hubert

means nothing to me," she said with as much flippancy as she could muster. "Feed him to the dogs if

you will. I've more pressing concerns."

"Such as?"

"Such as the state of these men and women?" She motioned to the naked servants. "You shame and

degrade them, and what have they done? Would you do the same to me if I were to accept your

proposal? Is this how I would have to show devotion? Because I think not."

A mirthless laugh rolled from beneath his mask, and she wanted to rip it away so she could read

the evil in his eyes.

"Darling, there are those who would be always prey. They sometimes devote themselves to the

strong, and we allow it. These are our aspirants. They beg to be on their knees for us, so when our

time comes to take power, they will be by our side instead of beneath our feet. It is how they show

their devotion." He leaned closer. "You show your devotion by witnessing what you witness tonight,

and keeping it silent."

Bile rose in Francesca's throat. This … this was sick. Perverse. Profane. She watched how the

crowd now milled with excitement. Little groups began to form, heads together, whispering

intimacies in unlikely animalian clusters.

Expectancy still hovered in the air, and it didn't take a genius to guess what sorts of things wouldhappen next.

Her parents had something to do with this? Were they like these servants? The thought made her

ill.

"Now, my dear, let us prepare for the next night."

"The next?"

"We meet for three nights every three years for this particular three-part ritual. Of course, the most

important work is done beyond these walls. However, three is a very auspicious number, and I

daresay the second night is our favorite."

She was almost afraid to ask. "What is the second night?"

"The second night"—he put his hands on her shoulders and gently turned her to face the crescent of

patiently waiting stags—"is Desire."

Whatever motion Kenway made from behind her, it was a command.

Because all of the stag-headed men shucked their white robes, uncovering the bodies of seven

would-be gods.

Stunned, Francesca gaped.

Exquisite, they were, each in their own way. An overabundance of masculinity, nay an assault of

savage beauty. Mounds of muscle shone in the wan glow, creating grooves and shadows as they were

flexed and displayed. Each man was larger and lovelier than the last. Some had dark hair, others fair.

A few had little at all. Some were older, grizzled and hard. Others young and eager and also—she

swallowed as she looked down—hard.

They all wanted her. That much was physically obvious. And for every moment of this night that

was wrong, Kenway had been right about one thing.

The power of it was heady.

Francesca still struggled to process it all when Kenway nudged her forward. "They are here for

you, Countess. To tempt you. To pleasure you. They must show devotion by devoting themselves to

your whims. You select what you want, who you want, and tomorrow, you'll have him, or them. There

will be no depravity unavailable to you, and if you do not see what you desire here, it will be fetched

for you. This is only the first of the—"

Without forethought, Francesca held up a hand to stop him.

And it worked.

It was so quiet in the room, the whisper of her robes across marble could be heard in the back.

Everything about this night was entirely, deeply wrong. These people did not understand the

slightest thing about what it was to be human, their entire philosophy was skewed, but she had to do

what she had to do.

And she'd known immediately who she would select.

Who she wanted.

There. Him. Two "stags" over from the left. He was the entity she could feel in a room full of

people. He was the skitter of awareness up her spine.

He was not extraordinarily tall, like some, nor did he have an overabundance of bulk. No, he was

the perfect specimen. The Vitruvian man. His body was sculpted of different clay than most, perhaps

stolen from Mount Olympus rather than the pedestrian earth from which others were forged. When the

masters painted gods and heroes of myths and legends, they might have studied his frame.

Testing a theory, Francesca touched a few of the men as she strode by, pretending to test thestrength of a shoulder, the firmness of a jaw.

And each time her hand reached out, the stag that had caught her eye tensed even further. His

knuckles whitened as his side. A flush stole over his skin, barely perceptible in such dim light.

Finally, she stopped in front of him. Almost certain her suspicions were correct.

As she stood before him, his breath increased perceptibly, and she knew.

She said nothing as she smoothed her hand down the swells and valleys of his powerful arm,

stopping to pull his hand to her.

He allowed this, though she could sense hesitance in the rigidity of his every visible sinew.

Silently, as if they didn't have an audience, she opened his palm.

Chandler.

She traced the scar with her nail and looked back up at him. He was good at being a spy. He'd

found a way in, just as she had.

She'd known him to be spectacularly fit from when she'd sparred with him, but she hadn't

expected such exquisite beauty.

He was glaring down at her now through the slits in his mask covered with iridescent, paper-thin

fabric. She wasn't afraid, even when she couldn't see his face.

They'd been wearing masks since they'd rediscovered each other.

She could never read his thoughts, and he never guessed her emotions.

She knew nothing about him really … Only that she wanted him. Desired him.

His skin responded to her touch, little bumps of gooseflesh rising to meet her palm. His muscles

twitched and warmed wherever her fingertips ventured.

And when she looked down at where their hands were joined, it was impossible to miss another

appendage of his. Thick and impressive, jutting toward her from narrow hips lined with lean muscle.

