Lord Libertine
London, July 2, 1821“What are we doing cooling our heels at a masquerade when we could be kicking them up at a witches’ Sabbath? ’Tis summer, Hunter. There’s got to be something better to do. Some prank, some diversion.”
What, indeed? Andrew Hunter yawned and scanned the crowded ballroom at the Argyle Rooms. A masquerade, and he and his friends had not bothered to wear costumes or even dominoes. What a sad state of affairs, when he could not think of anything at all to interest him—here or anywhere else. Well, it was bound to have come to this sooner or later. He had not left much undone, untried, untasted.
Henley nudged him again. “There’s going to be a black mass in the tombs beneath the chapel at Whitcombe Cemetery. If you know of another…”
Andrew took a deep draught of his brandy and then shook his head. “None better than the Whitcombe Sabbaths. Go on without me, Henley. I think I’ll make an early night of it.”
“Early night? Are you ailing, Hunter?”
Ailing? Is that what one would call boredom to utter distraction? Aye, then, he had a bloody terminal case of boredom. R ... read full excerpt from Lord Libertine ebook
