Masque: A Hellfire Club Erotique Read online

  Olivia tentatively walked down the corridor then stopped and took a moment to study the tapestries. Shocked, she blinked and leaned closer. Each beautifully weaved tapestry, well-preserved and still vibrant even in the candlelight, depicted a variety of sexual acts that left her awestruck. Heart racing anew, not with fear but with scandalous fascination, Olivia stared.

  It took her several minutes to tear her eyes from the images, and even when she did they stayed with her, causing her breath to shorten.

  As she made her way further down the path, careful not to look at any more tapestries, she heard unusual sounds from several antechambers. Her curiosity bade her to investigate. At a juncture, Olivia paused, glancing down the corridor she was supposed to take then in the direction of the anteroom. If she diverted from this path she might lose her way. Louise had only told her how to find her room from the entrance and had warned of the labyrinthine and endless corridors of Paris’s Hellfire Club.

  Olivia took a moment to study her surroundings. She turned in a half-circle, trying to locate a landmark in case she veered off the direct route to Louise’s private rooms, which she would have to if she wanted to find Comte Sebastian de Courville—and investigate the rather intriguing sounds. Other than the variety of sexually explicit tapestries, which drew her gaze time and again, there was nothing to help her remember where she needed to be.

  Eyeing one of the tall candelabra flanking the nearest tapestry, she quickly walked to it and dragged the heavy wrought iron closer to the turn of the corridor. It wasn’t the perfect landmark, and Olivia hoped no one bothered to straighten it, but for now it would do. Fixing that in her mind, she looked behind her, back toward the main entrance and the members mingling through the room.

  The sounds came again, low moans that sounded both painful and enticing. Licking her lips, heart pounding with anticipation, Olivia veered from her path and went to investigate. Confident none would deter her, tonight she was the Comtesse Reynard after all, Olivia buried the sorrow at the memory of her aunt and focused.

  If she survived the upcoming night, if she managed to leave Paris and live through the revolution, she’d have time to grieve. Now, she feared that if she stopped, if she remembered Louise, she’d never again be able to move.

  Around the corner a small group of people engaged in…Olivia blinked, shocked at the sight before her. Louise had said all manner of things could be experienced in The Hellfire Club. Her aunt hadn’t, however, gone into detail as to what those things were.

  Dress hiked around her hips, one masqued woman had spread her legs for another woman to kneel before her. This second woman, masque removed, eagerly kissed her way up the moaning woman’s thigh, fingers pumping in and out of her glistening core. Her fingers slid out just before her mouth covered her lover’s core, tasting the thick juices now coating her.

  Olivia swallowed and tore her eyes from the scene. She saw two men having sex, one bent at what looked like an awkward angle over a chair, his bare buttocks red in the candlelight. Another couple—no, she saw with a shock. No, they weren’t a couple but rather a threesome.

  She’d heard of that, of course, but hadn’t believed it to be true. Or even possible. The man thrust into a woman while another woman, clad only in a chemise, knelt above her, head thrown back, breasts thrust out as her nails scrapped over already hard nipples.

  Quickly stepping back, Olivia tried to steady her pulse but her blood raced through her, hot and wanton. This was what Louise did here? This was what her beloved aunt indulged in at her Club? Swallowing, Olivia licked suddenly dry lips and tried not to think about it.

  Fear, anger, and yes even arousal slammed through her. Her future relied on a group of extravagant people who were apparently more interested in indulging their every sexual whim than escaping certain death on the guillotine. People her aunt had cavorted with most willingly, and had never bothered to tell her about. Not these secrets, not the ones about what truly happened in here.

  More, she hated that one of the men here, one of those enjoying a final evening of carnal pleasure, had murdered Louise. Olivia pushed it all away. She didn’t know what Rousseau looked like, let alone what masque he now sported. No, right now she needed to find Comte de Courville.

  Much as she tried to control herself, to settle her nerves, to be the confident countess her aunt had been, Olivia felt too much, felt off balance. She couldn’t regain control of her emotions. But the longer she remained in this room, with their wanton display of pleasure, the more chance of discovery.

