Gaslight Series #2 - The Devil's Advocate (page two)

Lady Evangeline did not return home that evening. After a scarcely tasted dinner served by an anxious Cook, and after enduring the well-intentioned hovering of the two footmen, Rhiannon felt ready to scream.

When she'd lifted the same forkful of beef to her lips and put it back down again untasted, Rhiannon sighed. Perhaps if I were busy, she thought, the time would pass more quickly...

The clock in the study chimed one o'clock, and Rhiannon glared wearily at the silly German cuckoo who had popped from his tiny cupboard to remind her how long Lina had been gone.

"Stupid bloody bird," she muttered and swiped at an errant lock of hair hanging over her eyes. A smudge of dirt decorated one side of her snubbed nose, and her housedress of robin's-egg blue sateen was positively covered in hanging strings of dust.

Rhiannon had furiously transcribed her notes on the black typewriting machine that perched like a heavy steel gargoyle on a delicate-looking Louis XVI gilt secretary's desk that Lady Evangeline had installed in the study specifically for her lover and helpmeet.

Next, she'd spent a good half-hour arranging the sheets of neatly typed foolscap into a file, then adding Katchurian's manifest, among other things, to the bulging envelope.

The two boxes, one teak, the other common pine, from Katchurian and Choi, still sat on one corner of the peer's massive mahogany desk; Rhiannon had, despite biting curiosity, left them strictly alone.

Then, after sitting down for a moment, Rhiannon realized how dusty the bookshelves were; nothing would do but to fetch a pail of linen rags and a bottle of lemon oil.

After she'd found herself balanced precariously on the rolling ladder that attached to the tall, heavy shelves, absently wiping an already pristine surface, Rhiannon had decided to retire.

That had been at midnight. Sleep, however, had fled like quicksilver between her clutching hands. She'd tossed and turned, desperately tired but unable to fall asleep. Finally, Rhiannon had gone downstairs for a cup of hot chocolate.

Now, the weary but sleepless secretary poked a spoon into the hardened scum on top of the lukewarm chocolate and wished Lina were there so she could scream and curse, spin about like a heathen Dervish, or just fall into her strong arms and weep until her eyes were sore.

Sometimes, she thought pensively, I love Lina so much my chest aches from the pounding of my heart. And sometimes, she makes me mad enough to want to kill her!

Rhiannon's sky blue eyes darkened. I wish she wouldn't do this. Leaving me behind all the time, as if I'm some child who has to be protected from the big, bad world. Well, I've seen a lot more of the world than she has, much of it foul and thoroughly degenerate. I can take care of myself, dammit! I don't need a nursemaid!

The unconscious echo of Holmes' protest made her smile slightly. Poor Holmes!, she thought. Now I understand how he feels when Watson makes a fuss.

Rhiannon yawned widely, then abandoned the cooled chocolate and crossed the room to lay down on the crimson velvet sofa near the fireplace. A fire crackled on the hearth; she covered herself with a fringed afghan and sighed, listening to the snap of logs being consumed by flames.

I am like those poor bits of wood, she thought sleepily. And the fire that consumes me has a woman's face...

The next morning, Lina still had not arrived. Having passed through all the stages: from anxiety, worry and despair, to anger, rage and finally, complete disgust, Rhiannon sat in the seldom-used front parlor on a horsehair chesterfield, reading Varney the Vampire, a shilling-shocker she'd picked up at a bookseller's stall near the Library.

I don't care!, she thought resentfully. Let her stay out all hours, let her come and go as she pleases, never mind me, I'm just the secretary and bed warmer around here!

Despite her ill mood, the book was incredibly diverting, filled with blood-sucking vampires, werewolves, and plenty of Gothic atmosphere. Rhiannon sat and read, completely engrossed, until the banging of the front door made her start in surprise and drop the book in her lap.

She's home! Rhiannon rushed from the parlor, forgetting her earlier vow to remain aloof... only to confront a figure from her worst nightmares.

Lady Evangeline was an elegant, aristocratic beauty, who, even in men's clothing, was still so incredibly handsome that gentlemen of certain inclinations had occasionally made shocking advances to her.

The creature that stood before the astonished secretary was filthy; its face was a mask of blood and dirt from which a pair of startlingly green eyes peered out, for all the world like precious emeralds set in mud. The shirt and trousers it wore were tattered and ripped in several places, revealing white skin marked with oozing scratches and cuts. The figure staggered, supported by the arm of an equally ragged and dirty personage... and when it spoke, the scarecrow had Lina's voice.

"Sorry, my dear," Lady Evangeline croaked, running a shaking hand across her sluggishly bleeding lip, "I meant to get cleaned up a bit before I saw you."

Rhiannon clapped a hand to her own mouth to stifle a shriek. Then she swallowed, obviously trying to remain calm. "What happened?" she asked in a small, strained voice.

"What did not?" Lina replied ruefully. "Truly, Rhiannon, I am heartily glad to see you. But pray, allow me first to bathe and change out of these rags before I make my explanations."

The other figure said wearily, "Milady, I shall retire to my own quarters, if you please. Do you require assistance to negotiate the stairs?"

Jackson, leaning heavily on the arm of an aghast Bob, was gently led away to his own rooms, leaving Rhiannon and Lina alone.

Lady Evangeline walked over to the stairs on legs that definitely wobbled. I am not sure I can do this after all, she thought, sitting down abruptly on the bottom stair; air rushed from her lungs, leaving her breathless and shaking.

Rhiannon immediately hurried over. "Good God, Lina! Are you hurt? Should I call a doctor?"

The peer waved a weary hand. "No, no, my dear. I shall be fine. Just let me catch my breath a moment..."

Rhiannon's eyes suddenly sparkled with anger. She leaned down and placed Lina's arm over her shoulders. "Let's go," she said shortly, heaving with all her strength.

Lina was surprised when the much smaller Rhiannon not only managed to get her on her feet, but half carry her up the stairs and steer her towards their bedroom.

Rhiannon plopped her lover down into a chair with gentle force and disappeared into the bathroom. When she emerged, the sound of running water could be heard coming from the room behind her.

When Rhiannon knelt down to remove the peer's boots, Lina cleared her throat and began, "That is not necessary, my....," and stopped when she received a fierce glare from livid blue eyes.

Well, the peer thought as her mouth closed with a click, perhaps this is not the time or place to protest.

In short order, Rhiannon stripped Lina of her filthy rags, her lips getting tighter and tighter as each bruise, scratch and cut was revealed, although she said not a word.

Finally, Rhiannon hauled Lina to her feet again, and dragged her into the bathroom, helping the exhausted woman climb into the steaming tub. The dark-haired peer winced as cuts opened and stung.

"Really, Rhiannon, I think I can bathe...," Lady Evangeline began, and received another high-wattage glare from the strawberry- blonde woman's eyes. The peer, being no fool, decided to keep her mouth closed and let Rhiannon do as she would. After all, she thought, I am certain she has no intention of drowning me... yet.

Rhiannon rolled up her sleeves briskly, then picked up a sponge and a bar of the lilac-scented soap her lover preferred. Still without a word, she began to scrub Lina efficiently but with considerable care for her hurts. After a moment, Lady Evangeline relaxed, the steaming water soothing sore muscles... until Rhiannon started scrubbing her face.

Sputtering, the peer received a mouthful of bitter suds and subsided, carefully squeezing her eyes shut. It was becoming rapidly obvious that Rhiannon was very put out about something, and Lina was not quite ready to defy her suddenly aggressive lover.

"Sit still," Rhiannon said, the sound of her voice almost shocking after so much silence. "I need to drain this water, then I'll run some more into the tub."

The filthy water drained away, leaving Lina shivering with cold; but quickly, the claw-footed tub was full again, and the air in the bathroom filled with swirling billows of steam.

After washing Lina's hair twice, and scrubbing her yet again to make sure there were no lingering particles of dirt lurking in unsuspecting crevices, Rhiannon got her lover dried, into a clean nightshirt, and tucked into bed.

Throughout this process, Lady Evangeline had been uncharacteristically quiet. Normally, she would not have allowed anyone to see her so vulnerable but she trusted Rhiannon and hoped she could stay awake long enough to find out what the Devil was wrong.

Rhiannon made to leave, her sateen housegown soaked down the front. The dark-haired peer stopped her with a word. "Please?" she said, and nothing more.

Silently, Rhiannon walked over to the bed, untying the belt around her robe, and let it fall to the floor. Beneath, she wore a simple cotton nightgown, edged with eyelet lace and tiny silk rosebuds. It, too, was soaked, and Lady Evangeline sucked in her breath.

Dear Lord!, Lina thought, seeing Rhiannon's rosy nipples clearly through the shift, the way it clings to her is somehow more indecent than mere nudity! And despite her exhausted state, the peer's desire began to rise... especially when she glanced down and noticed how the other woman's fiery thatch seemed to glow like distant embers against the thin cotton shield.

Rhiannon, much to Lina's disappointment, shrugged out of the gown, slipping naked into bed. The smaller woman fitted herself carefully to her lover's body, trying to avoid hurting her.

Lady Evangeline sighed, feeling Rhiannon's warm skin, a small hand clutching her own. "Now, my dear," the dark-haired peer said, "Do you wish to know what I have been doing for a day and a night and another day?"

Somewhat surprised, Lina said, "I have rested adequately, and the excellence of your ablutions had refreshed me wonderfully. I can stay awake a while longer."

Rhiannon put up her free hand and gently covered the peer's mouth. "I said no, Lina. I don't want to discuss it right now. Just go to sleep; we'll talk later."

Rhiannon stopped Lina with another glare. "Lina, I'm tired, too. I haven't been sleeping well these last few days and I could use a nap. So go to sleep or I'll borrow Jackson's cudgel and bloody well beat you into unconsciousness!"

Lady Evangeline's green eyes widened over the gag of Rhiannon's hand. She nodded once... carefully.

Rhiannon took her hand away and closed her own eyes, inhaling the scent of Lina's skin. With a sigh of contentment, the smaller woman drifted off to sleep, mentally snickering at the pole-axed expression on Lina's beautiful face.

Just before sleep claimed her, Rhiannon thought: I'll bet she never realized that explosives come in small packages, too.

Later that afternoon, Lady Evangeline reclined on the sofa in her study, smoking a cigarette. Rhiannon had seated herself in the chair opposite the peer's position; Lina was at first surprised by her lover's dress, then realized that Rhiannon wore it as a deliberate statement - of independence, and possibly defiance.

It was the threadbare blue velvet dress she'd worn when she was a prostitute, plying her trade beneath the gaslight of Whitechapel. Cut scandalously low and considerably worse for wear though clean, it was one of the few remembrances from her past Rhiannon had brought with her when she'd moved into the house on Grosvenor Square to become Lina's secretary.

The dark-haired peer shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. I have a feeling, she thought, that proceedings are about to become a tad unpleasant.

Rhiannon fiddled with a fold of her dress, then raised sky blue eyes that captured Lina's own. "I have something to say, Lina. I'm sure you aren't going to like it, but I'm going to say it anyway."

Rhiannon cleared her throat. "Your absence gave me some time for thought, Lina. And I've come to a decision."

The peer sighed again, and closed her eyes, trying to mentally command her heart to start beating again. Tears were forming beneath her closed eyelids; she waited breathlessly, certain that Rhiannon was going to tell her that it had all been a terrible mistake, that she was going back to Whitechapel, that she had no use for Lina anymore.

Rhiannon nodded. "Now, do I look like a child to you? Or a half-wit? Or one of those silly little women whose biggest decision of the day is which gown to wear?"

"Good." Rhiannon's expression was as cold as steel. "Since I am none of those things, but a woman who is just as strong and capable as you are, Lady St. Claire, I have only one more thing to say: If you ever leave me like that again - without discussing your plans or telling me anything at all - leaving me behind to wring my hands like a feather-headed heroine in a fairy tale - I will leave you."

