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he swears like a cutter, but that didn’t prevent him from being appointed Chancellor of the Exchequer. A brilliant man in many respects.”
    â€œBrilliant and debauched,” Charlotte said. “The perfect combination. They say he seduced Empress Anne of Russia during his Grand Tour, whilst disguised as King Charles of Sweden—all the more remarkable when one considers that King Charles was dead at the time.”
    â€œMy word,” Elle said as she gazed across the room at the subject of their conversation. Curled up against her chest, Darius felt her heartbeat quicken and her skin grow warm.
    Sir Francis Dashwood was the man on whom she’d set her sights tonight, Darius realized. He was the chosen one, the man whose seed she intended to acquire. She’d best be quick about it, given the evening’s program; there would be a fairly narrow block of time in which to do the deed and transform herself back into Elic in time for the mass and ensuing orgy.
    Charlotte said, “’Tis a testament to Sir Francis’s personal magnetism that he has lured men of such rank and accomplishments to the Hellfire Club. The Prince of Wales himself is a member. He’s the one who just finished rousting Lady Cavendish. He doesn’t know it, but he’s being cuckolded by that dashing fellow Lili just larked, the Earl of Bute.”
    â€œCuckolded?” Elle said. “My English…”
    Lili said, “Prince Fitz’s wife, Princess Augusta, is Lord Bute’s mistress.”
    Pointing discreetly with her fan, Charlotte said, “We’ve got the Duke of Queensbury, the Duke of Kingston…The fellow with the sketchbook is William Hogarth, the painter. Those two young bloods playing in-and-in with Emily are the Marquis of Granby and George Walpole, heir apparent to the Earldom of Orford. That gundiguts over there combing his wig is George Bubb Doddington—rich as Job, and a bosom friend of the prince. And, of course, the gentleman sitting with Sir Francis is John Montagu, Earl of Sandwich and First Lord of the Admiralty. A rake of the first order, of course, wagers hundreds of thousands of pounds at the gaming tables. Loves to have his arse whipped, can’t raise the old quimstake any other way, but he’s hardly alone in that.”
    â€œLe vice anglais,”
Lili said. “I was astounded the first time I saw them bring out all their whips and birches and canes.”
    Rising from his seat, Lord Sandwich waved his handkerchief and called for the attention of the assembled company. “Ladies and gentlemen,
mesdames et messieurs.
The chief friar informs me that our
missa niger
will commence in approximately an hour. It is taking a bit more time than we had anticipated to get the chapel properly outfitted. In the meantime, Sir Francis would like to announce the identity of the lady who is to serve as our Bona Dea this evening, so that she may learn what is required of her and prepare herself to receive our worship.”
    The room fell into silence as Francis Dashwood pushed back his chair and stood. Charlotte arranged her gown’s flowing train, her rouged lips pinching into a bright crimson sphincter of a smile.
    â€œThe lady I’m about to name,” said Dashwood, “has never before served as our altar, though there have been many who’ve wished it so. ’Tis an honor that’s bloody well overdue, I think we can all agree. She is a flower of rare scent and beauty whose presence in our little secret garden has been a source of immeasurable delight since she first graced us with her company some two months past.”
    Charlotte, who had been glancing about the room in self-satisfied anticipation, grew deathly still, her smile fading—for of course, she’d been keeping company with the Hellfires much longer than two months.
    Dashwood said, “’Tis my pleasure to inform you that our goddess for this evening is to be our