Jessica got to her feet and walked over to the writing desk,
where paper and pen were already assembled for just such a purpose. She only
hoped her hands wouldn’t shake so much her words wouldn’t be legible. She felt
as if she was trapped in some sort of nightmare. How else could they be speaking
so calmly about murder and other atrocities?
She had soon assembled a list, as dictated by Trixie. Hammer.
Weaver. City. Bird. Post. Burn.
By now, Gideon was standing behind her, leaning over her
shoulder to look at the list of words. “You’re right, Trixie. Simple words, but
if you don’t already know the answers, all I see here are questions.”
Jessica looked at Trixie, who was still paging through the
journal. “But you said you had more information for us. Did Cot give you any
other names?”
“A question you should have asked, Gideon. I may have had them
all, if Guy hadn’t gotten so belatedly suspicious and then so inconveniently
dead. Why women don’t rule the world has always been a conundrum to me. Greater
physical strength has led you all to believe your minds are stronger, as well,
which is poppycock. At any rate, we women couldn’t do worse—you men just keep
bollixing it all up. But yes, two others, although I can’t say I know them
personally, although I know their families. Lord Charles Mailer, and Archie
Urban.”
“Post and City,” Gideon said quickly, almost triumphantly, as
if they were solving puzzles in some game. Perhaps that was the only way to deal
with any of it without going mad?
“Leaving us with Hammer, Weaver, Bird and Burn. Four more
members.”
It was wrong. So wrong. Jessica felt so ashamed of herself,
even as she opened her mouth and heard the words come tumbling out: “Three
French hens, two turtledoves and a partridge in a...”
And then Gideon was catching at her as she felt herself
slipping sideways on the chair, darkness closing all around her....
* * *
T
HE
KING
IS
DEAD
,
long live the king.
Those words kept repeating themselves inside Gideon’s head as
he sat in his study, trying to make sense of all they’d learned.
With the Marquis of Mellis sticking his spoon in the wall at
the same time he was sticking his—no, he wouldn’t go there—the last of the
members active during Barry Redgrave’s time had died.
Gideon realized he might now never know what had happened to
his father’s body, why it had been taken.
But there was still the matter of the tunnels at Redgrave
Manor, the lights seen moving through the trees, both easily explained when set
apart from everything else, but damned unnerving when put together with
everything else. He’d already discarded the idea of some sort of treasure;
whatever was going on was much more malignant than a mere treasure hunt.
After returning Jessica to Portman Square with orders she lie
down for a nap, he’d gone back to his grandmother with more questions. Trixie
had completed his education in the ways of the Society as it had been in his
father’s time. But she wouldn’t speak about his mother or what had happened that
last morning, only to say her son’s death had been for the best, for the sake of
the country he would betray, for the sake of the family his growing madness
could destroy.
Gideon hadn’t pushed her for more. He could readily see the
toll these past days had taken on her. He left her with her damn pug dogs, a
glass of wine and Soames, who had actually sat down on the one-armed lounge just
as if this familiarity was nothing out of the ordinary. He’d drawn Trixie’s legs
up onto his lap and had begun massaging her lady’s bare feet and slim calves
with fragrant oil. This didn’t shock Gideon. He’d passed beyond being shocked,
he’d supposed, and his grandmother was entitled to anything that pleased her,
damn it!
But now he had to concentrate, using the information Trixie had
given him. In the past year, six men had been murdered. The Marquis of Mellis
probably would have been the seventh, just as Trixie had supposed. The Society
had killed off its remaining original members or their descendants from Barry
Redgrave’s time, but the Society itself was not dead. No, what his grandfather
had begun, what his father had resurrected and enlarged, had fallen victim to
some sort of coup. That was the only sensible answer.
But for what reason, to what purpose? To be rid of old, dead
wood more interested in brandy, a comfortable chair by the fire, a dog napping
nearby, than they were in the debauchery the Society had been formed for in the
first place? To remove those who disagreed, silence dissent? To make room for
members who could be of more use?