Tears trickled down Lina's face, but when she opened her mouth to speak, Rhiannon raised her hand for silence.

"You've told me that you loved me, over and over again. You've showered me with gifts, made a place for me in your home, and I'm grateful for everything you've done for me. But I am not a toy. Nor am I some sort of pet. As much as I love you, Lina, I won't be treated that way. I've had enough of that in my lifetime, and if that's what you think of me, then perhaps I should go."

"Yes. Either we have a partnership of equals or nothing at all. There are a good many things you can do that I can't - but there are some skills I have that you don't, milady. I'm not asking that you drag me everywhere as if I were your shadow; all I ask is some consideration on your part. Perhaps if I'd accompanied you yesterday, you and Jackson wouldn't have gotten hurt." Rhiannon shrugged, continuing, "But I suppose we'll never know that, will we?"

Lady Evangeline was shocked to the core. Really, she thought, have I been that bad? Then, she recalled incidents when she had casually issued orders, or assumed obedience on Rhiannon's part, in a cavalier manner which she now found absolutely appalling.

"Oh, God, Rhiannon! I have been behaving like an ass!," Lina groaned. Rising, she flicked her cigarette into the fireplace and slid to the floor, kneeling at Rhiannon's feet. Taking one of Rhiannon's hands between both of her own, the ebony-haired woman said, "I apologize, sweetheart. You are right - I have been acting like a veritable tyrant, rapping out orders and expecting to be obeyed, when I have no right."

Rhiannon's eyes darkened a little. "Lina, I meant what I said. If you do that to me again, I will leave you. I can't live like that."

Lina bowed her neck until her forehead rested on the knuckles of Rhiannon's hands. "There is no excuse for my behavior, so I shall not offer one. Please, my love, if I start behaving like London's worst prig again, beat me over the head with a blunt object until you get my attention. I never meant to hurt you..."

"I know. That's the only reason I stayed." A little smile touched Rhiannon's lips. "It's just that I love you too much to let you bully me, Lina. I will, of course, bow to your superior experience in certain matters, but I expect to have some say in things."

"You are absolutely right. Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa!" Lina raised her head. Her hair, loosened from its pins, cascaded in inky waves across her broad shoulders. "I cannot apologize enough. You are so very dear to me that the thought of you placing yourself in injury's path is enough to make me want to lock you up and throw away the key! But, you have my word: If you wish to involve yourself more fully in my work, I shall not stop you. And I shall make every effort to see that you are kept as informed as possible of my doings."

"Thank you, Lina. I'm just asking you not to keep things from me. Let me make my own decisions once in a while - I've been around the block a time or two myself, and I'm hardly an innocent girl."

"I know." Lina gave her lover a lopsided grin. "And believe me, my dear, that is but one of your more charming aspects."

Rhiannon leaned forward; sliding her hands from Lina's grasp, she placed them on the other woman's face, feeling the smooth skin and the shape of the bones beneath with her palms. "I love you," she breathed, then caught the other woman's lips with her own; at first tenderly, then with growing passion.

Lady Evangeline suppressed a wince; her lips was still very sore, but she was damned if she was going to protest. When the kiss ended, Rhiannon drew back and exclaimed, "Lina! Your lip! Why on earth didn't you say something?"

The peer dabbed ruefully at the sluggishly bleeding cut. "It's quite all right, dearheart. I shan't bleed to death just yet."

Rhiannon started to get angry, then chuckled. "What am I going to do with you, Lady St. Claire?"

Lina stood, biting back a groan. "To begin with, you can help me eat some of Cook's excellent lunch. Afterwards, I shall tell you all about my adventures and you can regale me with your own."

Lina leaned over, back muscles protesting, and planted a kiss on a sliver of dark pink nipple that peeped over the top of Rhiannon's tight bodice. "Not on my account, love. However, unless you intend to give the servants a thrill..."

"You're right. Go ahead and start without me. I'll just pop upstairs and put on something else, then I'll join you."

The larger woman looked down at Rhiannon, ebony brows raised. "Are you sure you do not require help with your laces and fastenings? I make a fairly decent ladies' maid, you know." She waggled her eyebrows and gave a comic leer.

Rhiannon giggled. "Not unless you want Cook to really give notice this time. I think that poor woman's never been so infuriated, and if we're late for lunch, I shudder to think what she'll say."

Lina rolled her emerald eyes. "The imagination boggles. Very well, my dear. I will wait in the dining room like a good girl, and if Bob asks why I have steam issuing from my ears, I shall tell him 'tis because my lover has aroused my passions and the coquette has refused to requite me."

Bob, James, Buttercup and the now clean Jackson nearly fell into a tangled heap removing their ears from the door.

Rhiannon had told Lina about Professor Woolbright's explanations of the Peacock Prince, the Hand-of-Glory, and was now telling her about the Madman's Tarot. "It seems that there have been rumors for years that the Tarot was purchased secretly by one of the Shahs of Persi, as a gift for his Chief Wife, who supposedly had oracular visions. When I described the box to him, Woolbright claimed it was confirmation of his suspicions."

"I see." Abruptly, Lina stood, pushing her chair back. "Come upstairs with me, my dear. The time has come for me to reveal certain things to you."

Rhiannon crumpled her napkin and allowed the peer to pull her own chair back. Rising gracefully, she brushed a few crumbs from the skirt of the dark blue gown she wore. "All right." Then her pale blue eyes narrowed in suspicion. "What do you mean, certain things?," she asked.

Attached to the master bedroom was a small sitting room, which Rhiannon had, at Lina's insistence, decorated to her own liking. The walls were covered in pale green brocade, furniture delicate and gilded; a pair of framed paintings hung on the wall - purchased in Paris by the strawberry-blonde woman when she and Lina had visited that city a month ago.

She'd found them in Montmartre - the Bohemian district where artists gathered to sip absinthe and smoke foul cigars while sketching the passers-by and offering their own works for sale on every sidewalk. The paintings were hallucinogenic swirls of lavender, pink, green and blue created by the artist Monet, and Rhiannon never tired of looking at them.

"Very well, Lina," Rhiannon said, as the peer stretched her long length on the pastel upholstered 'fainting couch', "I hope you're going to explain your remark about 'certain things."'

Lady Evangeline said nothing yet; she merely pulled Rhiannon on top of her, spreading her legs so the other woman's body rested comfortably between her thighs, Rhiannon's head nestled between the peer's breasts. "There. That's much better," Lina sighed. "Please understand, my dear... I simply cannot reveal all to you just yet. My theories require one or two more facts before they are fully formulated; like Holmes, I am loath to explain too quickly too soon, lest I should be proved wrong."

"All right. I can understand that, though I'm burning with curiosity. Tell me what you were up to while I was at the Library, then."

Lina rested her hands against the small of Rhiannon's warm back. "I went out specifically to find Sir James Escott, also known as Culverton - the man who threatened Katchurian.

"Jackson and I located him in a seedy tavern in Cheapside. The gentleman, if you care to call him that, proved to be upstairs, sleeping off the previous evening's bacchanalia in a prostitute's arms. I sent the lady away with a purse of silver - and a demand for privacy - then we were left alone with the still snoring Escott.

"Escott proved most reluctant to answer our questions." Lady Evangeline broke off with another sigh. "I'm afraid I had no time for polite inquiry, Rhiannon; the methods I employed were fairly direct."

Rhiannon shivered and felt her lover's hands on her back, soothing her. "I don't think I want any details."

The dark-haired peer smiled slightly. "Well, I see there are yet some things about me you do not wish to know. Suffice it to say, I did Escott no permanent damage, save perhaps to his ego. After sorting through the dross of his confession, I did come up with a few bits of gold.

"Escott is a member of the Hellfire Club; in fact, he considers himself the leader's right hand man. The head of the Club styles himself 'Lord Blacksin' - and since he always goes about masked, his identity remains a secret even from his most loyal followers.

"But Escott has another employer, a man of mystery who pays him well to perform little tasks requiring brute force and low cunning. This anonymous person contacts him only by letter, received at a mail drop; Escott responds the following way. Whenever his employer wishes to contact him, he places a notice in the Agony Columns of the Times. And Escott does the same when he needs to get in touch with the Mystery Man.

"I bullied the location of the mail drop from Escott and instructed him to place the notice and write a letter to the Mystery Man asking for further instructions regarding Katchurian. He was more than happy to comply. Despite his high station, my dear, Escott is nothing more than a bit of cowardly low trash; we left him shivering and weeping in fear."

Rhiannon raised her head to look directly into Lina's face. "Did he hurt you, Lina? Is that how you both got so terribly dirty?"

"No, my dear. That came later. First, Jackson and I scouted out the address Escott had given us, a small chemist's shop where, for a fee, the proprietor will receive mail and hold it for the recipient. A bribe has ensured that man's cooperation with my plan - I intend to be there when our Mystery Man makes his next appearance."

Rhiannon narrowed her eyes. "More midnight excursions, Lina? Will you be leaving me again so soon?"

Lady Evangeline tightened her grip on the other woman's waist. "My dear, if you wish to accompany me, I shall do my utmost to ensure your safety. However... well, you have no real experience in trailing suspects, Rhiannon. And we have no time for you to learn."

The strawberry-blonde woman sighed and laid her head back down, comforted by the sound of Lina's heartbeat in her ear. "I don't like it, but I concede your point. I'll play Penelope again, waiting for valiant Ulysses to return; but I expect you to begin some kind of training program so I can be of more use to you."

"Of course, dearheart. As soon as this case is finished, I will see to it. To continue my story: the Persian aspects of this case intrigued me. Time and time again, that country has popped up like the demon king in a pantomime. So I thought to consult with Mycroft Holmes; accordingly, Jackson and I presented ourselves at the Diogenes Club."

"No, they do not. They do not allow talking, either, except within the Stranger's Room. However, they do not know me there, and a mention of his brother's name was sufficient to persuade Mr. Holmes to permit me to enter."

Lady Evangeline paused. Mycroft Holmes possessed a formidable intelligence and despite his bulk, the man moved with the unthinking grace of a stalking lion. "Mr. Holmes proved most interested. He told me in confidence that certain members of Her Majesty's government were working to remove those members of the Hellfire Club with ties to the Queen; that having been done, the Club would be closed down and arrests made.

"However, his information on Persia proved invaluable. It seemed that my memory was correct; eleven years ago, the Nassered-Din, Shah of Persia, did indeed stay in Buckingham Palace. As the Queen rarely lives there, preferring to dwell in Balmoral Castle with the ghost of her beloved Albert, the Palace is often used to house foreign dignitaries.

"The Shah brought with him an extensive entourage, including several of his wives and numerous concubines. One of those concubines was a lovely young woman named Kitri - whom I have concluded was Naga's long lost sister."

"Yes, my dear. The missing hermaphrodite employed by Mrs. Choi. Kitri was her sister, and it was Kitri's influence with the Shah that allowed Naga to come to this country. Imagine my surprise when Mycroft revealed to me a hideous scandal connected with the Shah's visit that nearly brought foreign relations to a halt."

"It appeared that Kitri had fallen in love with one of the Guards, a handsome, dashing rotter named Christopher Phelps. Corporal Phelps was a rogue; he knew Kitri had access to some of the Shah's treasures and he wooed that young woman in the hopes of getting her to pilfer something he could sell to pay off his debts.

"One night, according to Mycroft, Kitri met Phelps in the garden behind the Palace, bringing with her the Shah's chief treasure. Phelps was, of course, more interested in what Kitri carried than in the woman herself. However, neither of the pair reckoned on the Shah's suspicious nature. He had suspected Kitri of disobedience and spies watched their every move.

