Dash, who had gone ahead with Henley, Jamie and Throckmorton, glanced over his shoulder to look at Andrew. Waiting for a reaction, no doubt. But Andrew had none to give him. Whatever response Dash had been looking for, he could muster neither outrage nor amusement. He’d seen enough in the war to make him numb to human suffering and to realize that there was no limit to man’s inhumanity. He turned back to the activities in the common room, trying to keep track of the shifting tableaus as they were incited by the “visitors.”
Money changed hands, and then one of the inmates approached a woman dressed in a mobcap and a low-cut dress. He whispered in her ear and she glanced at the group that had sent him. A manic smile exposed gaps where teeth should have been, and she began to hitch her skirts up around her hips. Lord! Were the visitors such immature idiots themselves that they derived pleasure from seeing an unfortunate expose herself?
But it did not stop at that. The payment had been for something else entirely. There, for all to see, the male inmate dropped his trousers and the pair of them began to copulate to the enthusiastic encouragement of the onlookers. On some base level, Andrew realized that watching such activities was arousing for a good many people—that it awakened a hunger, at the very least. He’d known courtesans and the owners of private clubs to arrange such performances. But here and now, at the expense of those who either did not comprehend their actions or appreciate that they were being made sport of, it seemed intrinsically wrong.
“Amazing, is it not, what one will do for money?” Dash asked. “I daresay we could make this lot do damn near anything we chose.”
Andrew blinked and turned to his friend. “For a crust of bread or a cut of meat?”
“Aye. Does it remind you of the war, Drew?”
This echo of his own thoughts caused the hair on the back of Andrew’s neck to prickle. Was this why Dash had brought him here? “The madness? Or the depravity?”
“Both. And the power. Bedlam is as close to Valle del Fuego as I’ve found since our return.”
That godforsaken village! “Why would you want to be reminded, Dash? God knows I’ve spent years trying to forget.”
“Aye, but there was something there—something lacking in London. Some tiny primal spark. You must feel it. Something so…so fundamental that it has no name.”
There was more Dash was trying to tell him, something he would not put into words and was pleading with Andrew to understand. “Uncivilized,” he admitted. “Not altogether comfortable.”
“Precisely!” Dash’s expression was somber. “It pulls at one, does it not?”
Andrew glanced again at the copulating couple. Yes, it pulled at him, that urge to shed everything civilized. This was the part of Bedlam that appealed to Dash—primeval man, stripped of morality, propriety and law.
A chill crept down his spine, and his throat clogged with the heavy atmosphere. He wanted to feel again. Anything. To have some part of him awakened to ordinary senses. What would that take? The pull grew stronger, almost impossible to resist. He wanted it, craved it, and yet the last shred of decency he possessed resisted. He spun back down the passageway. “I need a drink.”
Belmonde’s! Ah, thank God for ordinary debauchery. Andrew’s tension eased as he downed his second brandy. Tonight he’d come dangerously close to the abyss. He’d flirted with it for so long that he was mildly surprised he’d even recognized the line. And some fatalistic part of him knew it was coming—the day he could no longer resist the pull. The day he would cross that line.
He was on his way back to the salon from changing coins for counters when he passed the foyer. Ah, the night was full of surprises. There stood Bella, even lovelier than usual, in earnest conversation with the doorman. And he knew why. The little chit did not have entrée.
He went forward. “Ah, here you are, my dear. Don’t dawdle.” He removed her cloak and handed it to a waiting footman, then turned to the doorman. “Biddle, see to it that she is admitted without delay in the future, would you?”
“Why, yes, sir. I’d have done so ere now, but she did not mention your name.”
He grinned down at the speechless woman as he took her arm. “Ah, she is shy, Biddle. Very shy. But you will use my name in the future, will you not, my dear?”
Her eyes widened and she nodded.
He slipped Biddle a few counters and winked as he led her away. “How nice to see you again, Bella. Dare I hope you were looking for me?”
“You…you may hope anything you wish, sir. But I had no idea you’d be here. I thought you and your ilk would be at some aristocratic soiree.”
His ilk? He laughed. If she only knew what “his ilk” had been up to tonight! “You’re more likely to see me here or at some other tasteless entertainment than at a soiree. But tell me, what is your business here?”
“I was looking for…for…”
“Yes. The right man, I believe you said the other night.” He shook his head and gave her a rakish grin. “I believe you’ve gone astray, Bella. The only men here are the wrong men.”
“Yourself included?”
“Myself at the top of the list.”
“I see.” She looked down pensively and a stray curl tumbled over her shoulder. “Well, I suppose I should at least thank you for not exposing me this afternoon.”
His conscience tweaked him when he recalled how very close he’d come to doing just that. He still wasn’t certain why he hadn’t. “My companions were much amused by your snub. I think you owe me something for that. I can tell you that I was made to bear some rather cutting rebukes, which I’d have cheerfully done had I but known the reason.”
She made no reply as he captured a glass of wine from a passing footman’s tray. He presented it to her with a slight bow. “I believe you are still pressing forward with your ambition to become a lush?”
She looked confused for a moment and then laughed. “Not quite so diligently as last night, but yes. I have become a great believer in bottled courage.”
What an odd phrase. Did she actually need to fortify herself to come out, or to kiss men? A sudden suspicion tweaked his pride. “Are you meeting someone here, Bella? Or are you on your own?”
“A-alone.”
Just the word he had been hoping to hear. “Not any longer, my dear.”
“A-about my name, sir.”
“If you would like proper address, madam, you will have to give me your entire name.”
“I haven’t had to give it until now, sir.”
“Then how would you like me to address you? And should the occasion for an introduction arise? Then what, madam?”
She heaved a deep sigh and glanced around. “Could we not just ignore it? Or ‘madam’ will do. In any event, it will not matter much longer.”
Disappointment sharpened his response. “Oh? Then shall I assume you are near to making your choice?”
“There is not much choice about it, Mr. Hunter. I have yet to find…”
“Yes, the right man. So I gathered. And I also gather that I fall short of your requirements?”
“I…suppose that would be for the best,” she said, though her tone was uncertain.
He found encouragement in her hesitation. “Then what is