Deviance. London Psychic Book 3 (14 page)

"You must be Blake. Margaret said she was sending someone up to help me with the lifting and shifting."
 

Blake raised an eyebrow. "Lifter and shifter at your service." He turned to look at the stage area. "So what's this going to be?"

"Flagellation was a popular sexual service, especially in Georgian London and particularly amongst the nobility," Catherine said. "Brits have always enjoyed a good spanking."

She pointed at a wall filled with images of Victorian pornography, some of the more acceptable pictures from the museum's extensive collection. A black and white illustration showed a bewigged aristocrat bent over by a window, a woman beating his behind with birch twigs.
 

Blake found his eyes lingering on one image where a young woman lay over the knees of an older man, her blonde hair hanging down as he raised his hand to spank her. He turned away to find Catherine looking at him, curiosity in her eyes. He swallowed. Suddenly it seemed stuffy in here.
 

"So," he said. "What do you need me to do here?"

Catherine smiled and pointed out some of the other items to be placed on the stage, creating a tableau of a boudoir in one of the high-end establishments. Blake began to move the furniture, trying to push the lewd images from his mind.
 

Catherine's fingers lingered on his arm as he moved the final piece into position and Blake understood the possibility implied there. Before he had met Jamie, he had been living well in the promiscuous London singles scene, fueled by alcohol and a desire to forget. He had never had any trouble finding willing partners, but he struggled to take anything further than a one-night stand. Questions about his scars and doubts about his own demons had stopped him. But Jamie had given him hope that he could give more of himself, and tonight he would see her at the masquerade ball. Perhaps tonight they would be more than friends.

He took a step back, away from Catherine's touch.
 

"It looks great," he said. "I like that you've added humor to what could be a – difficult – exhibition."

"I'm glad you think so, but I also wanted to portray the darker side," Catherine said. "Whores who got on the wrong side of the law were sent to Bridewell house of correction and whipped in public. There were many who enjoyed watching and who paid for the privilege. Who were the real sinners after all?"

Catherine's eyes hardened and even with her small stature, Blake could see how much this exhibition meant to her.
 

"It's good that you're the curator," he said. "It's almost a feminist take on the sex trade, something that many wouldn't have considered."

Catherine's face softened and she sighed.

"Thank you. It means a lot to me to reclaim some of the myths. Of course the sex trade had its horrific side, but there were also women who made a lot of money with it. If they didn't die of disease or violence, they could live more independently than ever. Profits from the sex industry actually financed the development of huge swathes of the city. It was one of the most valuable commercial activities in the eighteenth and early nineteenth century, as important as even the London Docks."

Blake shook his head. "It's one of the paradoxes of London. Some of its greatest achievements come from the shadow side."

"Of course, it's difficult to know where to draw the line," Catherine said, the cheeky smile returning to her face. "The truth of London's past is often hidden for good reason." She pulled out some old street signs. "I want to put a couple of these up around the exhibit. What do you think?"
 

She shuffled through them so Blake could read the texts: Maiden Lane, Love Lane, Codpiece Lane, Gropecunt Lane. He put a hand up to stop her, laughing a little.

"I think that last one would bring in a raft of complaints," he said.
 

"It became Grape Street and then Grub Street over time," Catherine said. "But I quite like the original name. At least you knew what you were going to get there."

They worked with an easy camaraderie for the rest of the afternoon, the exhibition taking shape around them. Blake enjoyed watching Catherine work, her strong sense of what she wanted to portray commanding the space. Flirtation aside, she inspired him with the way she could use an exhibit to make people laugh and think, to make them feel. He understood why Margaret wanted him up here. He was reminded once more what a future in the museum might mean, what he could do with his gifts. He could bring the past alive and the thought enlivened him.
 

Blake looked at his watch. He still needed to pick up the tuxedo from the rental shop before heading to the Tate Modern for the ball.
 

"I've got to run," Blake said. "But I can help you tomorrow if you like?"

"I'll look forward to it," Catherine said with a smile that promised far more.
 

Blake emerged from the central exhibition space into the crowded Great Court. Tourists and families thronged the space and the noise of the crowd rose in waves. A lone figure caught Blake's eye. The man with the scar on his nose stood by the door of the Enlightenment Room, his piercing blue eyes fixed on Blake.
 

Blake's heart thudded in his chest as he recognized aspects of his father in the man's face, and the promise of the north in his eyes.
 

He took a step forward.
 

The man ducked into the Enlightenment Room behind him. Blake followed, expecting to find him there, wanting to challenge him. The room swirled with people, but the man was gone. For now, at least.

The vast expanse of the Turbine Hall at the Tate Modern was transformed for the masquerade ball.
 

High ceilings were crisscrossed with thin wires at one end and acrobats walked with long poles over the crowd. Trapeze artists swung across the expanse, tumbling across the space to be caught before the long drop to the concrete floor. Long silk ribbons hung down in another area and four lithe women wound themselves up before letting themselves spin towards the ground, plunging in barely controlled descent. The acrobats wore close-fitting, almost see-through body suits with artfully placed embroidery and crystals reflecting the light. Their limbs were etched against the black roof, the embodied perfection of human art in this temple to creation.
 

Jamie stood for a moment, looking up in wonder at the kaleidoscope of color and movement above. The sounds of a live jazz band accompanied the performers, although the dancing would start in earnest as the alcohol flowed more freely. Jamie remembered the night she had taken Polly to Cirque du Soleil, a circus that celebrates the extremes of the human body, communicating story through movement and music. Polly's body had been ravaged by motor neuron disease by then, but her eyes had been alive with joy that night.
 

With a smile on her lips at the memory, Jamie walked towards one of the bars. Tempted as she was by the multicolored cocktails, she chose a small glass of white wine and took it to stand on the edge of the dance area, scanning the crowd.
 

