He had two younger brothers, Maximillien and Valentine, and a
single sister, Katherine. Maximillen had sailed as one of the Royal Navy’s
youngest coxswains, and Valentine had been classically educated in Paris and
Toulon, managing to remain there even as Bonaparte conducted his on-again,
off-again war on England, only returning home a few months ago.
Katherine had come to Mayfair for her Season last spring but
hadn’t really
taken,
seeing as how she was
unfashionably tall and dark-haired, and favored her infamous Spanish mother in
her looks in a year where petite blondes were considered all the go. Her suitors
had hoped for the mother’s morals, as well, and their mamas had cringed at the
thought of “foreign-looking” grandchildren. But it had been Katherine herself
who had answered an impertinent question about her brother the earl, voiced in
the center of the dance floor at Almack’s, with a stunning punch to the
questioner’s nose, breaking it quite nicely, word had it. She hadn’t come to
town this Season, which to Jessica’s mind made more of a statement about Lady
Katherine’s disdain for society than any possible fear of it or shame over her
actions.
Jessica felt she most probably could like Lady Katherine. Lords
Maximillien and Valentine were of no real concern to her, although she imagined
they were no better or worse than their brother. As to their grandmother, the
dowager countess? All Jessica had heard about the woman was that she knew every
secret of every man and woman and even royal, and there wasn’t a single person
in all the
ton
who wasn’t scared spitless by
her.
Jessica felt she most probably could like Lady Saltwood, as
well.
She did not like Gideon Redgrave, however. Not his reputation,
not the man who had just very clearly made a complete fool out of her.
Damn him.
“Before your brother deigns to join us,” he said now,
presumably having had his fill of looking at her as if she might be a bug under
a microscope. “We’re quits of this ridiculous offer of yours? You insulted me
with your patently insincere offer, not to mention that idiocy with the pistol.
In short, as a seductress, Jessica, you are an abysmal failure. I, on the other
hand, succeeded admirably in pointing out I am not to be insulted, not without
consequences. And, much as you may believe yourself irresistible, I am more than
confident I can stumble along through the remainder of my days without learning,
firsthand, and, needless to say, most intimately, whether or not you are a true
redhead. In short, I am willing to accept your apology and move on.”
She was certain she now looked as if her eyes would simply pop
out of her head. “You...you...
how dare you!
”
He sighed and shook his head, as if saddened by her outburst.
“Make up your mind, Jessica. Harlot or genteel widow fallen on hard times. Which
is it to be? So far, I would have to say you’ve mastered neither role. But
before you answer, let me make one thing clear to you. I choose my own women,
and they come to me willingly or not at all. I’ve no desire to bed a martyr, no
matter how lovely.”
There was one part of Jessica, one very small, even
infinitesimally tiny part of her that took in the words “no matter how lovely,”
and considered them a compliment. She shoved that infinitesimal part into a dark
corner of her mind and locked the door on it, intending to take it out later and
give it a good scold.
“You’ve made your point, Gideon. Several times, in a variety of
unconscionably crude and insulting ways. In my defense, I can only point out
that I was, am, desperate. I offered you the only thing I had—”
“Please don’t tell me you’re referring to your virtue. I don’t
believe that’s been yours to bestow for quite some time. Unless the fabled Mr.
Linden was a eunuch?”
“No,” Jessica said quietly, “far from it.” She took a steadying
breath. “A month. You ignored my solicitor’s communications for a month, and
then you came to see me in person, looking just as I’d imagined you. Arrogant,
overweening, for all the world as if you owned it. You weren’t going to listen
to reason. And you wear the golden rose. That told me all I needed to know.
I...I offered you what interests you most. And damn you, Gideon Redgrave, I did
it knowing who you are.
What
you are. If you had
half a heart, which you don’t, you would have realized what that cost me.”
Gideon sat back on the sofa, rubbing a hand across his mouth as
he looked at her. He looked at her for a long time.
“I’m sorry,” he said at last.
“Excuse me?” She hadn’t any idea what he was going to say, but
what he said made no sense at all.
“I repeat, Jessica. I’m sorry. Tell me—sans the golden rose,
would you have made your offer?”
Slowly, silently, she shook her head. “No.”
Once again, he rubbed his hand across his mouth, still looking
at her closely. “And you believe it still goes on? The Society.”
Jessica shifted uncomfortably on the cushions. “As of five
years ago, yes. I can’t say for certain about now. But you know this.”
“No, Jessica, I don’t,” he said, getting to his feet, suddenly
seeming decades older than his years. “I only know that in the past twelve
months, four of my late father’s cohorts in that damn
Society
of his have been murdered. Your father included. I wear the
golden rose to signal that I know the hunting accident, the accidental drowning,
the fall down the stairs, your father’s coaching accident—they all were in fact
murders.”
He had to be spouting nonsense. “I don’t understand. My father
was
murdered?
He and his wife both? How can you know
that?”
“Later,” Gideon said, turning toward a small commotion in the
hallway. “I believe I’m about to be gifted with the sight of a touching family
reunion. Or not,” he added, smiling, as a tall, rail-thin, ridiculously
overdressed and harassed-looking youth stomped into the room.