"Before Phelps could take full possession of the treasure, the Shah's guards burst from the bushes, fully armed and prepared to kill. Phelps fled like the coward that he was, dropping what he had taken in his haste to get away."

"As is normally the case with unfaithful concubines, my dear, she was strangled with a bowstring."

"Yes. Her body was buried on the grounds. Phelps' part in the whole sordid affair was hushed up but he was cashiered, discharged without honor and his reputation ruined. It is believed he fled for the Continent one step ahead of his creditors, but no one has seen him since."

"Ah. Now you come to the meat of it. Last night Jackson and I made a foray into the grounds of Buckingham Palace, seeking a young girl's grave."

"That question is one I cannot answer at this time, Rhiannon. I am sorry, my dear, but I did warn you I was not yet ready to reveal all."

Rhiannon was slightly miffed, but controlled herself. Sometimes, she thought, Lina's worse than one of Mr. Haggard's books. I think she truly enjoys the drama of the whole thing more than solving the puzzle itself.

"You're right, Lina," Rhiannon said reluctantly. "You warned me. Go ahead; tell me what you can."

Lady Evangeline smiled. "I promise, when the time comes, you shall be the first to hear my entire theory. Well, then, my dear: Jackson and I spent some time scaling the walls, avoiding the guards, etc. All under the light of the moon and a burglar's dark-lantern. It was quite thrilling, you understand.

"We soon located the gravesite, according to Mycroft's instructions. We spent some little time digging; the rest of the time was spent hiding from patrolling guards and flinching every time an owl hooted overhead. But we soon found what we were looking for, and just in time, too. Because at that moment, one of those bloody guards decided to take time away from his rounds to light a fag and spotted us."

Lina smiled at Rhiannon's gasp. "Needless to say," she continued, "We wasted no time in fleeing the scene. Of course, we were forced to leave the lantern behind, and blundered into rose bushes, statuary and miscellaneous benches and what-not in the dark. Just at the moment when the guards were hot on our heels and I felt arrest imminent, an explosion came from somewhere to the east of our position. Immediately, most of the guards ceased their pursuit and left in the new direction; I was able, with Jackson's help, to subdue the remainder without causing too many injuries."

Rhiannon looked at her lover with wide blue eyes. "You broke into Buckingham Palace? Lina, it's a wonder you weren't shot!"

"You are absolutely correct, my dear. I think, since the Queen is not in residence, that discipline amongst the Royal Guard has become somewhat lax. Not one of those boobies thought to discharge his weapon - which was a bit of good luck for me, not to mention poor Jackson, who is really getting too old to dodge bullets."

"But why? What was it about Kitri's body that was so important? Surely, after Mycroft told you the story of her demise..."

"It was not her body I was after, Rhiannon. I suspected something else had been buried with her and I was right." The peer was silent after that remark.

Rhiannon waited a moment before replying, "Is this one of the things you can't tell me yet?"

"I am afraid so. A case is like a tapestry, Rhiannon. One acquires the clues thread by thread and weaves them together into a solution. Last night's adventure provided me with several threads and some confirmation of certain suspicions I have - but the case is not yet complete. Not until I know the identity of the Mystery Man."

"I do. It is locked within the downstairs safe. I know you are no Bluebeard's wife, my dear - I can trust you to contain your curiosity."

Rhiannon scowled. "I hate it when you do that, Lina - appeal to my good nature. Now you know I'll never peek into the safe, even if it were on fire."

Lina chuckled. "I know you very well indeed, Rhiannon Moore. And the more I get to know, the greater my love for you grows."

They lay together on the couch, each woman content with each other's presence. Finally, Rhiannon's wondering about other matters began to burn. "Lina? Can you tell me what was in those boxes you got from Mr. Katchurian and Mrs. Choi?"

Rhiannon gasped as Lina's strong hands bit into the flesh of her shoulders; immediately, the peer relaxed her grip. "I apologize, my dear," Lina said contritely, "I did not mean to hurt you. The contents of those boxes is the connection between Katchurian and the Hellfire Club, the disappearances, and everything."

Lady Evangeline sighed heavily. "I can do better than that, dearheart. I shall show you."

Lady Evangeline stopped waving the crystal bottle of smelling salts beneath Rhiannon's nose. "You fainted, my dear. I tried to warn you that the sight would be fairly gruesome."

"But I refused to listen. Good Lord, Lina! Please put the stopper on that foul bottle and help me up!" Rhiannon struggled to rise; she lay on the floor, her head pillowed on Lina's knees.

The peer chuckled, adjusting her position and slipping one strong arm under Rhiannon's shoulders, the other behind her knees. With a slight grunt, Lina rose with her burden and carried the other woman over to the sofa.

Laying her down, Lina sat next to Rhiannon and asked anxiously, "Are you feeling quite all right, my dear? Would some brandy help?"

Rhiannon wasn't sure if her still quivering stomach would tolerate brandy, but she nodded. "Please." If anything, she thought, the stuff will make my head stop spinning. Lady Evangeline quickly returned with a snifter containing an inch of golden-brown liquid and Rhiannon took it with a shaking hand.

Lina laughed as Rhiannon screwed her eyes up at the taste of the brandy. "You look for all the world like a child taking cod liver oil!" she hooted. "Really, Rhiannon, that is the finest French cognac and you act as if it were nasty medicine!"

Finished, Rhiannon laid the snifter aside with a shudder. "You might like all that fancy stuff, Lina, but my tastes run more to beer and wine than liquors."

Rhiannon thought about it, and, oddly enough, she was. The brandy had burned like the Devil going down, but now her stomach glowed warmly. "Yes, much. Now, please tell me what those - things - were."

Lina sat back down. Her paisley silk smoking jacket gaped at the bosom, revealing considerably more of her breasts than was proper, but the peer didn't notice. She had eyes only for her lover. "You should know, my dear. You yourself brought the description for their creation and use back from the Library."

"Precisely. It is not curious that both Katchurian and Choi should receive such heinous gifts from unknown villains?"

Rhiannon thought furiously. "If both Katchurian and Choi got those, and since the Hellfire Club is notorious for black magic ritual, it stands to reason that the kidnappings and the threats against Mr. Katchurian come from the same source."

Lina clapped her hands together and crowed, "Marvelous, my dear! Simply marvelous! I could not have stated it better myself!"

Rhiannon flushed. "So that means that the Club, or Lord Blacksin, is after the Madman's Tarot."

"Precisely. Or something else, possibly, but we shan't go into that now. I am very proud of you, Rhiannon. If Holmes were here, he would applaud you as well."

"Speaking of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, why didn't he tell you about those Hands? I remember he hinted about a connection when we saw him."

"As to that, my dear, I believe that Holmes was exercising his discretion. After all, this is my case, not his, and between detectives, it is considered impolite in the extreme to meddle where you have not been invited. It may also be," Lina continued thoughtfully, "that he wished to test my acumen by forcing me to discover it myself."

"And to me as well. Now, we have uncovered a sinister plot, made even more sinister by yet another thread."

"I took the liberty yesterday of paying a call upon the gentleman whom Katchurian sold the box and cards to. He showed me what he had purchased, but was reluctant to answer my questions."

Lady Evangeline's face grew stony. "He was a pompous popinjay, my dear. All frills and flutters. It was what he did not tell me that I found intriguing."

Lina patted her hand. "Never mind, my dear. I shall tell you when the time comes to present the woven conclusion to the authorities."

Rhiannon snorted. "You ask a great deal of my patience, Lina. Perhaps I'll resort to more nefarious means to make you divulge your information."

Lina's emerald green eyes glowed. "And just what would those methods be, my dear?" she asked mischievously.

"I have my own interrogation techniques, you know," Rhiannon replied, then sat up.

Lady Evangeline drew breath sharply as Rhiannon unfastened the buttons of her gown with nimble fingers and slipped it from her creamy shoulders to puddle around her hips. "See anything you like," Rhiannon asked, red-gold brows raised.

Lina's mouth was dry. "Hmmmm...," she purred, beginning to enjoy this game, "Let me see..." The taller woman reached out one hand and cupped one of Rhiannon's firm breasts, feeling the nipple swell in her palm. "Adequate, I suppose."

Rhiannon's shoulder shook with suppressed laughter, making the breast in Lina's hand jiggle a little. "Adequate?" she asked archly. "Then how do you feel about this?"

She took Lina's other hand and placed it against the juncture of her thighs. The sight of her strong fingers nestled against Rhiannon's fiery thatch made Lina's growl deeply, "Um...the color is quite extraordinary."

"Thank you." Rhiannon leaned forward a little. "Anything else you'd like to tell me?"

With a moan, Lina fastened her mouth to Rhiannon's shoulder, kissing the scar left by Jack the Ripper's knife. "You have undone me, milady," Lina moaned against Rhiannon's soft flesh, "I have no defenses; my walls are breached, my armies disarrayed, and I surrender to your charms."

Rhiannon laughed throatily. Reaching out, she pulled Lina's smoking jacket from the peer's own broad shoulders, running her hands along the thick muscles of the other woman's back. "Is your surrender unconditional?," the strawberry-blonde woman asked, then broke off with a moan of her own as Lina's lips found their way to her throat and the peer's fingers began exploring...

"Oh, yes, my dear," Lina murmured, "And I intend to surrender again and again and again, all afternoon long..."

The next two days passed with agonizing slowness. Lady Evangeline grew increasingly short tempered at the delay and was frequently heard to call curses down on Escott's head. When the Times notice appeared on the third morning, the entire household breathed a sigh of relief.

Rhiannon took it all in stride, almost smug as she reveled in having the peer all to herself with only a few distractions. At least, she's not creeping off in the middle of the night to do God-knows-what with God-knows-who, Rhiannon thought. I think I can stand it when she snarls and snaps; it's when she gets all quiet and broody that my blood runs cold.

The pretty secretary lured her lover out into the snow-covered landscape of London, insisting on rides in the Park, shopping expeditions, and even a night at the opera. For Rhiannon's sake, Lady Evangeline gave every appearance of enjoyment, although she inwardly fumed at every delay.

"By God!" the peer had exclaimed one night when the two women were snuggled together in their warm bed, "I think I would much rather confront an entire regiment of white slavers with a kitchen spoon than sit about twiddling my thumbs."

Rhiannon had silenced her with a kiss - and Lina allowed herself to be distracted again.

The night after the notice's appearance, Lady Evangeline was ready for action. "I heard from the chemist that the Mystery Man always picks his mail up at around eleven o'clock. I shall be lurking nearby; when he leaves, the chemist has promised to give me a signal so I shall know whom I am following."

Lina looked down at the other woman. "I promise, my dear. I shall be the soul of discretion." She bent down to place a gentle kiss on Rhiannon's lips, ignoring Jackson's harrumph of warning as he entered the room, eyes discreetly averted.

"Your cloak, milady." At armslength, Jackson held a ragged woolen cloak, heavily patched and reeking of cheap rosewater.

Rhiannon giggled. The peer had dressed with care for her excursion into Cheapside. She wore a vivid crimson dress of heavy wool, stained and badly darned in places; frills of black lace hung limply on her bosom. The neckline was cut as low as Rhiannon's own blue velvet gown; Lina's magnificent breasts bulged from the top like globes of blue-veined alabaster.

A pair of stout black boots, reinforced at the toe with steel plates, had been artistically "aged" - more than a decade old in appearance but in reality, quite new. Lina had put cosmetics to good use as well; she appeared to be a raddled old whore with a bright red gin nose, haggard eyes and a wart on her chin.

"Brrrrrrrr!" Rhiannon said with a shiver. "Where on earth did you find that horrible wig?"

The wig resembled a nest of badly spun straw and bits of it hung around Lina's shoulders, crackling dryly as she moved. "I borrowed it from Holmes. Do you like it? I thought it added an air of verisimilitude."

