Page 90 of The Devil in Her Bed

The humming of the devotees was louder here, a refrain that sounded exotic, Indian perhaps.

Dashiell, a veteran in his late forties with a grievance against variables and an unflappable nature, pulled his watch from a vest pocket. He was careful not to catch a glimmer from the numerous candles flickering from the platform upon which maybe forty souls groaned and groped at each other with increasing fervency.

“Ramsay and the Chief Inspector should be in place within a quarter hour,” he whispered through an impressive mustache, confident they wouldn’t be heard over the humming some several yards away. “I suspect that’ll give this… gathering a bloody good start.” He scrunched his eyes to peer at the goings-on with no little interest. “I’ve been at this a long time,” he breathed. “And I’ve never seen the like.”

Howard, a fair-haired man who was barely oldenough to grow a beard, stared with round, unblinking eyes.

Chandler questioned the intelligence of bringing him, but the spy had a special skill with explosives.

“What punters, eh?” He nudged Chandler in the ribs. “I mean, I wouldn’t mind being invited to the odd orgy someday, but this… it’s diabolical.”

Idly, Chandler grunted as he glared. Something held the cultists back. They writhed together, kissed and fondled, all the while keeping up their incessant, throaty chant. But nothing went further, as if their lust was on a leash, waiting to be released by the command of a master.

His lip curled in disgust.

If one provides the weak-willed and small-minded a trifle they’ve been denied, something they hunger for, they’ll put on their own chains and call it freedom.

His father had told him that once, a lifetime ago.

Dashiell shook his head. “Only the toffs would do something like this. It’s all that inbreeding, says I.”

Howard nodded, sagely. “Makes one wonder how many bastards are gotten at such things, and passed off as nobility.”

Unable to stand the wait, Chandler rubbed at the back of his itching neck. “Something’s off,” he muttered.

Howard sent him a quizzical look. “This whole bloody affair is daffy.”

“Kenway isn’t here yet. Could someone have warned him?”

Dashiell shook his head, ducking back down to sweep a look through the darkness of the trenches, asif he could see anything. “Not even the bobbies know what they’re getting into.”

Still, it didn’t feel right. “Let’s split for our respective tunnels, just in case. No one in or out.”

“What about Kenway? What if he’s just… tardy?” Dashiell queried. “We could scare him off if he sees us on his way in.”

“I… don’t think so.” Kenway was never late, unless it was by design.

A troubling thought lanced his blood with ice. What if, by some impossible construct, Kenway was one step ahead of him? What if he’d been drawn away so that the fucking bastard could get at Francesca?

He’d left her protected, and it was not like she was helpless.

But still…

“Sure thing, boss.” Howard touched two fingers to his forehead in a subdued salute. “I’ll stay at this tunnel and… uh… monitor the… er… festivities.”

Chandler shared a look with Dashiell before he hunkered into the trench and angled north. He’d have to cut up, over, and back to avoid risking a dash over the dais. Anyone with a careful eye might see a shadow and investigate.

As he was about to turn a corner, he noticed an opening in the stone wall big enough for a man to fit through if he turned sideways. Frowning, he passed it. It would be difficult to cover both exits, but it could be done.

Three yards up the trench, he spotted another passage. And another a few after that.

Bloody. Fucking. Hell.These hadn’t been on theblueprints. How many were there? And where did they lead?

Who did they hide?

He’d barely thought the question when the answer presented itself.

Or, rather, himself.