There was one thing about the deaths of those members to cheer
Gideon: they were the last to know of Trixie’s intimate knowledge of the
Society. Otherwise, he couldn’t feel certain of her safety, her immunity to
becoming another “sad accident.”
His grandfather had been a strong leader. With his death, the
Society had fragmented. His father had been a strong leader. With his death the
Society had lost its purpose over and above its base obsessions. The rites had
continued, however, including the induction of a new member five years ago, when
Jessica was nearly made a part of the ceremony.
But Trixie had seemed certain Turner Collier would not have
voluntarily offered his daughter. Had he been intimidated in some way,
threatened?
James Linden had seen or heard something on the day of the
proposed ceremony that had frightened him enough to take Jessica and run.
The king is dead, long live the
king.
That was the answer, the only logical answer.
There was a new leader of the Society. Perhaps it was that
leader who had demanded a well-born vestal virgin be brought to him five years
ago, just to demonstrate his power. A strong leader, someone like Barry
Redgrave, someone who looked at the Society and saw an opportunity for personal
greatness, just as Barry had done.
Gideon was back to the same question: opportunity for what?
What in bloody hell had he stumbled onto?
At least he had two names.
Lord Charles Mailer, second son of the Earl of Vyrnwy.
Archie Urban, no title, but a family name that stretched back
to William the Conqueror.
Both men were in their primes, although Urban at least had to
be nearly fifty. Neither was a society fribble; both were considered to be
smart, patriotic servants of the Crown during this time of war. Lord Charles
volunteered his services to the Admiralty. Urban was one of the many
undersecretaries to the Prime Minister. Both were members of the Society, two of
the devil’s thirteen.
Trixie had explained how it all worked during his father’s
time, this matter of
guests:
members of the Society
would invite carefully selected persons to join them in their fun; to prance
about in robes and masks, chanting satanic nonsense as they indulged their most
base desires and depravities with willing or even not-so-willing women...or
whatever pleasure they craved. All quite sophisticated and civilized.
Oh, there’ll be a foxhunt in the morning,
with a lovely dinner to follow. Do bring your lady wife if you wish, I’m
sure we’d all enjoy having her.
And then would come the day when the demands for favors in
exchange for not telling the world of those depravities would be issued,
blackmailing them to gain their cooperation. Over and over and over again.
Both the other members and any guests controlled by a strong
leader, one who knew everything and could exploit their weaknesses.
In time of war.
“My God,” Gideon moaned, slicing his fingers through his hair.
“Madness. Just...madness.”
It was imperative he learn the other names.
Hammer. What could that mean? Would it be something that rhymed
with hammer? Was it the opposite of hammer? In the same general family as a
hammer? Sharp, compared to the dull, blunt face of a hammer?
Weaver. Could that be literal? No, too easy.
Bird. Too many species to narrow that down.
Burn. Fire? Its opposite—what was the opposite of fire?
No, it was impossible to guess.
There was no choice but to go after the known, Lord Charles and
Archie Urban. But first he would check on Jessica and tell her what he and
Trixie had decided.
It was time for some sort of good news. He pushed himself away
from the desk, not bothering to don the jacket he’d hung on the back of his
chair earlier, along with the neck cloth he’d stripped off at the same time, and
headed upstairs in his shirtsleeves.
He passed Mildred in the upstairs hallway. “Is she still
asleep?” he asked the maid.
“No, my lord,” Mildred answered, attempting to curtsy while
holding a silver tray cluttered with crockery. “Her ladyship’s up and fed and
telling us she’s fine to go downstairs if she wants to. Doreen and me, we told
her she didn’t want to. Never saw anyone quite so pale and wobbly on her pins as
her ladyship was when you brought her home, sir.”
“Yes, thank you, Mildred. See to it we’re not disturbed.”
The maid rolled her eyes. “Well, if you think it might put some
color back in her cheeks, I suppose it’s—”
“I’m not asking your permission, Mildred,” Gideon said, trying
to look imperious, which was more difficult than he would have imagined only a
few short weeks ago.