"It looks genuine, alright! Just remember to drop your 'aitches' and not to look down your aristocratic nose at people."

Lina looked offended. "Teach your grandmother to suck eggs, Rhiannon Moore! I learned at a master's feet; even I could not recognize Holmes in one of his clever disguises unless he allowed it."

Lady Evangeline reached into her bodice and produced the article. "Right here, mother. It is loaded, and I have extra bullets."

Rhiannon wondered privately how Lina managed to secrete anything the size of her revolver into the bodice of that tight red dress, considering how well filled it was already. "I'll stop fussing now, before you accuse me of being an old hen."

Lina's emerald green eyes stared down at her from a stranger's face. "I find your concern touching, my dear. Now, on to Cheapside!" Taking the cloak from Jackson's grasp, she swirled it around her shoulders theatrically.

As the cloak settled, an abrupt transformation came over the peer. Suddenly, instead of a tall, lean, elegantly beautiful woman of obvious station and bearing, an old whore cackled in the front hall, looking as out of place as a dog dropping on a Sevres plate.

"Heh, heh, heh, dearie!" the old woman said, showing several gaps in her grin (a trick Holmes had taught her using actor's props). "Care fer a bit o' the ol' 'ammer an' tongs, me lord? Only a shillin' an' it's noice an' fillin'!"

Jackson shuddered while Rhiannon burst out laughing, clapping her hands together in delight. "That's marvelous, Lina! I say, the world lost a great actress when you declined to take the stage!"

Lina swept her a bow, averting to her normal self. "Many thanks for the compliments, my dear. Now, I really must be going. Take good care of her, Jackson. I rely on you."

Jackson bowed his head in acknowledgment. "Yes, milady. We shall take the utmost care of Miss Rhiannon while you are away."

As Lina stumped out into the night, having re-donned her whore's mannerisms, Rhiannon could not help but feel uneasy. Something bad was going to happen... she felt it in her very bones.

The delicate Meissen clock in the bedroom had just chimed twice when Rhiannon was awakened by a discreet rap on the door.

"Yes?" she called, sitting up and rubbing sleep out of her eyes. She had been plagued with nightmares; foul dreams of Lina's body lying on a cold marble slab...

Jackson entered, his normally placid face filled with dismay. "You'd better come downstairs right away, Miss. I'm afraid something's happened to milady."

Instantly awake, Rhiannon scrambled out of bed, heedless of her state of undress. When Jackson blushed hotly, she grabbed a sheet and wrapped it around her nakedness with an impatient snort. "What's happened?" she asked, eyes burning.

Jackson winced. "Milady told me she would be using Mr. Holmes' Baker Street Irregulars to convey regular messages as to her whereabouts. This was to ensure you did not worry excessively." He stopped and gulped when Rhiannon took a step forward, the expression on her face frightful enough to stop a raging bull in its tracks.

He continued, "One of the Irregulars came to the door a few moments ago. I'm afraid Lady Evangeline has been kidnapped."

Jackson was forced to move aside adroitly to avoid being run over by the frantic Rhiannon.

Rhiannon's eyes glowed with a clear, cold fire, as incandescent as the heart of a candle flame. After hearing the ragamuffin child's story, she had dismissed him with instructions to have the news conveyed immediately to Baker Street. When the child answered that this had already been done - and on Mr. Holmes' orders - she had nodded absently and sent him on his way clutching a coin.

Now, she stood in the bedroom, arrayed as if for battle. She had dismissed the idea of wearing one of her own dresses; although comfortable, they did not provide enough freedom of movement.

Instead, she had prevailed upon James the footman, who was a small man about her own size, to part with a pair of trousers and a shirt. Rhiannon had bound her breasts with strips of linen, ignoring the pain. Lina was in danger - this was the sole thought that dominated all other considerations.

Jackson appeared in the doorway, dressed completely in black. "Mr. Holmes has arrived, Miss. And he has Dr. Watson with him."

For a moment, Rhiannon was surprised. I could have sworn there was no love lost between the doctor and Lina, she thought, but perhaps he comes on Holmes' account.

Finishing her toilette, Rhiannon surveyed herself in the mirror and nodded with satisfaction, running one hand over the top of her head to make sure her hair was fastened tightly. Then snatching up the dainty mother-of-pearl pistol that had been Holmes' Christmas gift, she squared her shoulders and marched downstairs.

Arriving in the sitting room, Rhiannon drew a deep breath. "Gentleman," she said, "I trust you've heard the news."

Holmes stood, dark gray eyes filled with concern. "My dear Miss Rhiannon, I cannot tell you how sorry I am..."

Rhiannon stopped him with a gesture. "Don't speak to me of sorrows, Mr. Holmes. Just tell me how we'll get Lina back safely."

"Quite right." Holmes sat back down and exchanged a glance with Watson. "We must first examine the crime scene. The Irregular who brought me the news of Lina's abduction also provided me with its location. I hope to be able to deduce the kidnapper's direction from clues on the site." He paused, then continued more gently, "And also to ascertain the severity of Lina's injuries."

Rhiannon paused while she struggled to breathe. The thought of her lover lying somewhere, injured and alone, was almost more than she could bear. Holmes rose and crossed to her, looking down into her stricken face.

Carefully, the detective put his arms around the pretty woman's shoulders and pulled her to his chest. "It will be all right, Miss Rhiannon. She is my friend as well; I assure you, I shall do everything within my power to see her returned, alive and well."

Rhiannon bit her lower lip until it bled, forcing back tears. Pulling away from Holmes, she swiped her hand across her eyes and said roughly, "I hope so, Mr. Holmes. Otherwise, you'll have to arrange for a double burial."

Dr. Watson started to protest this admission, but Holmes waved him into silence. "You have my word, Rhiannon," the saturnine detective said seriously.

Turning away from Rhiannon, Holmes said, "Now. A hired carriage waits outside; we had better go..." but the detective was interrupted by several more figures entering the room.

Henry, Bob and James pushed themselves forward. "You've no need to be using a hired cab, sir," Henry said forcefully, "I'll drive you myself. And fight, too, if needs be." The coachman brandished a spiked cudgel; before entering Lina's employ, Henry had been an enforcer for a loan shark in Southwark.

"Sir," Bob said, "Me an' James 'ere, we'll be goin', too. We're useful in a scrap, an' neither one of us is afraid a' nothin'. Sir." Bob tugged his forelock respectfully, but his thick, scarred knuckles were wrapped in cotton rags which concealed the thin but heavy steel chains entwining his fingers.

The silent James wore a bandolier of throwing daggers slung across his chest and another pair of knife hilts glittered from the tops of his boots; it was obvious the rat-faced little man was ready for action. Both footmen had been hired killers in their former lives; Lina's attentions had saved them from the gallows and the men were willing to die for her if necessary.

Rhiannon's eyes filled with tears. "If Cook comes in brandishing a cleaver, I swear I'll start to cry," she said.

Holmes put a comforting arm around her shoulders and looked at the three servants. "You are very welcome, gentlemen," he said formally. "I am certain we shall require your assistance during tonight's proceedings. Come, Rhiannon," he cried dramatically, "the game's afoot!"

In her kitchen, Cook was muttering to a weeping Buttercup, "There, there, luv," the enormous woman said with a touch of asperity, "Oi'm sure t' fellows'll invoite you ter play next toime!" Cook herself was furious; her arguments to the redoubtable Jackson to allow her to accompany Miss Rhiannon had fallen on deaf ears.

Buttercup sobbed into her tea as the band of rescuers sped into the snow-filled night.

The chemist's shop was a grubby little building with filthy, fly-specked windows. One of Holmes' Irregulars, a nine-year old boy with a gamine's grin and ancient eyes led them to the alley where Lina's abduction had occurred.

Holmes spent considerable time going over the alley inch by inch, sometimes on his knees with his nose nearly touching the ground. By the time he'd finished, his trousers were beyond redemption and a grim look had settled over his hawk-like face.

Rhiannon alternated between wanting to weep, wring her hands together and tear at her hair, but she exercised control and did nothing save stand illuminated in the gaslight, her heart pounding painfully as she waited for Holmes' deductions. Watson stood beside her, the gallant man's arm around her shoulders.

"There were four of them," he said, pointing at the ground. "One was a very tall, heavy gentleman with a padded heel on one boot who drags his feet when he walks. We shall call him the Giant. Another was much smaller, possibly as small as you, Rhiannon, judging from the size of his feet, and he smokes cigarettes laced with hashish. He leaned against this wall and watched the other three. We shall call him the Pygmy." Holmes exhibited two cigarette butts; the paper was a peculiar shade of lavender.

He continued, "The other two were of ordinary height and weight, except that one wore boots of German manufacture, while the other was wore crepe-soled shoes; we shall call them the German and the Burglar."

They had left the others waiting at the carriage; Rhiannon pitied the footpad who tried to accost the three servants. She knew they were keyed up and ready to assault anything that moved. She leaned into Doctor Watson and listened to Holmes' recreation of the scene, suppressing a frisson of horror at his calm explanation of the terrible events of the night.

"The German entered first; he was followed by Lina. He wore a long cloak, black, and carried a cane." Holmes pointed to marks on the ground and held out a long, black thread. "The other three were waiting just around the corner and had been for some time. As soon as Lina entered, the German turned and waited. Possibly words were exchanged. Then the Giant struck Lina from behind; by the bloodstains on the ground, I should judge it a sharp head blow. Painful and incapacitating but not usually mortal."

Rhiannon closed her eyes, fighting back nausea. I am not going to faint! she said to herself sternly.

Holmes looked at her gravely. "There is not enough blood here to indicate that she was killed. Indeed; I have found signs that Lina was at least partially conscious and able to struggle when the villains loaded her into a waiting carriage.

"As to their ultimate destination," the detective continued, "I have one or two ideas. Rhiannon, I know little of this case beyond what Lina has chosen to tell me. Did she interrogate James Escott at any time during the last few days?"

"Yes, she did. That was three days ago. It was her idea for Escott to put a notice in the Times to contact the Mystery Man..." Rhiannon rapidly filled Holmes and Watson in on the extraordinary events surrounding Katchurian and Choi, and the connection to the Hellfire Club and to Escott.

When she finished, Holmes nodded. "I suspect Escott betrayed her to his employer. What Lina does not know, Rhiannon, is that this Mystery Man, as she has named him, is also known as Lord Blacksin, head of the Hellfire Club."

Rhiannon lashes fluttered as she fought another wave of nausea and dizziness. Lina needs you! she thought desperately, You must be strong!

"His boots. I have not mentioned to either of you that I am intimately familiar with Blacksin's footprints. Mycroft called upon me several weeks ago and showed me one of the Hellfire Club's sites - some occult ritual had taken place just outside London and Mycroft asked me to deduce what I could from the evidence. The bootprints I saw behind the 'altar' and the ones in the alley are identical."

"I don't understand. Why would this Blacksin resort to such trickery when as head of the Club, he could just give his orders to Escott in person?"

Holmes rubbed the side of his long nose. "I believe the answer lies in that young man's fondness for overly-dramatic intrigue. By using this Mystery Man character, Blacksin ensured Escott's interest, possibly by appealing not only to his purse, but to his credulous nature. I had an opportunity to speak to Escott not long ago and I instantly recognized this trait within him.

"Also, if any of Escott's deeds were discovered," Holmes concluded, "then none of his activities could be traced to Blacksin, who is having enough trouble with the authorities."

"I see." Rhiannon struggled to think but finally gave up; she was wound too tightly for logic. "Where have they taken her, Mr. Holmes?"

Holmes grimaced and his gray eyes flared with sudden light. "I fear they have taken her to the headquarters of the Hellfire Club."

Watson caught Rhiannon barely in time to keep her from cracking her head open on the cobblestones as she fainted.