  She needed to find Comte de Courville and enlist his help. From what she observed here, the Comte’s masque was not present.

  With one last deep breath, the scents of beeswax and pleasure mingling in the air, she made sure her own masque securely covered her face. Holding her chin high, she squared her shoulders and left the room. If her stomach tied itself in knots, she couldn’t help that.

  Olivia retraced her steps and continued to her aunt’s rooms. She had no trouble locating them down the third passage just as Louise had instructed. As she entered through the well-oiled oak door the familiar scent of her aunt’s perfume greeted her. The rooms, hidden deep in the catacombs, were larger than the apartment they had shared these last years.

  A stone fireplace, clearly constructed after these chambers were initially built, vented up through the mortared stone ceiling. Olivia gazed up at it and wondered how they managed to keep all of this secret for so long.

  A large bed covered in beautifully embroidered silks rested against the far wall. Paintings of once famous courtiers hung around the room, and a vanity filled with perfumes, powders and brushes reminded her of Louise’s vanity from her townhouse. It was then, as she looked around, that Olivia realized that some of the furniture decorating the space was in fact from Louise’s own townhouse.

  When had she had time to order it all moved here?

  Removing her masque and cloak, Olivia sat on the vanity’s chair. She couldn’t help a small smile at the pearl encrusted hair comb Louise had promised to let her wear when she married. Gently picking it up, she ran a finger along the smooth edge. At twenty, Olivia wondered if she’d have the chance to marry anymore.

  Looking at her hands, scarred from the night they escaped the police, she felt so much older than her years. Gazing at her reflection, Olivia repinned her dark hair, using the pearl hair comb to hold the heavy locks in place.

  She nodded at her reflection and rose, determined to locate the man Louise had said would help her, Comte de Courville. Wearing the masque anew, Olivia left the chamber in search of other Hellfire Club members.

  It didn’t take her long to stumble upon a lounge area were members removed masques and feasted from a table full of roasted meats and cheeses. Olivia’s mouth watered at the delicious smelling plates, and she tried to remember when she’d last eaten. The scene before her reminded her of the parties they had when her parents were alive.

  Olivia carefully looked around and chose a woman sipping wine who stood near the doorway.

  “Pardon, but would you know a Monsieur…” she hesitated for a brief moment before smoothly continuing, “Monsieur Rousseau?”

  “Rousseau?” the woman responded with a dismissive cluck of her tongue and a mischievous look in her dark eyes. “His tongue is much too stiff. My tongue however is limber and long. Come with me to my chamber and I shall prove it, chérie.”

  Olivia’s eyes widened and she hoped her masque covered the surprise. She’d never been propositioned in such a blatant manner, much less by a woman. “Oh, ah...” her tongue felt as dry as the desert as she struggled to think of a proper reply. “I’m afraid—”

  “Not tonight, Madame,” a strong male voice interrupted them from behind. “But this little one is destined to visit my chamber. She is in my protectorate.”

  “Pity, Courville,” the woman sighed with a blatant look up and down Olivia’s body. “I supposed you will not lend her out then?”

  “Not this one,�
�� he said with an easy tone. “But there is a fresh young thing in reception with Valdon, he’ll likely share.”

  Olivia turned to see an unmasqued man, early-forties she guessed, dark hair just graying at the temples adding a distinguished look. The glint in his crystal blue eyes reflected a rogue’s nature, handsome and secretive all at once, and her stomach did a little flip.

  “Comte de Courville?” Olivia whispered as they stepped away from the woman.

  Without looking at her, he gave a quick nod and took her arm in a possessive grip. “With me, Olivia,” he said as he all but dragged her down several winding corridors, and finally into another private room.

  As they entered, she caught sight of another man, dressed in only his trousers. This second man, younger than the comte, lounged on an elaborate gilt bed, one hand holding a goblet filled with what Olivia presumed to be wine.

  Startled to find anyone else in the room, Olivia averted her eyes. “Pardon,” she whispered.

  Comte de Courville, still holding her arm as if he feared she’d run from the room, closed the door behind them. The heavy wood blocked out all sound from the main hallways and Olivia had the fanciful notion that they were plunged into a silent world. She swallowed and tried to even her breathing.

