Moonspun Magic (37 page)

Damien scoffed. “Brought to justice? All the world is to know that Viscount Bainbridge's precious daughter was raped by eight men? You jest, Rafael. No father would want that public.”

“I suppose I should have been more specific. Once I discover the identity of the Ram I will tell Lord Walton, who will in turn tell the viscount. The Ram will be given two choices: first, he can leave England forever, or second, he will die. Removed from this earth like the scum he is, no duel, nothing that could smack of honorable differences between gentlemen.
No, removed, quickly.” Rafael paused a moment, closely watching his brother's face. He read little there, frustration perhaps, and a touch of fear and maybe aggression. But not a single great emotion to sweep all others before it.

“No one will grieve for him, you know, not for a twisted evil creature like him. I don't really want you dead, Damien. No matter that you've more than likely enjoyed yourself mightily raping young girls. But it will stop. You will stop.”

Damien said nothing. He picked up a silver letter knife from his desktop. He gently slid the razor-sharp edge along the pad of his thumb.

“What about Elaine? Have you no feeling for her at all? You also have an adorable daughter, and an heir to be born shortly. What the hell is the matter with you, Damien? Why have you continued to play the satyr? Oh, yes, two can use the peepholes, you know. I saw you and Molly. I had wondered the day before why the girl's mobcap was crooked and there was a vacuous smile on her face. Why, Damien?”

Damien raised his head from concentrated study of the letter knife. He looked at his brother squarely. “Boredom,” he said. “Pure and simple boredom.” He laughed at Rafael's incredulous expression. “You believe I should be satisfied being Baron Drago, owning Drago Hall and all its damned antiquity? You believe I should continue deliriously happy with a woman whose only claim to my affections is the yearly dowry payments made me by her damnable father?

“You believe I should be content wandering about my acres, counting the trees that dot my land? You believe it the best of all possible outcomes for me to have wed at the age of twenty-two? Lord, I hadn't even begun to live, and there I was with a damned wife. Surely you can't be that blind, brother, you who
prevented boredom quite effectively through your spying adventures, you who had no worries about how to maintain this hideous pile of stone, no damned responsibilities toward the Carstairs line. Even now, you thumb your nose at me, at all the aristocracy, and calmly enter the tin-mine trade after making a fortune as a merchant. Even now, you find yourself married to a woman who has brought you fifty thousand pounds.

“I have resented you for many years now, Rafael, more years than I care to consider. I know you must sometimes remember Patricia—yes, I recall her as well, the silly little fool, though her last name eludes me. I enjoyed taking her from you. I enjoyed plowing her, knowing that you watched. You were always much too much the careful, sincere lover when what dear Patricia wanted was forcefulness and dominance. But that was years ago, too many to dredge up now.”

“Far too many,” Rafael said.

“I will leave Victoria alone. Her leg is quite ugly with its ridged red scar. It was simple sport that last time—seeing if I could fool her into my bed. No, I don't want her.”

Rafael stiffened, his fists clenching. “It is enough, Damien. Surely it is enough.”

Damien shrugged, an elaborate motion that was identical to his twin's. “You know, I do believe that I will give you the Ram.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I said, brother, that I will give you the Ram.”

“Why?”

Damien laughed at the incredulous look on his twin's face. “Let's just say that I'm . . . bored with the nasty little club, as you call it. The others really are rather paltry fellows, you know. Do you doubt me? Not that I would blame you, of course. Suspicion
would be wise, I should say. But I'll do it. Why not? Perhaps to prove to myself that I have some honor left.” He paused a moment, shaking his head. “Perhaps it is a bit of retribution to my merchant brother.”

“Trade isn't synonymous with vulgarity, Damien.”

“Oh? Well, perhaps that is true for plain Mr. Carstairs or even for Captain Carstairs, but for Baron Drago? It makes the blood congeal even to consider it, no matter how briefly. No, brother dear, that is something the baron could not do.”

