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disconcerting—there was word of black masses and virgin sacrifice, orgies and blasphemy and the like, but no one ever admitted the existence of the group. Until Rohan’s offhand comment.
    She looked up at him, unnerved by his height, his glittering, gilded glory. He was dressed in impeccable black satin, with elegant clocked stockings on his well-shaped legs, high-heeled, bejeweled shoes only adding to his already impressive height. He wore a long, heavily embroidered waistcoat unbuttoned, butno coat. He had heavy rings on his long, pale fingers, even a sapphire in his ear like a Gypsy, previously hidden by his long, unbound hair. Most men wore wigs and kept their own hair cut short. The Comte de Giverney was clearly too vain to utilize such shortcuts.
    â€œLooked your fill?” he inquired pleasantly. “Would you like me to turn around so you can observe my backside?”
    She didn’t blush. “I like to know my enemies. Either let me go look for my mother or take me there yourself.”
    â€œOh, definitely the latter. And I haven’t decided whether we’re enemies or not.” He tossed the pistol back onto the dais, where it landed, with unerring accuracy, on the cushioned chair. “I’m afraid, my dear Miss Harriman, that you would never find your mother amidst the…celebrations. You’ll have to accompany me through the nine layers of hell in order to find her.”
    â€œI am not a child, Monsieur le Comte.”
    â€œThat’s my French title. To the English I’m the Viscount Rohan.”
    â€œSomeone else bears that title,” she said, repeating one of the bits of gossip she’d overheard.
    â€œIndeed,” he said pleasantly. “How kind of you to remind me. The man is a pretender, nothing more.” He reached up for his elegant neck cloth and began to unfasten it, and she watched his long, pale, bejeweled fingers in something of a daze.
    He pulled the cloth free, his shirt coming open, and she averted her gaze from the disturbing sight of hisbare chest. She heard his laugh, and then his hands were on her once more, catching her shoulders and turning her around. “Don’t worry, my pet. You won’t be seeing anything that might shock you.” And he pulled the neck cloth over her eyes, effectively blinding her.
    She wanted to fight back, to struggle, but that would give him an excuse to touch her further, and the less she felt the brush of his cool fingers the better. “That’s right,” he said, his voice soft and approving. “Now give me your arm and we’ll give you a taste of damnation.”
    â€œDo you really find blasphemy that entertaining?” she said, trying not to start when he took her hand and placed it on his arm.
    â€œAlways.”
    She’d never put her hand on any arm that wasn’t covered by layers of clothing, including a coat. The devil who oversaw these revels, be he Monsieur le Comte or something else, wore only a thin shirt made of the finest lawn. In her sudden world of darkness she was acutely aware of the feel of his arm beneath her fingers. The sinew and bone. The unexpected warmth of his skin, when his hands and his heart were so cold.
    â€œAre you ready, my child?” he asked, and there was no avoiding the humor in his voice.
    But she wasn’t about to show her panic. People like Rohan thrived on fear, and if she were to have any chance of survival she needed to hide hers.
    â€œAs I have been for the last, tedious half hour,” she said in a bored voice.
    â€œAllons-y,” he murmured, and she didn’t needto see anything to know that he wasn’t fooled. “Let us go.”
    And she had no choice but to allow him to draw her deeper into the very depths of hell.

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    T he heat and noise and smell assaulted her when he led her through the doors. A dozen different perfumes, wax tallows, spilled wine and wood smoke, cooked meats and human sweat all