An Unexpected Earl (Lords of the Armory #2) - Anna Harrington Page 0,96
spiral stone steps. “This is our version. Just as secret, just as exclusive, but a deuce of a lot more fun.” He selected two of the white monks’ robes lying over a nearby tomb and handed one to Pearce. “Put this on, along with that white cap I sent you.” Howard shucked off his greatcoat and beaver hat and tossed them onto the next tomb. “We’re like Almack’s, you know.”
Pearce arched a brow.
“We have a strict dress code. None of the brothers can go any farther without proper attire.”
Apparently, they also possessed a flair for the theatrical.
But his curiosity was piqued. Donning the robe and cap, he followed Howard through the crypt which most likely hadn’t seen a burial since the reign of the Stuarts. A second hooded monk guarded a narrow and short stone doorway tucked away, nearly unnoticed, at the rear of the crypt. They descended down another steep set of stone steps. When they reached the bottom, their way was blocked by a wooden door and a sign overhead that marked their arrival.
Pearce read the French inscription, “Fais ce que tu voudras?”
“Do what thou wilt.” Howard grinned and shoved open the door.
Muted lantern light filled the old Roman ruins, along with smoke and the pungent odor of incense. The noise of loud conversation and laughter echoed off the stone, until the sounds swirled around them and Pearce couldn’t tell where they were coming from. Gentlemen wearing the required white robes and caps sat on the original stone benches lining the walls, while others lay draped across Arabian-style silk mattresses scattered across the floor, all of them holding golden wine goblets. Middle Eastern music drifted through the ruins, so did feminine laughter and cries of surprise.
He followed Howard deeper into the complex, and a series of Roman chambers the size of drawing rooms unfolded, one after the other, long ago buried and forgotten as London grew above them. All of the chambers were freshly decorated with mythological figures and phallic symbols, including mosaics and paintings of men reveling in drunken debauchery. Antechambers led off the main passageway that weren’t lit by lamps, although Pearce could tell by the rustle of movement in the dark shadows that each was busily occupied.
Do what thou wilt, indeed…although based on what he saw in the rooms as they passed through, most of the fifty or so men gathered in the old Roman complex couldn’t have cared less for the privacy of an antechamber. Drink of all kinds was provided in an endless supply by half a dozen hooded monks, distinguished from the members by their brown robes. Exotic hookah pipes mixed the sweet scent of tobacco with the stronger odor of American cigars, and veil-clad belly dancers moved seductively to the cheers of men gathered at their feet. Prostitutes draped themselves over the laps of the seated men, wearing open green robes over flimsy, translucent gowns that hide very little of the dusky nipples and feminine curls beneath.
“The brothers share the nuns,” Howard informed him when a woman slinked past, blatantly running her gaze over Pearce and lifting her finger to her red lips to suck suggestively.
“Nuns…is that what you call them?” Pearce muttered.
“What man wouldn’t want to worship at that altar?” Howard grinned and turned around as he continued to stare at the woman, walking a few feet backward to let his gaze linger on her as long as possible. “If you see a nun you fancy, she’s yours. Find an empty alcove and enjoy yourself. The same with any of the drink or food. You’re our guest tonight. Make yourself at home.”
He had no intention of doing that.
“It’s all just a grand lark,” Howard explained as he led Pearce through the chambers. “The church, all the religious nods, the pagan nonsense… The idea came from the old church, actually. The Duke of Raleigh owns this chunk of London, and it was a great-great-grandfather or so who donated use of the land to the Church. Raleigh took it back when the Church forfeited it into disuse. But it’s put him in a pinch because he can’t tear it down or build on it—it’s sacred ground with a churchyard. His son is a member of the club, so he lets us meet here.”
“Convenient.” As they passed the opening to a dark tunnel, Pearce gestured at it. No door blocked it—or hooded monk guarded it—and no lamps lit its darkness. “What’s that?”
“The gateway to the River Styx.” When Pearce arched a brow, Howard