Rhiannon woke in the darkness of the carriage, swimming up from terrible dreams to find herself gasping, covered in sweat and in unfamiliar surroundings. She was disoriented and barely stopped herself from giving Dr. Watson the shock of his life; for a moment, she had thought herself to be back in Whitechapel, plying her formal trade, and had almost made an instinctive grab for the gentleman's genitals.

"What... what... what's happening?," she stuttered, sitting up. Her head had been pillowed on Watson's lap; since this had only added to her initial confusion, she was glad the carriage was too dark for the doctor to see her blushes. They were alone; Henry sat in the driver's seat with Bob beside him and James clung like a monkey to the back of the carriage.

"We are outside the Diogenes Club, Miss Moore. Holmes is within, consulting with his brother." Dr. Watson was thoughtful. The doorkeeper had refused Holmes' entrance, prompting the detective to wave his fist beneath that worthy's nose and make some fairly grisly threats. This was a side of his friend that Watson had rarely seen - normally, he thought of the detective as a kind of thinking machine rather than a flesh-and-blood man.

I suppose I shall have to change my views on Holmes, Watson thought. Although my reading public will have to be content with the cold-blooded analyst, rather than the man. They would howl for my blood if I turned about and gave them the 'real' Holmes.

"What's he doing? What's taking so long?" Rhiannon's hands clenched until the nails bit into her palms but she didn't notice. Lina! she screamed inside her mind, Please, please be all right!

"He is attempting to ascertain the location of the Hellfire Club's headquarters. He believes, and rightly in my opinion, that his brother possesses that information."

Watson harrumphed through his mustache and patted Rhiannon's shoulder, continuing, "Everything will be fine, Miss Moore. You shall see; Holmes is quite formidable and not even Mycroft will be able to withstand him."

At that moment, the figure of Holmes, houndstooth-checked cape swirling about his feet, appeared in the doorway. The detective half ran to the carriage and threw himself inside, shouting to Henry, "Are you familiar with Old Broughmpton Road?"

Henry's muffled reply answered in the affirmative; Holmes yelled back, "Then drive like the Devil, man! Our destination is Lord Julian Baxter's estate; let me know when we've arrived at Broughmpton and I'll guide you from there!"

The carriage jerked as Henry whipped up the horses and they jolted at breakneck speed along the cobblestoned streets. Rhiannon held grimly to one strap and felt for the reassuring presence of the pistol in the pocket of her trousers with her free hand.

Lord Julian Baxter's estate had been deserted for years; he had left no fortune behind and his heirs had flatly refused to accept the enormous white elephant of a house. The front lawn was a tangled web of weeds and overgrown rhododendron bushes; a cracked marble fountain bore the green and yellow stains of algae, and crickets lived within instead of carp.

The house itself appeared to be a sleeping Leviathan, the stark black windows like blind eyes peering out into the night. Rhiannon shuddered. She had seen this place in her nightmares.

They all walked up to the silent house, taking unconscious care not to make a noise. Rhiannon was a little surprised at Bob and James - both men flowed with pantherine grace and their eyes missed nothing. Henry merely swung his truncheon and watched the other two for a signal to act.

Holmes reached the door first; it had been boarded shut. After a few moments examining it, he muttered, "There must be another way in. Split up - Rhiannon, you come with myself and Watson, you three go around the other way. Look for a cellar door, a back door, or an unlocked window. And do not forget to look for ladders or any other means of ingress to the second or third story. They have obviously taken precautions to make this place look as deserted as possible."

After forty-five minutes of searching and testing, Rhiannon was ready to weep with frustration. "Where could they be?" she asked, blue eyes shimmering with unshed tears.

"We shall find her, never fear," Holmes answered absently, testing yet another window. "But... get back, out of sight, the two of you! Someone is coming!"

Rhiannon heard the soft thud of footsteps in the grass coming towards them. She shrank back into the shadows, practically on top of Watson, as a dark figure pounded up.

It was Henry; the coachman was breathless. "Bob an' James thought it best if they searched the house while I went through the garden. I think I've bloody well found 'em!"

"Well done, man! Watson, you fetch Bob and James; Rhiannon and I will go with Henry to see what may be done." The detective's voice held a note of triumph.

Watson pulled out his Army revolver and checked the chamber. "Right," he said shortly, and for a moment, Rhiannon was sure the doctor was going to snap them a salute. He marched away, every inch the professional soldier, and Rhiannon stifled a tired laugh.

Holmes looked at his friend's departing figure with gray eyes that sparkled a little. "Good old Watson," he murmured, then stood straighter. "Come, Rhiannon. Let us see to this den of kidnappers."

Rhiannon hurried away at Holmes heels, eyes darting at every unfamiliar noise and shadow. I see what Lina finds so attractive about this sort of thing, she thought. If I weren't so terrified for her safety, I'd be enjoying myself!

The gardens had once been the estate's glory, full of winding gravel paths, rose-bedecked nooks, fountains and follies. Ancient trees swayed overhead, their leafless branches creaking eerily. There had been a freak thaw that morning; most of the snow had melted but the air was still crisp and bone-chillingly cold. Rhiannon was grateful for the heavy wool cloak she wore; although sudden breezes tended to freeze either her ankles or the back of her neck, she was still fairly warm.

In the center of the garden, Lord Julian had erected an impressive folly - a gazebo of Eastern design featuring four enormous elephants carved of marble, bearing upon their broad shoulders a peaked-roof building whose columns sported winding dragons and feathered serpents, scantily clad houris, monkeys and palms in bewildering array.

Holmes muttered upon seeing it, "Bah! Yet another example that money does not necessarily confer good taste."

The three climbed up the marble stairs, Holmes commenting upon the relative cleanliness of the stairway. "It looks as if it has been used before, and often," he said. The interior of the building was large enough to host a dinner party comfortably with dancing afterward; there was even a tiny dais to accommodate a band.

For a moment, Rhiannon thought she heard the ghostly echoes of just such a band; she could barely make out, just on the edge of her hearing, a sonorous melody. "Holmes," she began, when the detective raised a hand for silence.

In the center of the floor, strewn with leaves and bits of crystal from the crumbling chandeliers, Holmes had spotted a faint outline in the tile. "Hmph," he grunted. He got down on his hands and knees, testing his fingernails against the barely detectable edge.

Rhiannon and Henry waited, the pretty secretary in agony. She suppressed the urge to give Holmes a sharp clip on the ear and shout, Hurry! She felt as if every nerve in her body was stretched to the breaking point.

"Ah," Holmes murmured as his sensitive fingers found the pressure points on the tile. "If we press here, and turn this like so..." Abruptly, a section of the floor swung away, revealing a gaping black maw.

The 'music' became abruptly louder. It was no simple melody; it was the chanting of dozens of male throats in unison. "What is that?" Rhiannon asked.

Holmes answered, "It sounds like Latin but I am unable to make out the exact phrasing. We shall scout ahead; Henry, you go and wait at the garden entrance for Watson, Bob and James."

Rhiannon and Holmes descended into the darkness, the strawberry-blonde woman clutching Holmes' proffered hand tightly.

At the bottom of the steep staircase, a faint shimmer of light could be seen. The two crept towards the light, careful to make no noise. Rhiannon flinched when she stepped in some soft, gooey substance, heartily glad she could not see exactly what it was.

Some type of smooth walled tunnel extended from the bottom of the stairs. Holmes leaned over and whispered in Rhiannon's ear, "I suspect we are in the remains of a Roman aqueduct. Possibly Lord Julian discovered it when the folly was being built, and utilized it as some sort of secret place for private assignations."

Rhiannon nodded. They continued picking their way through the tunnel, Holmes deliberately slowing his long stride to accommodate the much smaller woman.

The light grew stronger, as did the sound of chanting. At the end of the tunnel, there was enough light to enable Rhiannon to clearly see Holmes' beaky profile.

They exchanged a glance, and by mutual, silent consent, cautiously peered around the edge of the tunnel mouth, Rhiannon's pistol held in one slightly shaking hand.

The tunnel widened into an enormous, two-story cavern, with the tunnel's mouth opening high above a rock floor, a narrow ledge running around the length of the cavern. A set of wooden stairs, obviously new, had been set against the ledge and led down to a scene from a Gothic novelist's fevered imagination.

Below, at least two dozen red-robed and hooded figures swayed and chanted in Latin. On a dais at one end, an altar had been set up; the green-veined marble, crafted into the shape of an upside down cross, was stained in rusty patches that Rhiannon realized must be blood.

Narrowing her eyes, Rhiannon felt a flare of horror and rage when she recognized the pale-skinned and obviously unconscious woman bound to the alter, arms outstretched, feet together - it was Lina.

She must have made an unconscious move, because Holmes strong hand wrapped around her arm like a steel band. "Do nothing yet, Rhiannon. We must wait for the others," he breathed into her ear.

A man stood on the other side of the altar, arms spread wide, the folds of his black satin cloak fluttering like bat's wings. He wore a mask over his features, a scowling Devil's face complete with twisting ebony horns and a lewdly protruding wooden tongue. It was the High Priest and leader of the Hellfire Club - the self-styled Lord Blacksin.

Rhiannon's eyes widened when Blacksin, apparently in response to the droned ritual chant, reached down to the altar and picked up a dagger with a curved blade that glittered with sinister purpose in the bright torchlight.

"Not yet!" Holmes hissed in her ear as she fought his grip silently, and the detective never knew how close he was to death himself as Rhiannon wildly considered shooting him so she could fly to her lover's rescue. She did not stop to wonder why, at such a moment, she did not feel at all faint; instead, a wellspring of strength she had never known existed seemed to flood her veins with power and deadly purpose.

After a moment, she calmed enough to consider that Holmes loved Lina too, in his own way, and that he would never allow her to be butchered. She tucked her pistol in the waistband of her trousers and, reaching out, put her hand against Holmes's face. Rhiannon stared directly into Holmes's dark gray eyes and whispered, absolutely serious, "If anything happens to her, Holmes, I will kill you myself."

Holmes nodded grimly. "If I am wrong, Rhiannon, I will load the bullets myself and guide your hand," he answered softly. "But if this is a Black Sabbath ritual as I believe, we still have a little time before Lina's life is placed in serious jeopardy. You and I, however well armed, cannot possibly succeed against all those men, my child."

Rhiannon considered his words, then pulled her arm from his suddenly lax grip. "I will wait. For now," she said, and promised herself that the moment she truly suspected that Blacksin was about to harm Lina, she would shoot regardless of the consequences, and she did not particularly care if the man she fired upon was Holmes or the High Priest.

They waited in silence as the chanting grew more fevered. Blacksin lowered the dagger, and a goblet was placed in the prostrate woman's stomach. The High Priest took a small, black object from a fold of his robe and dipped it into the goblet. Holmes whispered to Rhiannon, "He is consecrating the Profane Host. Please take hold of yourself, Rhiannon. This next part is going to be quite unpleasant."

Taking the black-dyed Host between his fingers, Blacksin used his other hand to part the folds of Lina's womanhood, and dipped the object within. The sight of that perverted madman laying hands on the woman she loved was almost too much for Rhiannon to bear, but she swallowed heavily and gritted her teeth, keeping a grip on her faltering self-control only by the most severe effort.

As Blacksin removed, then flourished the Host, a roar of approval rose from the assembled acolytes. Blacksin raised his arms for silence; in the ensuing quiet, he said loudly, "Dark blessings be upon the Unholy Body of our Lord! All Hail Lucifer, Lord of Light and King of the Damned!"

The acolytes roared again, and four lovely women, wearing nothing but scraps of scarlet silk and dully glinting manacles, circulated among the crowd, passing out crystal glasses of dark wine and small, black-dyed wafers.