“
Would
not do, you mean. Were I Baron Drago, I wouldn't hesitate.”

“Ah, the noble twin again. Just like our father, with your noble streak. Only thing about our father, he wasn't all that clever a businessman. But at least he didn't gamble my inheritance away. He did leave me something, perhaps even enough. And who knows, perhaps my heir, my as-yet-unborn-son, will become a cit in his thinking, if not in his breeding. Perhaps he will be like his uncle and wallow in trade.”

“Drop it, Damien. Drop all of it. We are still brothers.”

“More's the pity, that's what you're thinking. Well, since your face is mine, damn you, I can't dispute the fact for even an instant. Incidentally,” Damien added as he made for the estate-room door, “I appreciate your not killing me. Fratricide wouldn't sit well on the English hero's shoulders. No, indeed. I will tell you how we will get the Ram. Soon.”

Rafael didn't move for some time after his brother left him alone.

 

It was All Hallows' night, the eve of All Saints' Day. There was no full moon, but there were jack-o'-lanterns aplenty, including two that Damaris had carved with the help of Victoria and Elaine, with
Nanny Black making dire predictions throughout the process.

“We will set both of them in the window to welcome friends and scare off ugly goblins,” said Elaine in an excellent conspiratorial voice as she carefully placed lighted candles in each carved-out pumpkin.

“Look, Torie, look!”

“Hmmm? Oh, yes, they look grand, Damie.”

Elaine gave her cousin a look, then shrugged. “You will be leaving in two days,” she said.

“Yes, we will. If you would like me to take care of Damaris while you are confined, I should be delighted.”

“No, I think not. Nanny Black will be sufficient. Oh, Lord, I just wish the child would make his appearance and be done with it.”

Victoria gave her a perfunctory smile, kissed Damaris good night, and left the nursery, Elaine in her wake.

“What's the matter with you, Victoria?”

“Nothing.” But there was; she just couldn't put her finger on it. She was very sensitive to Rafael and his moods. Although he'd tried, she sensed a tension in him throughout the day, a barely leashed excitement that, even controlled as he was, made his eyes glitter silver. “All right, husband,” she'd said to him after luncheon that day, “what are you planning? No, don't tell me I'm imagining things, for I know that I'm not. Tonight is All Hallows' Eve. What is going to happen?”

“Victoria, love,” Rafael said, closing his hands over her forearms, “the only thing I'm planning is to exhaust you so completely you will not rise until noon on the morrow.”

“Rafael, you can't get around me with promises like that.”

He laughed, leaned down, and kissed her hard.

“Promises, huh?”

“You know what I mean. Now, tell me what you're up to.”

He looked at her thoughtfully then, but shook his head. “You will be in my company all evening, my dear, and all night. Oh, Victoria, I always keep my promises.”

He left her and she stood staring after him, wishing she had something to throw at him.

For once the two ladies were first to arrive in the drawing room. “I shall surely roast Rafael for this,” Victoria said, sipping her sherry.

“Damien won't join us this evening,” Rafael said from the doorway. “He had business to attend to, I'm afraid.”

“Business?” Victoria repeated blankly. “Tonight? But that is ridiculous.”

“I agree, but nonetheless, that is what he said. Ah, here is your husband.”

Well, Victoria thought, giving him a brilliant smile. He hadn't lied to her about being here. He looked lovely in his black evening clothes, her favorite of his vests—a soft pearl gray—contrasting with the black of his coat and the snow white of his linen.

“Do you know where Damien has gone, Rafael?” Elaine asked, rising ponderously.

“Some business he had to attend to.”

Victoria snorted. “Nonsense,” she said. “I think there is some sort of conspiracy here, Elaine. I shall take this husband of mine away and pry it out of him.”

“No, I pray not, Victoria. I'm hungry. Ligger, bless you, old man. Is dinner ready?”

“Yes, Master Rafael.”

