Page 10 of The Devil’s Submission

Where on earth was Grayson?

Both his office and Charlotte’s chamber were empty; she’d sent a maid to look. Although after her completely unladylike eruption at the chapel, it was no wonder her husband was avoiding her. Painful as it was to admit, her mother had proven right. Sweetness, obedience, and calm decorum won the day.

She had failed yet again.

After splashing some water on her face and patting it dry, Eliza scooped up a shawl and left the chamber. If Grayson was anywhere in the building, she would find him, even if she had to check every blasted room.

A half hour later she found herself in the foyer, staring uncertainly at the huge oak double doors that led into the pleasure club proper. During the few months she’d lived at Fallen, she had ventured inside on several occasions. But that seemed like more than a lifetime ago.

“Lady Eliza? Are you all right, madam?”

Nearly shrieking in surprise, Eliza stared up at Diaz. He’d always been unfailingly polite and deferential, but he was built like a mountain and moved as soundlessly as a panther. What the attractive but scarred Spaniard had done before he became butler and overseer of security at Fallen, she wasn’t certain she wanted to know. “Oh, good evening, Diaz. I’m looking for my husband. Have you seen him by chance?”

The butler’s eyes briefly closed, as if he were in pain. “Not for a while, madam.”

Her gaze narrowed. “Where is he? In there?”

“I believe he is in one of the special activity rooms along with Miss Charlotte and some others, yes.”

Eliza gasped. Special activity rooms. The chambers where small groups with very particular shared desires met to indulge them. Questions pounded her mind—which room? What kind of sexual play was he currently involved in? But this was greatly overshadowed by terrible jealousy. Even now, Charlotte or some other woman—or women—could be touching Grayson. Pleasuring him. Making him come…

“Lady Eliza?”

She blinked, her cheeks burning at the realization the odd sound echoing through the foyer had been her foot stomping. Oh, this was ludicrous. There truly wasn’t any hope for her in the sweet decorum stakes. “I, er, need to go and find Lord Grayson.”

“Indeed, madam. For his lordship’s sake. And…the lady’s.”

Frowning, she reached out and touched his sleeve. “What do you mean, the lady’s? You’re talking about Charlotte? You don’t approve of them together?”

For just an instant, his dark eyes reflected an aching sadness. Then his expression returned to its usual impassiveness. “Not for me to approve or disapprove. Forgive me, I forgot myself for a moment.”

“Well. I’m going in. And if anyone attempts to stop me, I’ll, er, crush their toes to powder.”

“Duly noted,” he said gravely. “Would you like a mask?”

Eliza smiled in gratitude. The man truly was a treasure. Only Sin, Grayson, Vice, and now Sin’s wife Grace went without masks, as established owners of the club. Her status was far too precarious at present; to walk into Fallen sans mask would be foolish and risky in the extreme.

“I would.”

“Then allow me to assist.”

The butler took out a black and white satin demi-mask from his jacket pocket, fitted it to her face, and swiftly tugged the ribbons over her ears before tying a tight bow at the nape of her neck. Heavens. How strange, viewing the world in such a manner. Her eyesight wasn’t impeded in any way, and yet knowing she was unrecognizable apart from her hair and cheeks and lips, felt so…freeing.

“Thank you.”

Diaz bowed. “A pleasure, madam. Good luck,” he finished, opening the door and waving her through.

It was like stepping into another world. More lavish than a palace, louder than Vauxhall Gardens with laughter and chatter, the clink of champagne glasses and melodious tunes of an expert orchestra. Not to mention the sheer number of elegantly dressed and bejeweled people. Not just men and women dancing and kissing and touching, but women and women, and men and men. This was the essence of Fallen, a sanctuary of pleasure for all.

Her courage nearly failing her, Eliza took a deep breath.

“Darling Lady Eliza, what the bloody hell are you doing in here?”

Relieved beyond measure, she turned to a welcome sight—Lord Iain Vissen, only known as Vice. The Scottish viscount was dressed to the hilt as a rather scandalous Highland chieftain, wearing a soft wool plaid short kilt, an elaborate silver sporran, and a fine linen shirt open to reveal his broad chest. He was bare legged, barefoot, and his shoulder-length auburn hair hung loosely around his face. But instead of looking carefree, he gazed at her with real concern.

“Er, how did you know it was me, my lord?”

“Gaelic hair, lass. I see it in the looking glass and recognize it at a hundred paces.”