She'd selected him now … which meant tomorrow they must—

"Excellent." Kenway stepped behind her, and Chandler wound impossibly tighter, his muscles

bunching like a stallion ready to take a leap. Waves of menace rolled from him, emanating with such

strength, she was astonished that Kenway wasn't toppled over by the tidal force.

Even she had to stop herself from taking a step in retreat.

"The selection is made," Kenway said with encouragement. "You will receive a summons and a

map to the next meeting place."

"We will not be here tomorrow?" Francesca dropped Chandler's hand, and it seemed it would not

return to his side for a hesitant moment as she turned to Kenway.

"No, my vixen, needs must that we conduct our rituals in several expedient places."

She merely inclined her head, almost dizzy with relief to find that she'd be leaving this place

tonight.

Alive.

Kenway seemed as if he would move on before he paused. "Feel free to take one home with you, if

you'd like." He motioned to Chandler with his chin. "Not him of course, but if I know you, you'll

want an amuse-bouche before the main course." He leaned in. "Or, perhaps, you would stay here

tonight. With me."

Chandler almost stepped out of the circle, a low noise escaping his throat, and Francesca

panicked. Her hand collided with his chest, but she softened the touch as she raked her fingers down

the many corrugations of his ribs in a show of lust that wasn't exactly a performance. "I believe I willtake the night to prepare." She shot Chandler a pleading look from beneath her mask, knowing it was

hopeless. "I think we should all recoup and ready ourselves for what we must do next."

If Kenway thought her reply odd, he gave no indication. "Indeed. Until we meet again, my Crimson

Countess."

When he left through the same large door through which the Lord Chancellor had gone, the council

dispersed in no particular hurry.

Chandler said nothing to her, following the stags in their procession, taking with him any sense of

protection she'd felt.

It would be folly to wait around here for him, though Francesca did what she could to linger.

Finally she gave in to the parts screaming at her to run. To get out.

Eventually, she followed a couple who kept their arms interlocked as they were ushered down a

barely lit corridor. The dim glow hardly reached the walls, but plush carpet muted the sounds of the

people being led to who-knew-where.

"The council has become so secretive since those girls were found," the woman in front of her

said in muted tones to her companion. "Too careful, if I'm honest. Seems to go against the creed,

don't you agree?"

"Perhaps," her fellow replied in a waspish voice. "But think about how many of us have been

befallen by some sort of calamity or other. Colfax, Murphy, and scores of others. Not to mention the

Lord Chancellor." A shudder went through him. "I'll be honest, whatever befalls Sir Hubert won't

keep me up at night. Sometimes the fate of those poor girls has stolen my peaceful slumber in the past.

It is a true and ingenious test of our devotion, to watch the sacrifice of innocents, an unnecessary one,

I feel. I've always been rather glad it is quick and painless."

The girls he spoke of, girls not yet become women stashed in the basement of the high-end den of

vice that had abutted the Kenway estates. The Red Rogues had always assumed the girls were meant

to be used as objects for the perversions of powerful men. Francesca was certain Ramsay and

Cecelia had saved the young ladies from molestation.

To think there was something worse in store for them. A sacrificial death, perhaps. It was enough

to chill the bones.

To wonder if she'd ever be warm again.

"Tosh," the woman reprimanded. "Those girls were always nothing more than immigrants and East

End rubbish. The Lord Chancellor was part of the Triad. If he can so be discarded, then we should all

fear for our own necks."

Francesca had to stop herself from snorting aloud. The Lord Chancellor, in her opinion, was

fortunate to escape with his life. He'd gotten off rather lightly, in her opinion.

For now. She was going to take down the rest of these deviants if it was the last thing she did. The

Lord Chancellor would be first on her list.

"We do not protect our necks, my dear," said her husband. "We go for the throats of others."

"Absolutely." She patted the man's arm as they turned a corner and filed through a narrow door to

the gardens across which a gate stood ajar.

What they saw through slats in a wrought-iron fence to the north was the only thing that kept

Francesca from clawing the insufferable woman's eyes out.

The wet sounds of animals dining slowed the exit of the council as they walked by, each of them

pausing to watch the gruesome spectacle.A pack of hounds fed on fresh meat.

"I suppose we will need more sacrifices in the future," the woman said as she watched for a

moment from beneath a mask of a badger. "Other sacrifices…" She turned to look at Francesca, her

hawk-masked companion following suit. "One wonders, my dear, what sort of dynamic a woman will

bring to the Triad, most especially when our Primus has chosen you, and also paid you this tribute."

Francesca couldn't bring herself to summon a reply as she stepped closer to the wrought-iron gate.

The bars were cool, even as she wrapped fingers of ice around them.

Tribute?

Blood ran through the grooves of the paving stones as the last of the flesh was torn from a long

bone.

Francesca had to swallow several times so as not to retch.

What had she said so flippantly to Kenway when he'd asked her what she wanted to do with the

vile Lord Chancellor?

Feed him to the dogs.