Behind Blacksin, the upside down cross with its blasphemous figure of a leering goat's head superimposed on the body of a well-hung man, seemed to take on a lurid glow. Holmes muttered to Rhiannon, "A parlor trick, my child. Any decent theater knows the strategic use of colored lights."

The acolytes began to drink heavily, some of them flinging their Hosts to the ground and stamping on them, others urinating on them. The four women kept the wine flowing as Blacksin continued the ritual.

Lighting black candles impaled on tall, twisting iron holders, seemingly by merely touching them with his fingers (Holmes' whisper of secreted lucifers and a bit of sanded paper glued to the side of the thumb made Rhiannon nod), the High Priest crossed to stand in front of the altar, where a lectern of carved wood held a massive, dark leather bound tome.

Blacksin declaimed in round, oratorical tones, "Tonight, my brothers, we gather to praise our Lord, Lucifer, and to offer him an appropriate sacrifice. Although this victim we offer is neither virgin nor whore, she is perverted in spirit, for I tell you, she lives in degenerate congress with another woman, and thus belongs to Our Lord in spirit, if not in flesh."

Rhiannon's pale blue eyes burned. "I'll kill him for that," she muttered angrily as Blacksin continued.

"First, the chosen sacrifice must drink the sacred wine, the blood of Lucifer; only then will she be fitting to join Our Lord in Hell."

He moved back behind the altar and picked up the goblet that rested on Lina's stomach. He forced her jaws open and poured the contents down the peer's throat. Rhiannon clearly heard Lina sputter and choke as she nearly drowned in the foul liquid.

Holmes looked worried. "Where the Devil are they?" he murmured. Then his eyes sharpened. "I think I hear someone approaching from the other end of the passage. I will stay on this side, you on the other; if they prove to be foes, do not hesitate, Rhiannon."

The pretty woman nodded and silently moved to the other side of the tunnel, pistol held at the ready.

Rhiannon breathed a silent prayer of thankfulness and relief when the newcomers proved to be a grinning Henry, accompanied by Bob, James and Dr. Watson.

Holmes quickly gathered the men close to him; Rhiannon pushed her way beneath Bob's thick arm to listen to the detective's whispered instructions. Then a glance at the scene below drove all thought from her mind.

Blacksin was intoning, "We offer you this sacrifice, O Lord of Darkness, O Master of Iniquity, O Prince of the Everlasting Night. Find it worthy, and reward your servants for their work."

The High Priest held the dagger again... and this time, it was poised menacingly over Lina's unprotected heart.

Rhiannon barely heard Holmes strangled whisper, "Stop her!" as she darted from the tunnel and raced down the wooden stairs, her only thought to stop Blacksin by whatever means necessary. Her woolen cloak fluttered to the ground behind her as she shrugged it off her shoulders.

The acolytes turned their heads as Rhiannon shouted, "Bastards! LET HER GO!"

Blacksin pointed to the small figure hurtling down the stairs. "Stop her!" he said loudly, "The ritual must not be profaned!"

Eagerly, the men waited in a half circle, hands extended, feral grins stretched across each half-hidden feature. Rhiannon held the pistol as Lina had taught her and fired without trying to aim, trusting that the closely packed ranks would allow her bullets to find a resting place.

As she fired the fifth shot, and watched another man drop groaning, Rhiannon came to the sickening realization that she had no more bullets. Ignoring the pounding feet behind her as her allies came to the rescue, Rhiannon dauntlessly flung the spent pistol into the face of another acolyte, then noticed, as if in a daze, that the section of rounded rail beneath her hand was loose...

Even Holmes, who believed there were depths to the petite and pretty Rhiannon that no one had yet suspected, was taken aback as Rhiannon ripped the rail from its fastenings and attacked with enthusiasm if not skill.

With a shrill scream, Rhiannon launched herself at the assembled acolytes, who were so surprised they flinched back and made no immediate response. Henry, Bob and James hurled themselves into the fray, using their own weapons with deadly proficiency, as Holmes and Watson raced for the altar.

Rhiannon broke heads and knees with equal abandon, her only thought to clear the path to Lina. Utterly unconscious of her own danger, the pretty woman's face was set in a rictus of fury so frightening that most of the men she fought against got out of her way rather than confront the blood-maddened woman.

Finally, the acolytes lay on the ground; some clutching their injuries and groaning, some unconscious, and not few dead, thanks to Bob's deadly fists and James' cold-bloodedly professional knife work.

Nothing stood between Rhiannon and the woman she loved; her sky-blue eyes glittered like icy daggers as she sought the figure of Blacksin. Watson lay on the steps of the altar, holding his shoulder with one hand, his Army revolver as empty as Rhiannon's own dainty pistol, while Holmes grappled with the High Priest.

Suddenly, Blacksin struck Holmes against the side of his face with the hastily snatched goblet, and the detective collapsed. "Avenge me, O Lord!" Blacksin screamed as he brandished the dagger above Lina again.

Rhiannon had no time to think; she could only react. Hefting the staff like a spear, she nearly wrenched her shoulder from its socket as she launched the length of wood at the hated High Priest, making the air ring with a wild, skirling scream of pure animal rage.

The heavy staff flew through the air, a deadly purposeful missile, and cracked into the wooden mask Blacksin wore, shattering it into a hundred splinters.

Rhiannon panted, rubbing her shoulder. Sheer adrenaline had kept her on her feet; now she was beginning to feel the dizzying after-effects. But Lina was still not safe... she gasped for breath and staggered across the cavern, not caring if she stepped over or on the acolyte's bodies.

Watson, his own injury ignored for the moment, was lightly slapping Lina's face. Holmes, a bruise darkening one cheek, was cutting the peer's bonds with a pocket knife, his lips so tight they were bloodless.

Rhiannon had to practically crawl up the steps to the altar, but from somewhere, she dredged up the energy. "What is it, Dr. Watson? Why isn't she waking up?"

Watson frowned. His mustache was stained with blood on one side where he had been struck by Blacksin's fist in the mouth. "I suspect she has been given some drug. Holmes?" Watson turned to the detective.

Holmes picked up the fallen goblet and sniffed. His face paled. "Hemlock," he answered shortly.

Watson's eyes widened. "There is no time to waste, then! Quickly, fetch me some clean water!"

Rhiannon nearly collapsed on the spot, but fortunately, James had a cooler head than the others. He hurried over to a covered barrel and hefted off the lid. Picking up an unshattered crystal glass, he dipped it into the water barrel and after sniffing suspiciously and taking a tiny sip, he nodded in satisfaction and hurried over to Watson.

The doctor had scooped up some charcoal from nearby brazier and was busily crushing it in the folds of his handkerchief. As James approached with the glass, Watson snatched it from him with a muttered, "Stout fellow!" and sifted the charcoal dust into the water, stirring it with a finger.

"Hold her head, Holmes. We must get as much of this mixture down her as we can. And do not let her vomit yet; the charcoal must have time to absorb as much of the poison as possible."

Rhiannon went to the other end of the altar and draped herself across Lina's cold feet. The strawberry-blonde woman did not want to watch; she squeezed her eyes closed as Lina began to choke, convulsing against the men's firm hold.

At last, Watson pronounced himself satisfied. "Now, Holmes," he said shortly; Rhiannon heard and felt her lover's gut-wrenching heaves as she vomited the inky black mess onto the floor, herself and both men.

Blacksin stirred at Holmes' feet; the detective drew back one boot and kicked the High Priest in the temple with casual cruelty. "Leave him there, Watson," he said coldly as the doctor made a half- hearted protest, "I doubt he'll waken again this night."

Watson subsided. "We need to get her warm and in bed as quickly as possible. When we get back to Grosvenor Square, I will sent for a friend, Dr. Phillip Giles. He is a specialist in poisons; if there is anything else that can be done, he is the man who will know."

Holmes nodded. He whipped off his own cloak and wrapped it around Lina's nakedness, shifting Rhiannon away gently, and picked the unconscious woman up with little effort. Holding Lady Evangeline in his arms, he said to Watson, "Take care of Rhiannon, my friend. Bob, James and Henry - run back to the carriage and draw it up as close to the house as you can."

Rhiannon watched Holmes carry Lina away, the peer's head bobbing against the detective's arm, her jet-black hair spilling down in tangled waves. Watson said, "She will be fine, Miss Moore." Then raising his voice, "Holmes? What of the rest of this bloody crew?"

The lean figure of the world's greatest consulting detective paused. "The authorities are on their way, Watson. By morning, the survivors, including Blacksin, will be in government hands."

Rhiannon stared down at the unconscious High Priest, his face covered with splinters of brightly colored wood. Her brows furrowed; there was something vaguely familiar...

Lord Blacksin, also known as the Mystery Man, was none other than Andre Katchurian!

Lina lay beneath the blankets, tucked into bed like a child by a softly weeping Rhiannon. Dr. Giles, the poison expert, had come and gone; he had pronounced Watson's quick thinking action with the charcoal an "excellent job" and had left after prescribing total rest for the next week or two.

"Under no circumstances should she be allowed to become overexcited," Giles had said in his deep voice, glaring at Rhiannon with fierce black eyes, "and if she suffers a relapse, or even if you merely think she is in danger, summon me at once. I shall have my carriage standing by. Frankly, the only reason I am leaving is because my patient will be in your capable hands, Watson."

The good doctor had beamed beneath Giles' accolade. "Thank you, Giles. I do appreciate your coming out on such short notice."

Giles had snorted and snapped his black leather bag shut. "Don't thank me until you receive my bill," he had said dourly, then raising his hat to Rhiannon, took his leave.

Giles had also bandaged Watson's shoulder; during the struggle, the doctor had been slightly wounded by Blacksin's dagger. "Really," he exclaimed later, as Rhiannon plied him with wine, whiskey or anything else he desired, "it's only a scratch. But I will have another glass of that excellent brandy, if you're offering," he concluded slyly.

Holmes let out a bark of laughter. "Watson, I believe you enjoy having pretty ladies fuss over you. No, no, child," he said, waving Rhiannon's offered snifter, "None for me, thank you. My whiskey-and-soda is sufficient."

All five men were seated in the drawing room; Bob and James were guzzling bee,r and Henry was sipping a chartreuse liquor from a tiny glass, his pinkie finger daintily, and absurdly, raised.

"I don't know how to thank you, all of you," Rhiannon began. Upon returning home and seeing to Lina, the strawberry-blonde woman had loosened her hair and changed into a comfortable, lace-trimmed dressing gown of peacock-blue and pale rose stripes. Although reluctant to leave Lina's side, she knew it was necessary to make an appearance and thank the men who had helped her. That duty finished, she would return to her vigil.

Hands clasped in front of her, Rhiannon continued, "You saved Lina's life. I can't tell you how grateful I am..."

The normally silent James answered, his harsh, rasping voice as startling as a crow's. "Fink nuffin' of it, Miss. We owes Milaidy. 'Nuff said."

The other four men nodded and raised their glasses in silent salute to James, who blushed a little.

Rhiannon stared at Watson a moment with a wealth of meaning in her pale blue eyes. Holmes shifted in his chair, then rose with a sigh. "Come along, gentlemen," he said to the three servants, "It's time you went to the kitchen to regale the parlor maid and Cook with tales of your heroism; I suspect that if you keep her waiting much longer, the formidable Mrs. Hendricks will salt your tea and sugar your meat."

Red-gold brows drawn together in a frown, Rhiannon thought, Who the Devil is Mrs. Hendricks? Watson whispered to her, "That's Cook's real name, Miss Moore. But the woman prefers to be called by her title, much like the Queen."

Despite her exhausted state, Rhiannon smiled. "Thank you, Dr. Watson," she whispered back, as Holmes ushered the servants from the room and quietly shut the door behind him, leaving the two alone; the great detective had no trouble deducing that his two friends needed a quiet moment together.