  It was no use, so much had happened to her this eve, she wondered she remained sane.

  “You may remove your masque,” de Courville said rather brusquely.

  Olivia glanced up at him, meeting his blue eyes but could discern no emotion there. She looked at the unknown man on the bed and wanted to know who he was, why he occupied these rooms. Most importantly, if she could trust him. She did trust the comte for the simple matter Louise had said she could.

  Fear had tainted her, however, and she trusted no one these days.

  “I was told,” she said evenly, meeting de Courville’s gaze again, “not to reveal my face.”

  De Courville offered the faintest of grins, there and gone in a heartbeat, and Olivia wondered if she’d imagined it. She’d been wrong; his eyes blazed with feeling, only revealed for the briefest of moments. In that time, she saw impatience yes but more—fear. It shouldn’t surprise her; everyone feared something or someone in France these days.

  But Olivia had the oddest feeling that fear was not for himself, or even the nameless man who silently watched them from the bed. She believed that fear to be for her and Louise.

  He tugged at the ribbon on her masque, surprisingly gentle as he unraveled the bow. “You have the masque in your possession, that’s all you need,” he stated. But then his eyes flashed and his entire demeanor changed. Gone was the polite, yet firm comte, and in his place stood a forceful will.

  “Now,” he said in a low, hard voice, “where’s Louise? I told her to wait, that I would meet her tonight. I’ve acquired a second masque. Damn impetuous woman, she never listens.” With a frustrated growl, de Courville tossed Olivia’s masque onto a nearby chair and stared directly at her, clearly waiting her answer.

  Holding back her own emotions, Olivia wondered how to tell him when the half-naked man rose from the bed and approached them.

  “Pay him no mind, Olivia,” he said in a silken voice that flowed over her. “I’m Julien Laurent,” Julien continued, taking her gloved hand and kissing the back of it. “And I am a friend. De Courville is,” Julien hesitated, looking over his shoulder at the comte who stood there impatiently. With a slight shrug he smiled down at her. “Agitated. I’m afraid Louise was so set on seeing you leave with us, seeing you protected, she didn’t think beyond that. However, we’ve managed to procure another masque. Is she nearby?”

  Keeping her breathing even, Olivia wondered who this man was and why her aunt had never mentioned him. It no longer mattered, and she knew that.

  “If she’s gotten it into her mind,” de Courville hissed but made no move either toward her or to leave the rooms, “to leave on her own or hide somewhere I shall drag her back tonight.” Anger almost palatable, he demanded, “Where is she?”

  “Dead.”

  Chapter Three

  Disbelieving silence followed her announcement, and as she watched their reactions—stunned anger and flashes of real grief—Olivia felt a crack form in the wall she’d hastily erected after finding Louise. She swallowed against the pain, the grief and fear, and gazed steadily at Comte de Courville.

  Anger burned in his captivating crystal blue eyes and his hands clenched at his sides. She watched him steady himself, saw the very real effort he made to keep himself under control. What had been his relationship with Louise?

  And Julien. This man whom she knew nothing about carefully set his goblet on the table and stared at it as if the contents offered answers. Then he slowly turned and looked at de Courville. Olivia couldn’t decipher his look, but he carefully watched the other man, his fathomless brown eyes heavy with sympathy and understanding.

  De Courville lashed out. Shocked, Olivia jumped, backed away from his grief. He struck the contents from another table and scattered the pieces. The sound he made was primal and haunting, like a wounded animal.

  She braced herself for more, for further signs of his rage. She didn’t think he’d hurt her, but his anguish was so palpable it tore through her. The comte said nothing; he merely stood there, eyes blazing a vivid blue, and watched her. In fact, Julien spoke first, and when he did his voice was soft and deadly, menace lacing the one word.

  “How?”

  “A poniard,” Olivia said and was not surprised to hear the strength of her own voice, the anger coating it. “Murdered in our apartment. This was no robbery,” she added lest they think a random thief had killed her beloved aunt. “Nothing was taken and he left the poniard by…” Olivia swallowed and tried not to see her aunt lying there, soaked in blood, the dagger haphazardly tossed beside her as if her murderer hadn’t cared who found it. Or her, lying there.