“Now what the bloody blue blazes do you want?” the youth
demanded, clutching a large white linen serviette in one hand even as he took a
healthy and quite rude bite out of the apple he carried with him. Speaking
around the mouthful of fruit, he continued, “First you order me out of bed
without a whisper of a reason, then you say I leave the house on penalty of
death—as if that signifies, as I might already be dead for all the life you
allow me. Then you send me off to stuff my face when Brummell himself swears no
sane man breaks his fast before noon, and now you want me in here to— Well,
hullo, ain’t you the pretty one.”
“Ad—
Adam?
” Jessica was on her feet,
but none too steadily. This ridiculous popinjay couldn’t be her brother. Adam
was sweet and shy, and sat by her side as she read to him, and cried when their
father insisted he learn to shoot, and sang with the voice of an angel.
The youth turned to her and gifted her with an elegant leg,
marred only when he nearly toppled over as he swept his arm with a mite too much
enthusiasm.
“Bacon-brained puppy,” Gideon muttered quietly. “Your brother,
Jessica. Behold.”
She
beheld.
Adam Collier was clad
very much in the style of many of the youths who, from time to time, were
hastily escorted out of the gaming room as being too raw and young to be out on
their own with more than a groat in their pocket, so eager were they to be
separated from their purses. Unpowdered hair too long, curled over the iron so
that it fell just so onto his forehead, darkened and stiff with pomade. Buckram
padding in the shoulders of his wasp-waisted blue coat, a patterned waistcoat
that was a jangle of lurid red-and-yellow stripes, no less than a half-dozen
fobs hanging from gold chains, clocked stockings hugging his too-thin shanks.
And was that a, dear Lord, it was—he had a star-shaped patch at the corner of
his mouth.
“Adam?” she repeated, as if, having said the name often enough,
she’d believe what her horrified eyes were telling her. She didn’t want to
believe it. Her brother hadn’t grown up, he’d simply gotten taller, slathered
his face with paint to hide his spots and turned into an idiot. His only
submission to the formalities was the black satin mourning band pinned to his
upper arm. And that was edged with black lace. He wasn’t oppressed, he certainly
wasn’t heartbroken. He was his brainless twit of a mother, in breeches.
“I fear you have the advantage of me, madam,” Adam drawled with
a truly irritating and affected lisp as he approached, clearly intent on kissing
her hand. His red heels made his progress somewhat risky, but he managed it,
nearly coming to grief only when Brutus ran up to him, intent on sniffing his
crotch. “Stupid cur. Do I look like a bitch in heat to you?”
“Don’t blame the dog, you sapskull. You might instead want to
rethink the brand of scent you bathe in. As it is, we’re chewing on it,” Gideon
said, retiring to the mantel, but not before shooting Jessica an amused look.
“Say hello to your half sister.”
Adam stopped, searched among his many chains for a gilt
quizzing glass on a stick, and lifted it to his eye. “M’sister? Jessica, was it?
No, that’s impossible,” he said, shaking his head. “She’s dead these past
half-dozen years or more. Bad fish, something like that. Mama told me most
distinctly.” Then his mouth opened in shock, and he pointed the quizzing glass
accusingly in her direction. “Imposter! Charlatan! The old reprobate cocks up
his toes, and they come out of the woodwork, looking for his blunt. Fie and for
shame, woman!”
Gideon rejoined Jessica in front of the sofas. “I’ve been
thinking, Mrs. Linden. I may have been unduly hasty in denying your request for
guardianship, and even thin-skinned. It must have been the pistol. Perhaps we
can reopen negotiations,” he suggested quietly.
At last Jessica regained use of her tongue, which she’d been in
some danger of swallowing. “I don’t think so,” she told him, still goggling at
the creature in front of her. “You can have him. As to the other, I’ll expect
you in Jermyn Street tonight, at eleven.” Then she clapped her hands to her
mouth, realizing what she’d said. “The...the other being discussing this
business of murders. Not...not
you know.
”
“What? She’s leaving? I’ve routed her, by God!” Adam clapped
his hands in delight. “Yoicks! And away!”
“Oh, stubble it, you nincompoop,” Jessica bit out as she
brushed past him.
Gideon’s delighted, infuriating laughter followed after her,
all the way down the stairs.
“Y
OU
’
RE
LOOKING
HARASSED
,”
Lord Maximillien commented as he entered the
study in Portman Square and perched himself on the corner of his brother’s desk.
“At least you’d look harassed if you were anyone else. The Earl of Saltwood is
never harassed. He is a— Is there such a word as
harasser?
”
“What do you want, Max?” Gideon asked, putting down the letter
opener he’d been balancing between his fingertips.
“Me? To bid you farewell, I suppose. I leave for Brighton in an
hour, on orders from Trixie. There’s some clever barque of frailty she’s
befriended, a bit o’muslin with a problem our grandmother thinks might rouse me
from my boredom. In any case, she’s been matchmaking. In a weak moment, I agreed
to sign on as cohort. It’s my adventurous spirit, you understand.”