"Dr. Watson," Rhiannon began, taking Holmes place beside the gentleman on the chesterfield, "Is Lina going to be all right?"

"Yes. I am no expert, Miss Moore, but it is my belief, and that of Dr. Giles, that Lady St. Claire will, in time, make a full recovery. She is fortunate that we arrived when we did; another half- hour and she would have surely succumbed to the hemlock, if not to Blacksin's knife."

Tears trembled on Rhiannon's lashes. "If you had not acted as quickly as you did," she said, "all would have been lost. I have you to thank most of all, Dr. Watson. You, more than anyone, saved Lina's life."

Watson harrumphed through his mustache. "Quite all right, Miss Moore," he replied, a little embarrassed by all the attention. "It was my pleasure."

They sat in silence for a moment, then Rhiannon asked, "Dr. Watson...is there something between Holmes and Lina I should know about?" She was nervous but felt she had to ask; the Holmes she had seen tonight bore little resemblance to the man she had read about and occasionally visited in the company of Lina.

Watson replied evenly, "Perhaps that is a question you should ask Lady St. Claire."

Rhiannon's hands trembled and she buried them in the folds of her dressing gown. "I... I don't think she knows..."

The doctor looked a little shame-faced. "I'm sorry, Miss Moore. With your permission, I will attempt to explain."

Rhiannon nodded, and Watson continued, "I have long believed that my good friend Holmes has, shall we say, certain feelings for Lady Evangeline; feelings, I hasten to add, he has not made plain or uttered to a single living soul. I believe he loves her, Miss Moore. Not as a teacher, mentor or friend; but as a man loves a woman."

Rhiannon nodded again, tears slowly making a silvery track down her pale cheeks. "I thought so, too. Tonight, he seemed so... different. From anything I've seen before, or Lina has told me about, or what I've read in your stories."

Watson sighed. "I have perhaps done Holmes a disservice with those tales of mine, Miss Moore. I fear I have depicted him as a cold- blooded creature of absolute logic, devoid of emotion and contemptuous of women. In truth, that was how I thought of him, since he never expressed any sort of feeling for a woman that I could ascertain. Do you know, at one time I thought him a homosexual?"

Rhiannon's pale blue eyes twinkled a little despite her sadness. "I can't see Holmes prancing around the bedroom in a peignoir, Dr. Watson."

Although Watson was a little shocked by Rhiannon's frankness, he had to laugh at the absurd image. "Nor I!" Then he sobered. "However, Holmes' strong regard for Lady Evangeline is his greatest secret, and he would be appalled and devastated should it ever get out. Especially if the lady herself were to hear...?"

Rhiannon shook her head, strawberry-blonde hair swirling across her shoulders. "She'll never hear it from me, doctor. It would cause an irreparable breach between them and I'll do nothing that would damage their friendship."

Watson reached over and picked up one of Rhiannon's hands, raising it to his lips. "You are a true lady, Miss Moore. I am glad to have gotten to know you, although I would have preferred less dire circumstances."

The two new friends regarded one another. Rhiannon finally asked, "Why do you bear Lina so much animosity, doctor? Or, I should say, did bear?"

Watson sighed. "I believed she was toying with Holmes' affections, Miss Moore. Mind you, I have never had much truck with the highest social circles, but, being Holmes' friend, I have had occasion to meet ladies of standing - flirtatious, empty-headed and at times, malicious. I could not believe Lady St. Claire did not realize the depths of Holmes' regard for her; I chose to believe instead that she played with his feelings."

Watson regarded her and stroked his mustache thoughtfully. "True. However, there are none so blind as those who will not see. I chose not to recognize the lady's true character. And perhaps... perhaps I regarded her as something of a threat."

Watson sighed again. "Miss Moore, sometimes my reading public believes me to be nothing more than a bumbler; a fool who stands in the great man's shadow and chronicles his adventures blindly, understanding nothing. In fact, Holmes' is my greatest friend and I am fully conscious of the honor he does by deeming me so. Without him, I would be nothing more than a humble doctor practicing my profession. I... well, it is not an easy thing to admit, but I believe I was jealous."

One corner of Rhiannon's mouth dimpled into a slight smile. "You, doctor? Jealous of Lina?"

"Yes. At first, I considered Holmes' fascination with her as a passing fancy. But soon, as she took more and more of his time away from me, I began to resent her. Whereas once it had been, 'The game's afoot, Watson!,' now suddenly it was, 'Oh, there you are, good fellow. Lina and I are working on a most fascinating case.' I felt she was usurping a position I considered mine alone. Confounded foolish of me, I admit. The worst part of it was, all the time I watched Holmes wrestle with what I considered to be the Devil, and the succubus had Lady St. Claire's face."

"Oh, my. I take it, however, you are... well, that you've put aside these feelings? Lina especially owes you much after this night's work, Dr. Watson. And I hope you understand that she truly doesn't know how Mr. Holmes feels?"

"Yes, I realize that, Miss Moore. The fact was brought upon me the first time I saw the two of you together in Baker Street. She loves you, my child; that is clearly evident. For the first time, I realized my petty emotions had less to do with Lady St. Claire and more to do with Holmes."

"I understand now - I am Holmes' friend; nothing will ever change that, and I've been behaving a bit of a bounder lately. Frankly, I'm surprised Holmes hasn't pounded that fact into my head yet."

Watson laughed. "Just so, Miss Moore! I can only hope that Lady St. Claire will forgive my obstinacy. I would certainly be honored to be considered a friend of hers."

Then something the doctor had said suddenly struck Rhiannon. "You... you know we're lovers? And it doesn't bother you?"

Watson sighed. "My dear Miss Moore," he replied, "It is true that I am a gentleman and a Christian; as such, I should condemn the two of you for what is considered to be an unnatural relationship. However, I am not nearly as judgemental as some might believe. In Afghanistan, I saw... well, let us say I saw many things that a normal British gentleman would not be exposed to. My world view was expanded, my child. Besides, I am enough of a romantic that I find true love admirable - however it is expressed."

They sat another moment more in silence as Rhiannon digested this. Then she asked softly, "Do you think Mr. Holmes will ever find someone?"

When Holmes returned a few moments later, they were still sitting together, Watson holding Rhiannon's small hand in his own.

It would be another day before Lina regained consciousness, and another two days before both Watson and Giles pronounced her fit to appear in her own study, albeit swathed in afghans and given strict orders to remain prone.

"And do not become overtired, Lady St. Claire," Watson threatened with a fierce scowl, "or I shall be forced to administer a sedative."

Rhiannon giggled as Lina stuck out her tongue behind Watson's back. "Bloody tyrant!" the peer muttered.

Lina's looking much better, Rhiannon thought. The deadly pallor of her face had regained some of its normal color; despite a certain lingering weakness, her lover seemed well on the way to recovery.

"I have asked you all here today," Lina began, "in order to reveal to you the conclusion of my case." Her gesture took in Holmes and Watson. "My dear Holmes, if you would do the honors?"

"Certainly." Holmes stood and walked over to the mantle, taking down the cuckoo clock. Fastened to the underside with a bit of sticking plaster was a key.

Lady Evangeline's safe was an enormous, solid steel affair that had been set into the hardwood floor of the study. Holmes walked over and used the key to open the safe; reaching inside, he retrieved a package wrapped in oilcloth.

"Just set it there," Lina said, indicating a table that had been drawn up between the sofa and two chairs. "Rhiannon, kindly open the package."

Rhiannon complied, carefully tearing away layers of oilcloth to reveal a golden box covered in jewels; the box's peacock feet with their chips of diamond and ruby glittered in the morning sun that streamed through the windows.

"Is this it?" Rhiannon asked, enthralled. Even Watson had leaned forward a little, the better to view this priceless treasure.

"Yes. The Madman's Tarot is within. Open it, Rhiannon. Let us view this occult prize for which so many have died."

With trembling fingers, Rhiannon opened the lid. Inside, pale sheets of thin ivory, sporting multi-hued images of haunting beauty, rested on midnight black velvet. She tipped the cards out of the box, allowing them to clatter and slide on the table. "They're extraordinary!" she breathed.

Holmes picked up one card and scrutinized it. "Yes, I believe this is the genuine article. You have my congratulations, Lina."

Lina bowed her head. Rhiannon had bullied the peer into wearing a becoming combing gown of dark purple enhanced by a brocade collar and wide poet's sleeves; her ink-black hair had been pulled back and tied at the neck with a bit of ribbon. "Thank you, Holmes. Now, let sit back, all of you, and refresh your drinks. My tale will be a long one, although, I hope, not unworthy of the telling."

Holmes chuckled as Watson retorted, "Good God, Holmes! She's beginning to sound like you, too!"

The peer smiled. "Thank you, Dr. Watson. I consider that a compliment. Well, first, let us begin eleven years ago when a young woman died a concubine's death and was buried in the grounds of Buckingham Palace. As you know, her death was the direct result of the machinations of one Corporal Christopher Phelps. The box you see before you was the treasure Kitri paid for with her life."

"He sold a box to the gentleman, my dear. I took the opportunity to carefully examine the man's possession; it was an obvious fraud, though cunning in its manufacture. It was merely gilded wood, however, with paste gems, and its contents were false as well. The gentleman in question was quite nervous; he knew he had purchased a fraud and, since he had a quite undeserving reputation as an expert in occult matters, he feared the matter would become public. I reassured him of my discretion; he confessed what he knew. That discovery provided me with my second confirmation that Katchurian was lying."

"When Rhiannon and I went to Katchurian's shop on Threadneedle Street the morning after William M'Peace was murdered, I observed the surroundings carefully. Although he claimed to be a successful dealer in antiques, his shop was obviously in a state of disuse, considering all the dust, and furthermore, filled with trash of little or no value. No, Katchurian was not what he seemed to be, and after Jackson and I found the box in Kitri's grave, I knew that Katchurian's connection to the case was stronger than he had claimed."

"You found the box in her grave? Why would the Shah bury such a rich treasure with the body of an unfaithful woman?" Rhiannon was still confused, although Holmes' face held the broad, approving smile of a teacher whose student has done something very clever.

"I did not know the box would be in her grave, Rhiannon. It was merely a possibility, albeit one which Mycroft Holmes admitted had some merit, considering his close involvement with the original episode. It was clear that Katchurian had no more idea of the box's location than the man in the moon; it also became apparent that he was willing to go to great lengths to recover it. I suspect the Shah never knew of the true value of what he buried with Kitri's body; if he had, he would have slit his own throat before losing it. Perhaps, Holmes, you can explain?"

Holmes cleared his throat. "Christopher Phelps and Andre Katchurian were one and same person, Rhiannon. I contacted a retired member of the Guard who clearly remembered Phelps and was willing to provide a description. Even with eleven years' passage, the gentleman's memory proved acute enough to identify the false antique dealer with the rogue."

Rhiannon turned to Lina and said accusingly, "So! You and Holmes were working together!"

"Not exactly, my dear," the peer replied. "But I shall explain later. Do go on, Holmes."

To Rhiannon's surprise, Holmes did not say anything. Picking up the heavy gold box, he ran his fingers along the empty interior, then ripped a corner of the black velvet away. Even Watson protested this desecration, but Holmes merely smiled.

Reaching behind the lining, the detective withdrew a piece of age-spotted parchment. "I believe this was another item that Kitri brought to her betrayer. Phelps had just enough time to stuff it behind a loose corner of the lining and fasten it back down before he was forced to flee. It was the loss of this paper which caused the Nassered-Din, in a fit of rage, to order Kitri's death, and he threw the box into the grave, believing it worthless beside the true treasure."

"Watson, contained within this scrap of parchment lies the location of the Peacock Throne."