  She closed her eyes in a vain attempt to dispel the image and finished, “Left by her.”

  Olivia’s hand moved to her side, but the expected weight of the dagger wasn’t there. She’d placed it in her cloak and had left both in her—in Louise’s—private rooms. Clenching her hand, she shook her head.

  “By the time I found her,” she said, words halting as she tried to tell them what happened. De Courville especially seemed interested. Not in a morbid way, not even to spread gossip about Louise; if that had been the case, Olivia wouldn’t have said a word. Wouldn’t still be standing here despite the fact she needed this man to get out of France.

  No, he didn’t want to know. Looking at him, watching the flame of emotion burn in his eyes, Olivia knew he needed to know. Needed her to tell him what had happened, down to the last details she’d rather forget. Time ticked by as she watched him, and she felt some of the tension ease from her shoulders. Swallowing, she breathed easy for the first time in hours.

  She shook. It took her a moment to realize that; her fingers were numb and she knew it was more shock and grief than the cold from the winter’s night.

  “The two of you,” Julien broke in quietly, but Olivia jerked at the sound of his voice anyway. “You’ve been in hiding for quite some time. Why do you believe Lo—this,” he said, sympathy heavy in every word, “is personal rather than misfortune?”

  She met his dark gaze. Louise had never mentioned Julien Laurent, but the way he asked his question had Olivia believing he cared more for her aunt than his words implied. Conviction laced her words, and even as she spoke, she knew Julien already believed her.

  “Recently Louise had been more cautious. She believed she’d seen someone from before.” Olivia waved her hand to encompass everything that had happened in the last several years; before the Terror, before la Révolution, before this hell they lived in. “Before we fled our townhouse, before we moved to the apartment…before the troubles started in Paris.”

  De Courville stalked forward with such intensity Olivia took a step back. He didn’t immediately speak, but looked as if he tried to restrai
n himself. When he did speak, his voice was heavy with anger, the words low and harsh. That anger was not directed at her. That surprised her and Olivia knew without needing to ask that de Courville directed his anger at himself.

  “Was it Rousseau? Did Louise see Rousseau?”

  “Yes,” Olivia said startled. “How did—”

  But de Courville cut her off with a brief shake of his head. “Louise,” he said, voice soft, “didn’t have many true enemies. So far as I know, only one has survived this Terror.”

  “What’s this about?” Julien asked. He picked up his goblet and drained it, looking expectedly between her and de Courville. Olivia had the feeling the deep brown of his eyes saw right to her soul. “Why did Rousseau,” he spat the name like a curse, “hate Louise?”

  He didn’t add, enough to kill her, but Olivia heard the unspoken words.

  She swallowed and wished she had a goblet of wine. Taking a deep breath, she glanced at de Courville, but he didn’t seem inclined to share the story. Looking back at Julien she licked her lips. His gaze followed the movement but he otherwise hadn’t moved.

  “I had another aunt,” Olivia began. “Nicole. She was my father’s and Louise’s younger sister. A decade ago, she had an affair with Frederick Rousseau; both Nicole and Louise expected him to marry her, especially when she became pregnant. Nicole wanted to move up the wedding, but Rousseau abandoned her for another woman with greater wealth and lands.”

  She looked to de Courville but he didn’t meet her gaze, staring instead at a spot on the floor. His hands clenched and unclenched, and she thought his jaw tightened. A vein pounded in his temple.

  Turning back to Julien she finished with a small sigh. Her memories of Aunt Nicole were vague, but she remembered a vivacious woman who laughed; who made even her often distant father laugh.

  “Ashamed,” Olivia told Julien, “Nicole took her own life. My father and Louise have since exacted their own measure of revenge against Rousseau. They had him ousted from the king’s court and saw that every venture he invested in never materialized; his wealth was severally diminished. There’s been a silent war between him and my family since. When my parents were taken from their home by the revolutionaries, they swore Rousseau was behind it.”