“No, your lordship,” Mildred agreed, a hint of color entering
her own cheeks. “I suppose you think you know best. Well, then, sir, I’ll just
leave you to it. Doreen’s downstairs, so you’re safe enough there.”
“And ain’t I just the fortunate one,” Gideon mumbled under his
breath as he watched the maid as she scurried off toward the back of the house
and the servant staircase. The entire household would know within moments that
his lordship had taken his ladyship to bed, and in the middle of the afternoon,
no less, but then, that was the quality for you. He wondered if there’d be
cheering. He supposed this was what happened when a doxy turned lady’s maid, but
it would take some getting used to, even if he’d been grateful for the candles
and the rose petals.
He knocked lightly at the door and then depressed the latch,
not waiting to be invited to enter his bride’s bedchamber. It didn’t occur to
him that she might not wish his company, but if it had, her smile of greeting
would have calmed those fears.
“Have you come to free me?” she asked him from her seated
position on the high tester bed, her ivory lace dressing gown barely covering
her most delectable bits, her legs crisscrossed in front of her, a plate of iced
cakes balanced on one knee. She looked wonderfully recovered; in fact, she
looked radiant. “I’m being held prisoner by my maids, you know. Doreen put forth
the possibility I’m carrying your heir, but Mildred assured her, even if that’s
the case, it’s much too early for me to be swooning. Or casting up my accounts
every morning, which doesn’t sound all that lovely a prospect to be looking
forward to, does it? Thank you again for catching me.”
Gideon sat down on the edge of the bed, one leg on the floor,
for balance. “You’re welcome. I’ve always harbored a secret desire to be of
assistance to a damsel in distress.” The possibility of a pregnancy he would
allow to pass without comment. But it certainly was something to be considered.
He believed he’d enjoy considering it, perhaps as much as he’d enjoy being a
necessary part of the process. “Those look delicious,” he said, eying the cakes,
not to mention her barely covered breasts.
“Oh, they are. Almost as good as sugared figs, I’m sure. Here,
take a bite.” Jessica held out one of the cakes, a two-inch square iced in pink
on all sides and with a small sugar flower decorating the top of the thing.
Gideon dutifully leaned forward and opened his mouth, allowing
himself to be fed—and to get a better look at her breasts, because he was, at
heart, an evil man. He bit off half of the small square and watched as Jessica
popped the remainder into her own mouth, then licked at her fingers. “Another?”
she asked, sucking lightly on her middle finger.
Her innocent action raised a whole new hunger inside him.
“I think I have a different delicacy in mind.”
She looked at him, her mouth open slightly, her tongue still
lightly touching the pad of her finger. And then she smiled. “Is that so?”
“Yes, that’s so.” He took the plate and placed it on the
bedside table, unbuttoned and tossed aside his waistcoat and shirt, slipped off
his shoes and then joined her on the bed. “Not only that, I have
permission.”
Jessica cocked her head to one side, to look at him
quizzically. “I beg your pardon?”
“Mildred believes I might be able to put some color in your
cheeks.” His fingers went to the sash holding her dressing gown closed. He found
one end of the sash and gave it a slight tug. And then another.
“Oh, she does, does she?”
Gideon was concentrating on other things. “Um-hmm,” he said,
and then added, “You don’t care for the matching gown? Not that I’m lodging any
sort of complaint,” he added as the bow came free and the dressing gown fell
completely open.
“I, um, I just slipped this on after my bath, and then Doreen
brought up these cakes, so I...I decided to eat them now. I’ll soon be getting
dressed.”
“No, you won’t,” he said, easing back the concealing lace,
slipping his hand between her crossed legs, unerringly finding her center. He
spread her slightly, eased a finger inside her, applying pressure forward,
against the wall of her tight sheath, then insinuated the pad of his thumb
between her soft folds to stroke the small, exquisitely sensitive bud exposed
now to his touch.
“Gideon!”
“I know. I’m depraved,” he said, rubbing his thumb over her.
“Should I go away?”