Lina laughed at Rhiannon's perplexed expression. "The Peacock Throne is the hereditary throne of the Kings of Persia, my dear," she explained. "It has been lost for some time. The Nassered-Din's family knew the location but chose to keep it a secret, deeming the times inappropriate for Persia to emerge as a nation of strength and security once again. Kitri knew this was the chief treasure of the Shah's house; no doubt she entertained thoughts of sharing this mighty fortune with Phelps."

"As to that, Mycroft, whose fingers are in every pie of government, told me of the Shah's loss when I visited him at the Diogenes Club. I am sorry, my dear," the peer continued contritely to Rhiannon, "but I did warn you that there were aspects of the case I was unwilling to discuss."

"So, Katchurian, or I should say, Phelps, wanted the Peacock Throne; why didn't he get it himself?,'' Rhiannon asked.

"Because he was not clever enough to deduce its location, my dear. During his stay on the Continent, he took the opportunity to make discreet inquiries regarding the box's disposition; he knew it was no longer in the Shah's possession, and believed it was still in this country. And there were other matters to consider, as well."

"Murder. And blackmail." The peer's voice was flat and her emerald green eyes dark with remembered pain.

"I first began to suspect the false Katchurian when we visited his shop, Rhiannon," Lina continued, "but when he gave me that horrible Hand-of-Glory, I knew he was, if not the mastermind of this plot, then at least, a willing participant. The only other question was: Who else? Then Holmes gave me my other connection - Mrs. Choi, or Sui Lee Wan.

"You accompanied me to The Triton's Club, and Sui Lee was very careful to appear reluctant to provide me with any information. However, knowing her as well as I did, I knew she lied and forced her hand. She gave me another of those witchcraft toys and I knew at that moment that she and Phelps were neck and neck together. I believe such corpse-leavings have as much magical power as a toadstool, so I deduced I was being led in a particular direction; I just did not know why." Lina paused to sip a cup of steaming tea that Rhiannon had pressed into her hand.

"Thank you, my dear," the peer continued. "What I did not realize at the time was that dear, sweet Sui Lee was manipulating me even more than I suspected. She knew I would realize the connection between herself and Phelps, and hoped I would find the box and its invaluable information."

"It is my belief that they met on the Continent; certainly a rogue like Phelps would prove irresistible to Sui Lee's charms. Her appeal to Holmes was nothing more than a ruse; she hoped to get me involved from the start but chose a roundabout way of doing it to avoid arousing my suspicions. She lusted after the chance to get the better of me again, and how better to do so than to snatch a prize from beneath my very nose?

"At any rate, three years ago Phelps returned to this country and took up residence as a Swiss antiques dealer. Discreet inquiries to the Immigration Board confirmed that 'Andre Katchurian' had made an application for admittance at that time; coincidentally, the same time Phelps disappeared from Switzerland. Phelps began cultivating the younger sons of the nobility, resurrecting the Hellfire Club to appeal to their baser instincts, and his ultimate purpose was blackmail."

"Yes," Holmes added, "Mycroft was good enough to allow me to observe his interrogation of Phelps. Of course, the gentleman blames the entire affair on Madame Choi, however, I do not think that will be enough to keep the noose from his neck."

Lina continued, "I could not contact Harry Dorset; the Inspector had had an unexpected windfall and was on holiday with his wife and children in the Orkneys. I might have found this coincidence suspicious, had I not been distracted by M'Peace's death."

Rhiannon patted the distressed peer's hand. "So Phelps arranged for M'Peace's death, both to spur your investigation and to get rid of an unexpected inconvenience."

"Yes. Poor William. Had I known the serpent's nest I was sending him into, I would never have allowed him to go. Phelps agreed to hire William to keep me from suspecting him." Lina sighed. "Well, I was more determined than ever to see justice done."

"And learned of his dealings with his two 'masters.' My tapestry was nearly complete; I lacked only the identity of the Mystery Man to tie the case together."

"But why did Sui Lee allow one of her, er, 'valuable assets' to be murdered by Phelps?" This point still confused Rhiannon.

"My dear, Naga was Kitri's sister. She was not kidnapped, by Phelps or anyone else. Sui Lee learned of Phelps' secret - that he sought, not an occult curiosity, but a treasure worthy of kings. I suppose she found the lure irresistible. She tortured Naga, hoping the sister would know the location of the map; then Sui Lee arranged for another two 'kidnappings' to take place to avert the suspicions of the authorities away from herself.

"That was her second purpose in contacting Holmes; if the great man himself could vindicate her, she would possess an invaluable asset against police inquiry. But the police were indifferent at best, so she began to scheme again. She had aided Phelps in returning to this country; in return for that aid, she now demanded he share the treasure with him."

Holmes answered, "Sui Lee Wan was arrested two days ago on the boat-train to Calais. She was attempting to flee the country. Inspector Lestrade was good enough to share his information with me, and I, in turn, passed it on to Lina."

"I see." Rhiannon was thoughtful. "So, Sui Lee Wan manipulated everyone - you, Holmes, Phelps... she was truly a terrible woman, Lina."

"Yes, my dear, I agree with you. Phelps knew I found something in that grave; I have known that someone had been watching the house since the case began, but I believed it was one of Sui Lee's servants. I have since discovered it was Phelps' spy. Since I considered Sui Lee a villainess, but ultimately cowed by my threats, I was unconcerned. In truth, Rhiannon, Sui Lee knows me better than I know myself; time and time again, she played on me as upon a stringed instrument, and I unknowingly danced to her tune."

Lady Evangeline looked stricken. Rhiannon carefully leaned against the taller woman and hugged her gently. "Never mind, Lina. I love you anyway."

Lina flushed. "Thank you, my dear," she said softly. "Now then. In my disguise, I followed our Mystery Man to the alley and was struck down. When I awoke, it was to find myself naked and bound to that altar, with a gloating Phelps - or Katchurian - looming over me."

Lady Evangeline paused. That moment had been one of the most frightening of her life. Absolutely helpless, believing herself doomed to death, she had struck a Devil's bargain with Phelps - the location of the box, and its contents, in return for a guarantee of Rhiannon's safety. Phelps had known the peer could not be broken by torture, and so he had agreed.

Now, Lina broke into a cold sweat as she realized what a fool she had been. If I had not been rescued, she thought, Phelps would have killed Rhiannon without blinking an eye, never mind the vow he gave me.

Rhiannon sensed something was upsetting Lina as the peer's body stiffened in her arms. "What's the matter, love?" she asked softly, forgetting about the presence of Holmes and Watson.

"I... I told him I had found the box, Rhiannon. I told him where I had hidden it, and how to gain access to the safe. He threatened you, dearheart - threatened to torture you before my eyes - and I knew I could not withstand him. I extracted his oath to leave you unharmed, and take the bloody box with my compliments. I now realize that Phelps would have cheerfully broken that vow, and all Ten Commandments besides, to get his hands on that treasure."

Rhiannon rested her head on Lina's shoulder. "I'm sorry, Lina. But I still love you - nothing will change that."

Gratefully, the peer kissed Rhiannon's forehead. "My dearest love...," she murmured.

A wide-eyed Holmes watched Dr. Watson, the man he believed to be tight-laced and provincial, smile widely and dab his eyes with a handkerchief, a little overcome with the two women's display of emotion.

Lina cleared her throat. "My apologies, gentlemen," she said. "I did not intend to shock you or make you uncomfortable."

"It's quite all right, Lady St. Claire," Watson said expansively, "Reminds me of my own sweet Mary." Holmes goggled as the doctor continued, "There is one thing that still puzzles me, however. How did Phelps know you would recover the box?"

"He knew of my connection to Holmes. Your stories have made our mutual friend the talk of the Continent; the people think he can practically walk on water. Phelps believed that if I proved unable to locate the box, I would turn to my mentor for assistance and then the map was as good as in his hands."

Watson gave her a hang-dog look. "Those bloody stories again! Holmes, I wish with all my heart that I'd never wrote the blasted things to begin with!"

Holmes reached over and gripped Watson's shoulder. "You have immortalized me in print, my old friend. That is the only type of immortality that lasts, and I, for one, am grateful to you for having done so."

"So," Rhiannon said, "Phelps was working with Sui Lee all along; the Madman's Tarot was nothing more than an excuse for him to recover the map."

"Yes," Lina responded. "When you told me about Professor Woolbright's story regarding the Tarot's disposition to Persia, I knew there had to be a reason for that country to keep popping up. That was when I consulted Mycroft and learned about Kitri's death. Sui Lee and Phelps' mention of the 'Peacock Prince' was supposed to serve a double purpose as well - to distract me with the Hellfire Club and hopefully keep me from learning about the map."

"Mycroft Holmes will return the box, and all its contents, to the Shah. Phelps and Sui Lee will remain in Newgate until their trial on charges of murder and conspiracy, and Escott has been returned in disgrace to his family seat in Glasgow. The Hellfire Club is no more; Mycroft's minions scooped up the survivors and cleaned up the cavern. The entrance has been blocked up; hopefully, no one will be able to use Baxter's folly for such an ill use again."

"Because, my dear, Escott, while a brute, had a simple mind. Unable to come up with a suitable false identity, he used the first thing that popped into his head. Phelps was furious, but in the end coyly offered this tidbit to me, knowing I would eventually interrogate Escott and get the truth from him. Again, I was manipulated, if not quite as cunningly as before."

Holmes cleared his throat. "I believe that is the end of the case, Lina. However, I have a small confession of my own."

The detective flushed a little. "I followed you to Buckingham Palace, Lina. It was I who provided the explosion which distracted the guards. Mycroft knew of your plan as well; he suspected you might try and pillage the gravesite, so he summoned me to ask for my assistance in foiling you. After I explained the connection with the Hellfire Club, however, my brother arranged for the guard's rifles to be devoid of ammunition - he did this at my instigation."

Lina stared at Holmes open-mouthed. "So that is why they did not shoot at us! Really, Holmes, I am in your debt. Thank you, my dear friend."

Holmes flushed a little more. Turning to Watson, he said, by way of a distraction, "I am curious, Watson. Tell me... i you were romanticizing Lina's case as you have done so many of my own, what would you title it?"

Watson thought a moment. Slowly, he replied, "I believe I should call it... The Devil's Advocate."

Later that evening, Rhiannon lay tucked against Lina's back in their canopied bed, watching shadows play against the underside of the tapestry.

Lina rolled over to gather her lover in her arms. "Of course I do, my dear. What prompts such a question?''

A little nervously, the strawberry-blonde woman said, "I have one more Christmas gift to give you. I've been saving it, you see, until after you finished the case." She proffered a small jeweler's box that was cracked with age.

Lina opened it, saying, "But my dear! Really! The magnifying glass, the little ivory horse from Japan, and the first edition of John Donne's poetry were quite enough, I assure you... oh my," she breathed.

A jeweled band, set with an oval emerald flanked by bars of pale blue topaz, glinted up at her in the uncertain moonlight. Shaking, Lina removed the ring and held it up. "What...?" she choked, voice cracking.

"It belonged to my great-grandmother. My father gave it to me just before he died; even when I was starving, I never considered selling it. I want you to wear it, Lina. I want the world to know how much I love you."

"Oh, my dear," Lina said, tears falling from her matchless green eyes, "I don't quite know what to say."

"All you have to do is say 'yes,"' Rhiannon replied softly. A single tear traced its way down her cheek. "Will you take me, Lady Evangeline St. Claire, to be your lawful wedded wife, to have and to hold, from this night forward, in sickness and in health, till death us do part?"

"Yes. Oh, yes!" Lina wailed, then slipped the ring onto the third finger of her left hand and embraced the smaller woman, crying wildly with happiness.

Rhiannon smiled over the peer's shoulder as Lina gasped, "But I haven't got anything for you!"

"That's all right, love. I'll take you as you are. No improvements or embellishments are necessary."

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