Most wore masks, some attached over their faces while others held them on long poles in the Venetian way. Those who wanted to be recognized held their masks casually, but most were incognito.
 

A couple spun past on the dance floor, the woman in an ice-white dress, her face masked in branches of icicles, her lips painted blue. Her partner was a Green Man, his face obscured by the leaves of the pagan god. There were men in the crowd with the long nose masks of the Scaramuccia, a rogue and adventurer from the Venetian Commedia Dell'Arte. The wearers had a swagger that matched their characters. Two women walked past in steampunk half-masks of copper and rivets, cogs and wheels, extravagant Victorian dress with bustles and petticoats. The flash of photographers captured everything, some attendees striking coquettish poses and others turning away from the light.

The masquerade ball was the society event of the season and Jamie was aware of how her outfit was nothing compared to some in the room. She wore a black chiffon dress with layers that flowed around her legs, with a bodice in a peacock feather design. A matching butterfly mask hid the upper part of her face with its gauzy wings. It fitted well and although extravagant on her budget, Jamie looked forward to wearing the outfit at tango another night. The feeling of the dress swishing around her legs as she walked made her want to dance, but tonight she was here to watch.

A man walked past in white tie, his black suit tailored to perfection, the lining bright scarlet. He turned and Jamie saw that he wore the mask of the Devil, his face half perfect angel, the other half a demon with twisted features.
 

She knew the one she sought wouldn't wear such a mask. His peculiar fetish for flesh made him a demon in her mind, but he would no doubt be as mundane as other criminals she had encountered in her years in the police. Yet she wanted the man to come tonight, and she wanted to face him in the darkness.
 

Jamie found it easy enough to spot the police and security guards in the crowd, their bodies alert, eyes scanning the people before them. Some had no masks, their earpieces marking them out in an obvious fashion, but there were others who wore plain black masks and tuxedos in an attempt to blend in.

A couple spun past as the music sped up. The man wore an eagle mask, its body between his eyes and up onto his forehead, its wings stretching up to meet above his head like a prayer. A woman wore a ragged blue dress, ripped off one shoulder and stained with blood. Her mask looked as if it had been carved from her skin, wet and dripping. In any other setting, Jamie would be rushing to her aid, but the woman's dark smile as she turned heads made it clear she was dressed to win one of the costume prizes for the night.

Jamie understood this craving to be both seen and disguised. It was how she felt at tango, a separate being from her daytime self when she could let the wild side out and not be restrained by society. Masks are used to de-individuate, so the person behind is lost and they can behave as they might want to in a world with no consequences. There were masks that revealed and there were masks that concealed, and as the night darkened and wine flowed, it became evident why some chose concealment. As the alcohol loosened inhibitions, the dark corners became havens for couples locked together in momentary escape.

Jamie had arranged to meet Blake under the trapeze artist, so she made her way through the crowd. It parted for a moment and she saw him, looking up at the performers. His suit was understated, a perfect tailored fit showing off broad shoulders and wide chest. His mask was black leather and it looked soft enough to touch. He turned, sensing her presence. His stunning blue eyes met hers, framed by the leather mask, and Jamie couldn't help but go to him.
 

"You look lovely," Blake said softly, bending to her ear so she could hear above the band. Jamie beamed, twirling her skirts a little.
 

"Glad you like it," she said. "You don't look bad yourself."

"Shame it's not actually a date then." Blake smiled and Jamie blushed a little, staring out into the crowd, avoiding his gaze. "How do you want to manage tonight?" he asked, changing the subject.
 

"There are plenty of security guards here for any obvious trouble," Jamie said. "But I want us to focus more on potential victims. I'm sure the man will be here tonight. How could he stay away?"

Two women walked past, their low-backed dresses framing their tattoos – one a stylized tree growing out from her spine, and the other of bright fish splashing in a pool of blue.
 

"Any skin fetishist is going to get off tonight, that's for sure," Blake said. "So we just walk around and keep an eye out?"
 

"I guess so," Jamie said. "I don't even know what we're looking for." Her voice trailed off as she gazed into the throng, the myriad colors and textures creating ever-shifting patterns in the great hall, a moving work of art.
 

They walked together around the edges of the crowd as the band wound up its final song of the set. The bass made Jamie's heart thump in time and she could see that Blake longed to get out there and dance. Part of her wanted to forget the case and let loose together, darkness and music and collective energy freeing them from daylight responsibilities. Neither of them had any reason to hold back from each other, did they?

Applause erupted as the band finished up and the lead singer left the stage. Then the lights dimmed and a young black woman walked out, her silver dress sparkling as she moved. She took hold of the microphone and began to sing, her voice rich and powerful as she told of rivers running deep and forsaken love. Couples merged together as her accompaniment joined in, the song lifting the emotion of the crowd.
 

Blake turned and leaned down, his breath against Jamie's ear. She shivered at the sensation.
 

"Will you dance with me?" he whispered, his gloved hand taking hers, moving so close that all she had to do was take one tiny step and she would be pressed against him. Jamie's heart thumped in her chest. He smelled of pine needles and spice and all she wanted was to be in his arms.
 

A moment's hesitation and then she took that tiny step.
 

She wrapped her arms around his strong back, her cheek against his chest as he held her. One of his gloved hands cradled the back of her head against him, the other stroked her lower back slightly above her buttocks. The song intensified and they swayed together. Jamie pressed her full length against him and she heard him catch his breath.

She looked up and met his eyes. They were dark and intense, filled with a stark need that matched her own. Jamie tilted her head slightly, lifting her mouth to his as he leaned down to kiss her.

A flicker in her peripheral vision made Jamie stop and pull away.