Conversation over dinner was light, amusing, and Victoria found herself forgetting, for a few moments at a stretch, that it was All Hallows' Eve, a night
when this Ram fellow would more than likely indulge in some wickedness. How could she really worry, though, for her husband was here, safe as could be, across from her, chewing on some delicious stewed venison.

After dinner Victoria was delighted to see that Rafael didn't remain in splendid isolation in the dining room with port. He assisted Elaine from her chair, offered each lady an arm, and escorted them back to the drawing room. Victoria begged Elaine to play.

“A Beethoven sonata, if you please,” said Victoria. “He has such passion. I heard you practicing the other morning. All right, Elaine?”

Elaine settled herself, barely able to reach the keyboard now that her belly was so large. Her hands came down with impressive drama on a C-minor chord.

It was at that exact instant that there was the sound of shattering glass from behind Victoria. Just as she jerked about, a shot rang out. Victoria saw Rafael slam back against the wall, stand very still for what seemed an eternity, then very gracefully, slowly, slide to the floor.

She heard a hoarse, ugly cry. A scream, and it was from her own mouth.

Truth and hope will always come to the surface.

—S
PANISH PROVERB

T
he Ram was pleased. Soon, very soon now, his success would be confirmed. He'd sent his trusted and loyal man Deevers to Drago Hall. He looked toward the baron, who was chatting easily with Vincent Landower. He had no doubt that the baron would eventually approve of what had had to be done. Even if the baron didn't approve, he would keep his mouth shut—oh, yes, he would, because he was as deeply embroiled as every other wicked young fool in this room.

The Ram was aware of tremendous elation tonight, for it was Satan's night, and thus, his own night. He'd worked long and hard refining his rules, his beautiful rituals, delighting in their near-perfection, molding the men in this room into the image he desired. Oh, yes, it was a wonderful feeling he had.

“Gentlemen,” he said, gaining their attention. “It is symbolic that we meet on All Hallows' Eve to toast our brotherhood and our continued success. We're becoming known. Soon the Hellfire Club will be infamous, its members an elite who are feared and respected and held in awe, in short, envied by all men.
Gentlemen, a toast to our continuation, to our surpassing the infamy of the original Hellfire Club.”

There were cheers, a few grunts, but general head-nodding, and everyone drank the rich brandy from the cups. The Ram wished he could take a whip to all of them. They should have been shouting at the top of their bloody lungs. Damned fools. The Ram then saw Baron Drago rise slowly from his chair. He saw him turn and look at the girl who lay in a drugged stupor on the long table, her arms and legs spread away from her slight body, bound at the wrist and ankle, awaiting her initiation.

“Something troubles you?”

“No, not for very much longer.”

Then, to the Ram's consternation, the baron slowly drew off his hood and tossed it to the floor. Then he ground the soft velvet beneath the heel of his boot.

“Stop,” the Ram roared, his fists on the arms of his high-backed chair. “That's against the rules. Your hood must be on at all times during our meetings.”

“Why?”

“Damien, what ails you? Are you foxed? You continue in this disrespectful manner, and you will be chastised.”

The baron laughed. “Really? But why can't all my friends see me? Why can't I see them? I want them all to study my face when I thrust into that girl over there. She is all of thirteen years old. I want them all to see how much I enjoy raping a senseless child, how much I will delight in making that small heap of humanity bleed and shudder in pain.”

“Shut up, you young fool. Have you lost your bloody mind?”

Johnny Tregonnet jumped to his feet, his brandy snifter falling unheeded to the floor beside him. “You're not Damien. Damn you, you're Rafael.”

Very smoothly Rafael drew a pistol from the
pocket of his capacious black cloak. “You're right about that, Johnny.” Rafael turned slowly toward the Ram. “I have tried to place your voice. It's familiar to me, but you are disguising it effectively.” He shrugged and smiled, a very bad smile. He turned back to the members. “Now, dear friends, I want all of you to remove your hoods. I want us all to see each other. Now.”

