burn the blood-soaked sheets. He'd been in quite a frenzy last night. By today he was calmed, ready to partake in more genteel English customs.
The whore was staring at him, glassy-eyed, un-moving. She'd stopped screaming several hours ago, and her eyes were dull with hatred. Tant pis. He would pay her off, and in the dart no one would notice her scars.
There would be a picnic on the grass this morning. He could count on numerous partners beneath the springtime sun, and by the time he returned to his allotted cell there would be no sign of last night's play.
Still, he was curious about Adrian's choice. II wasn't the Countess of Whitmore—he'd seen her rushing off in the opposite direction with a good-looking servant, clearly intent on a little roll in the night—he'd see who she was at breakfast this morning and then he could decide whether he had anything to worry about.
Which was unlikely. In the three years since Etienne had been exiled, Adrian had held no long-term relationships. He would scarcely start one at a gathering of the Mad Monks.
He laughed to himself. The Mad Monks. The English were so ridiculous in their sins, cloaking them in costume and folderol. At least Adrian preferred, like his cousin, to sin openly. It made his job so much easier.
The woman on the bed tried to speak, but no words came out. He cast a last, curious glance at her, and then walked out into the early-morning sunshine, whistling jauntily.
"There was a young tinker from Barton
Who wanted a use for his..."
"I don't suppose there's any way I can convince you to regale Montague with something other than obscene poetry?" Simon Pagett said in a world-weary
"What would you suggest instead?" Lina said sharply. "An improving sermon? I imagine he's already heard enough of yours."
"Children, children," Montague said faintly. "Don't squabble. Simon, il wouldn't do you any harm to listen to a few naughty poems. I assure you, Lady Whitmore is quite gifted in their composition. And Lina, my precious, Simon’s sermons are actually quite interesting. I would never tolerate him as the new curate if they weren't."
“Don't try to convince me that you were actually going to attend church once he took over, Monty,"
Lina said. "I wasn't born yesterday."
"No, I do think that's going to be quite out of the question, don't you?" Monty said with a breath of a sigh. "Why don't the two of you go off somewhere and browbeat each other until you come up with a solution. I'm perfectly willing to tolerate either the sacred or the profane."
A wave of guilt washed over Lina, and she held his thin hand. "Oh, darling, I'm sorry. Of course you don't want to hear all this brangling going on about you."
"'My precious, you're crushing my fingers."
She immediately released his hand, but found herself casting a worried glance at Simon Pagett. She had been putting no pressure at all on her friend's frail hand, and yet even that had hurt. "Sometimes I don't know my own strength," she said with a shaky laugh, turning back. Monty's color was ashen, his lips bloodless, but his eyes were still sharp.
"Indeed, darling, I don't think you do," Monty said in a soft voice.
Lina moved away from the bed, letting Simon take her place. Why, in God's name had she turned to look at him, as if for help? There was no help coming from someone like Simon Pagett. She was anathema to him, and he was nothing more than a prosing annoyance. Monty didn't need to be subjected to someone lecturing him during the last few days or weeks of his life. He'd always sinned on a grand scale—it was disheartening to see him diminished to a repentant
"As for you, my dear Simon," Monty continued,
looking up into the vicar's lined face, "you need to treat my darling Lina with more respect. She has stayed by me when most others were off consorting with Satan or whatever other bauble has caught their eye at these gatherings."
"You don't know?" Simon demanded, appalled. "You host these gatherings and you have no idea what your guests are doing?"
"Oh, I imagine some of them are trying to summon Old Scratch, but since I don't believe in his existence I hardly need to worry about it. They're just children playing games, the ones who aren't busy with rousing fornication." He glanced at Lina. "Hard to believe this straitlaced fellow ever knew a thing about fornication, isn't it, Lina? But he did.