exaggerate, Lord Savage.”
“I rather think not, Mrs. Hart.” A single lock of his dark hair fell across his forehead,
and he sleeked it back with his palm. The link on his starched white cuff was black
onyx, framed by a tiny gold serpent and centered by a single diamond, as brilliantly
hard and beautiful as he was himself. “Would you consider it another exaggeration
if I reminded you how much you enjoy being a spectator?”
This time, I was ready. “Nearly as much as you enjoyed being the actor with an audience,”
I said, smiling. “You see, Lord Savage, I’ve observed a few predilections myself.”
His smile warmed, the unexpected charm of it making me melt inside.
“Touché, Mrs. Hart,” he said. “Then as performers and as spectators, we should both
enjoy this evening, shouldn’t we?”
“I intend to, my lord,” I said, feeling that I’d somehow won this particular skirmish.
His last comment about the performance we were to watch made little sense to me, but
I let it pass. Formal entertainments like the one we would soon see were the purview
of specially hired performers, not guests.
But before the hour was over, I would learn exactly how wrong—how very wrong—my assumption
could be.
THREE
The music was unfamiliar to me, driven by small drums that a seated musician held
balanced on his crossed legs. The two other men played some sort of flutes, their
keening notes darting over and around the melody in a strangely hypnotic harmony.
The primal pulse of the drums, created by the drummer’s bare palms, was a rhythm far
from the usual genteel Mozart or Handel heard in country manors, yet I found it irresistibly
alluring, even seductive, especially in the incense-laden room. Lady Carleigh had
indeed contrived a most original entr’acte.
Soon it became clear that the musicians were not the entire entertainment but merely
the accompanists. The arched double doors opened, and a man and a woman entered together.
The man was swarthy and handsome, with a long black beard and a mustache that curled
upward. He wore full Zouave-style trousers of red silk and a long open robe, richly
embroidered with metallic threads that glittered and winked in the murky half-light.
On his head was a turban, and large gold hoops hung from his ears.
I wasn’t sure if he was a true foreigner, or perhaps only an English actor in swarthy
paint, but it did not matter. He was wonderfully virile and menacing, making it clear
that he would be more the villain than the hero of whatever tableau he and the woman
would perform.
The woman was small in stature, but voluptuously proportioned. She, too, wore an exotic
costume, though it was much more revealing. Her waist was tightly cinched with a wide
leather corselet that supported her brazenly naked breasts, draped with jingling necklaces
of brass coins. A thick line of kohl decorated her eyes, and her lips, cheeks, and
nipples had been reddened with carmine. Her full trousers were gathered at the ankles,
much like the man’s, and bangles clattered up and down her bare arms. Fastened closely
around her throat was an unusual necklace of gold beads and green gems that was so
tall that it forced her to hold her head proudly high. Where the man was dark, she
was ivory fair, her white-blond hair streaming over her shoulders and breasts to her
waist.
“A harem scene will be presented,” Lady Carleigh announced with relish. “In which
the latest Circassian captive must please her pagan master to win his favor and his
mercy to preserve her life.”
She clapped her hands, and the tableau began. The man sank back onto a pile of pillows
on the floor, the picture of indolence. The woman struck a brief, dramatic pose, her
arms arched over her head to display her thrusting breasts, and then began to move,
slowly, slowly.
She let the music dictate her movements, her torso twisting sinuously and her painted
“I rather think not, Mrs. Hart.” A single lock of his dark hair fell across his forehead,
and he sleeked it back with his palm. The link on his starched white cuff was black
onyx, framed by a tiny gold serpent and centered by a single diamond, as brilliantly
hard and beautiful as he was himself. “Would you consider it another exaggeration
if I reminded you how much you enjoy being a spectator?”
This time, I was ready. “Nearly as much as you enjoyed being the actor with an audience,”
I said, smiling. “You see, Lord Savage, I’ve observed a few predilections myself.”
His smile warmed, the unexpected charm of it making me melt inside.
“Touché, Mrs. Hart,” he said. “Then as performers and as spectators, we should both
enjoy this evening, shouldn’t we?”
“I intend to, my lord,” I said, feeling that I’d somehow won this particular skirmish.
His last comment about the performance we were to watch made little sense to me, but
I let it pass. Formal entertainments like the one we would soon see were the purview
of specially hired performers, not guests.
But before the hour was over, I would learn exactly how wrong—how very wrong—my assumption
could be.
THREE
The music was unfamiliar to me, driven by small drums that a seated musician held
balanced on his crossed legs. The two other men played some sort of flutes, their
keening notes darting over and around the melody in a strangely hypnotic harmony.
The primal pulse of the drums, created by the drummer’s bare palms, was a rhythm far
from the usual genteel Mozart or Handel heard in country manors, yet I found it irresistibly
alluring, even seductive, especially in the incense-laden room. Lady Carleigh had
indeed contrived a most original entr’acte.
Soon it became clear that the musicians were not the entire entertainment but merely
the accompanists. The arched double doors opened, and a man and a woman entered together.
The man was swarthy and handsome, with a long black beard and a mustache that curled
upward. He wore full Zouave-style trousers of red silk and a long open robe, richly
embroidered with metallic threads that glittered and winked in the murky half-light.
On his head was a turban, and large gold hoops hung from his ears.
I wasn’t sure if he was a true foreigner, or perhaps only an English actor in swarthy
paint, but it did not matter. He was wonderfully virile and menacing, making it clear
that he would be more the villain than the hero of whatever tableau he and the woman
would perform.
The woman was small in stature, but voluptuously proportioned. She, too, wore an exotic
costume, though it was much more revealing. Her waist was tightly cinched with a wide
leather corselet that supported her brazenly naked breasts, draped with jingling necklaces
of brass coins. A thick line of kohl decorated her eyes, and her lips, cheeks, and
nipples had been reddened with carmine. Her full trousers were gathered at the ankles,
much like the man’s, and bangles clattered up and down her bare arms. Fastened closely
around her throat was an unusual necklace of gold beads and green gems that was so
tall that it forced her to hold her head proudly high. Where the man was dark, she
was ivory fair, her white-blond hair streaming over her shoulders and breasts to her
waist.
“A harem scene will be presented,” Lady Carleigh announced with relish. “In which
the latest Circassian captive must please her pagan master to win his favor and his
mercy to preserve her life.”
She clapped her hands, and the tableau began. The man sank back onto a pile of pillows
on the floor, the picture of indolence. The woman struck a brief, dramatic pose, her
arms arched over her head to display her thrusting breasts, and then began to move,
slowly, slowly.
She let the music dictate her movements, her torso twisting sinuously and her painted
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