No one moved. They all appeared black apparitions frozen in a moment of time.

“If you don't immediately obey me, I will shoot the Ram.” Very calmly Rafael raised the pistol, aiming it in the center of the Ram's forehead. “It would be excellent riddance and certainly clear the air of its foul stench.”

“Take them off,” the Ram said.

They did.

“Throw them into the fire.”

As the black velvet hoods landed in the fireplace, they smothered the flames for a moment, sending black smoke gushing upward, then burst into bright orange.

“We all know each other. No reason for the nonsense of hoods. Hello, Charlie, Paul, Linc.” Rafael saw that they had difficulty meeting his eyes. Not that he blamed them. It was worse than being caught with your breeches down. He continued around the group, calling out each name in a jovial voice, watching their embarrassed reactions. Then he frowned, pausing. David Esterbridge wasn't here. His frown deepened as he remembered that young Joan Newdowns had claimed to have heard David's voice. If that were true, where was he? He said aloud to Vincent Landowner, “Vinnie, don't you wish to know the identity of the Ram?”

Vincent raised rather bulging blue eyes to Rafael's face. “It's not allowed,” he said simply.

“I asked you if you would like to know.”

“Yes,” Vincent said. “All of us would, I guess.”

“No. It's not allowed. I'm the leader here, you young bastard. You will stop this, immediately.”

Rafael looked around the circle of lowered heads. “Why?” he said. “Why do you allow him to make you do these things? Charlie, you have a sister, Claire. She's fifteen. Should you like to see her drugged, tied down, and raped?”

“Damn you, Rafael, Claire's a child.”

“And the girl lying there, Charlie?”

“She counts for nothing,” Paul Keason said, his voice sounding a sullen litany.

“Ah, is that so? It appears to me that you're willing to swallow any swill that the Ram feeds you. Did the young lady—the daughter of the viscount—did she also count for nothing?”

“We didn't know at the time,” Johnny cried. “We didn't know until later.”

“Ah, she didn't tell you who she was?”

“Yes,” said Paul Keason, “but of course we didn't believe her.”

Lincoln said, “That was a mistake. The wretched girl was dressed like a peasant and had no groom with her.”

“Every evil has its excuse ready,” said Rafael. “Charlie, doesn't your little sister Claire occasionally take walks without her groom?”

Charles St. Clement swallowed painfully, but said nothing.

“Perhaps little Claire even takes walks wearing an old gown? To go berrying, perhaps?”

“Stop it, Rafael.”

“All right, I believe you do see the point. Now, all of you listen. I will tell you the truth. I was asked by the ministry to put a stop to this foolishness. Yes, gentlemen, you gained the attention of high-placed
men when you ravished the viscount's daughter. So you see, it will stop. Now. If all of you swear to return to something resembling a path of righteousness, you won't be punished. This gentleman, however, this Ram, well, he will be taken care of in another way.”

“There are seven of you and but one of him. Kill him.”

“Flash.”

“'Ere, Cap'n. None of ye fancy coves move, now.”

No one budged.

“Thank you, Flash,” Rafael said quietly. “Would you please see to our young friend on the table? Untie her and see that she's breathing all right.”

Flash moved to the young girl and efficiently unbound her. “She's all right, Cap'n. In fact, she should be awake very soon.”

“Ah, yes, of course,” said Rafael, turning back to the Ram. He said contemptuously, “You want her to be somewhat awake when all your obedient little lads rape her.”

The Ram rose slowly to his feet. His voice trembled as he spoke. “You have desecrated this place. You have sneered and threatened. I am the leader here. This is All Hallows' Eve. This is my night of triumph.” His eyes shifted, and in that instant, Rafael knew. He whirled about but he wasn't quite fast enough.

“Cap'n!”

The pistol butt came down, not on the base of his skull, but on his right shoulder, and he reeled with the force of it and the blinding pain. His own gun went flying across the old wool rug, and he lurched toward it.

“No, Captain, don't try it or Deever will kill you.”

Rafael, panting, straightened and looked at the bulbous-nosed individual who was pointing a pistol at
his chest. He stilled, cursing himself silently, closing his mind to the pain, regaining control.

“This, my dear Rafael, is Deevers. You, Flash, come here by your captain. Yes, that's better. Now, gentlemen, let us tie up these two interlopers.”

Rafael looked Johnny Tregonnt in the face. “I, an interloper?” he said very softly. “Because it revolts me that you have somehow convinced these men to perform acts that normally they would find equally repulsive?”

“Shut up, Captain. Sit down, now.”

Rafael sat willingly, motioning Flash beside him.

“Tie him, Johnny, Vincent.”

“Yes, do,” Rafael said easily. “Then you can draw lots to see who rapes that child first. An exciting prospect. I should hurry if I were you.”

“Deever, if he says another word, put a bullet in his brain.”

“Look here, Ram,” Johnny Tregonnet said, stepping back rather than forward, “you'll not kill him. I shan't allow it.”

“You'll not allow it, Johnny? You young ass, you have no say in anything I choose to do.”

Johnny turned pugnacious, a sight that surprised Rafael and made a surge of relief wash through him. Johnny and the others were his only hope now.

“I think the others agree with me, Ram. Vinnie? Linc? Charlie?”

“But what are we to do?” Vinnie said, his voice a bewildered low whine.

“Lookee here,” said Flash, “you 'eard the cap'n. He said not'ing would 'appen to you.”

“Kill him.” The Ram screamed at Deever.

Deever whipped the pistol around toward Flash. In that instant Johnny Tregonnet and Charlie St. Clement rushed forward, Rafael with them. Soon all the others were piled on top of Deever. The pistol
was wrested from his meaty hand. He was pummeled and kicked until Rafael called a halt.

“No,” Rafael said, “the Ram is the important one, not this pathetic bastard.” He rose a bit unsteadily, aware of the pain numbing his shoulder. “Now, Ram, take off your hood. All of us want a good look at you.”

The Ram backed away slowly, his body curiously still even as he walked.

“Now,” Rafael said, “or I shall remove it for you.”

The Ram cursed, and even Flash, who had heard the most lurid of speech on his mother's knee, was shocked.

“Who are you?” Rafael said. “David, is it you? Joan Newdowns recognized your voice, at least she thought it was you. Is it you, you miserable little bully?”

The Ram drew up straight as a rod. Slowly he raised his hands. The hood slid upward, then back and off.

There was complete silence. Everyone stared in disbelief at Squire Gilbert Esterbridge.

“An old man . . .”

“David's father.”

“Jesus, I don't believe this . . .”

“So Joan was nearly right, closer than any of us,” said Rafael. “Well, Squire, what have you to say? Does David have any idea of your perverted activities?”

“David wanted to join us,” Linc Penhallow said, shaking his head. “And the Ram here said no. Only eight members there were to be. No more, no less.”

“He was always making up rules,” said Johnny. “Rules and more rules. Like my damned father.”

Rafael said nothing. He wanted to beat Johnny and the others to a pulp, but knew the pleasure would
be denied him. He needed the dishonorable little bastards.

“Yes,” said Charlie St. Clement, “even rules for the girls. We weren't to fondle their breasts, not even to see their breasts. Their only use is what's between their legs. Vessels, that's all they were, that's what he called them.”

Rafael listened to each of them complaining, but he was watching the squire's face. His complexion was ruddy, and his eyes, an odd shade of green, were glittering, intense, and suddenly Rafael felt a frisson of fear.

He had to regain control, of himself and the situation. He said, shutting off Paul Keason, “As I said before, Squire, only you are to be punished. You have a choice. You may leave England forever or you may die. The viscount won't meet you, for that would be an honorable acknowledgment. No, sir, he will have you killed. It's that simple. The decision is yours.”