Gideon looked at his brother and shook his head in mock dismay.
“You even look like an adventurer. Your shirt cuffs are unbuttoned and too long,
that cravat’s an insult, those smoked glasses a ridiculous affectation—and I may
soon enlist Thorndyke to help hold you down while I scrape all that hair off
your face.”
Max bent his head and looked at his brother overtop the
blue-smoked rimless glasses he’d discovered a few months earlier in a small shop
on Bond Street. “All that hair? A simple mustache, a cunning patch beneath my
bottom lip—hardly
all that hair.
”
Gideon pointed up at him, twirling his finger. “And the rest of
it? Looks to be the beginnings of a beard to me. I imagine even a whore with a
problem won’t tolerate a fellow who only allows himself to be shaved three times
a week.”
Max stabbed his fingers through the heavy thatch of dark brown
hair he wore halfheartedly parted in the center of his head, its length covering
his ears, the whole waving around his almost aesthetically beautiful face. Only
his dark eyes, so like Gideon’s, threw out the warning that this was no pretty
fool; perhaps why Max had delighted in finding the smoked glasses. “Allow? I’m
not so lazy. I shave myself, brother. Shave myself, dress myself, wash my own
rump.”
“And two of those tasks performed in the dark, apparently.
Never mind,” Gideon said, not about to admit his brother was one devilishly
handsome creature, the sort who could cause small riots among the ladies if he
put his mind to it. “What’s the Cyprian’s problem?”
“Other than being ambitious, penniless and of questionable
morals? Transport. I’m simply to find a way to get clever girl and ardent swain
to Gretna, wed over the anvil and all but publicly bedded so there can be no
annulment, all accomplished ahead of any pursuit. You know Trixie. She’s a
romantic.”
“She’s a pernicious troublemaker, and that’s in the best of
times. Who’s to be the gullible groom—and you’ll notice hearing Trixie has
cultivated a whore as bosom chum holds no shock. No, it’s the groom who
interests me.”
Max grinned wickedly. “So you see it, too? I did a bit of
checking. It’s Wickham’s only grandson. Geoffrey something-or-other. Second in
line to the dukedom until his papa, cursed with a spotty liver and still sucking
up gin morning till night, sticks his spoon in the wall. Which will probably
happen any day now according to Trixie, as they’ve already laid straw outside
the man’s door in Grosvenor Square so the invalid isn’t pestered on his sickbed
by the noise of traffic, and called in the Autum bawlers for some final-ditch
prayer vigil. He should be toes cocked up just in time for the new heir—that
would be this Geoffrey fellow—to present his
fait
accompli
bride to his grandfather, shocking the old fellow to the
point of apoplexy.”
“Two deaths? That’s ambitious, even for our grandmother. She’s
counting on an even pair?”
“Apparently. She’s already had me scribble a wager in the
betting book at White’s.
A certain interested party offers
odds of eight-to-five a certain duke W-dot-dot-dot—
as if nobody would
know it’s old Wickham—
will depart this earthly coil on or
before fifteen June of the current year.
Lord Alvanley’s holding the
stakes.”
“Of course it’s Alvanley. The man’s always in need of funds,
and I’m sure Trixie is paying him well. Plus, I think she once had him as a
lover. So. Wickham. It took her long enough,” Gideon said, nodding approvingly.
“Damn near twenty years. I wouldn’t wager against her, or attempt to stop her.
Go with God, Max.”
“I’ll go with most anyone, as well you know. But first—what’s
this about twenty years? This isn’t just her usual mischief? What did old
Wickham do to set her off?”
Gideon leaned back in his chair, mulling the idea that his
brother should be made aware of their grandmother’s motive. After all, Max had
already decided Trixie was up to something. “I suppose it’s time you knew.
Trixie has always felt she had some...scores to settle. One of them is that,
hard on the heels of our family shame, Wickham suggested the Saltwood title and
holdings be dissolved and returned to the Crown, due to the scandal. More than
suggested. The petition grew legs and damn near got as far as to have an airing
in Parliament before it could be squashed. We stood to lose everything.”
“Bastard.”
“He gives bastards a bad name. Self-righteous prig, that’s what
he was, casting stones while setting himself up as some holier-than-thou man of
impeccable morals. And it wasn’t only him. There were three others heading up
the action, until they were shown to be not as moral as they purported
themselves to be, and the petition was withdrawn.”
“And Trixie was the one to point this out?”
“I never said that, but you can draw your own conclusions. One
was discovered at a house party, in bed with the host’s wife—he died in the
inevitable duel. Only weeks later, the second was bankrupted over gaming debts
suddenly being called in by the person who’d bought up his vouchers—he shot
himself rather than face ruin. And the third was actually imprisoned and barely
escaped hanging after it was learned he’d been diddling a family footman, the
pot boy and, rumor has it, his own nephew, with or without their agreement. But
as I said, all that was years ago.”
“God, I adore that woman, much as she terrifies me,” Max said
in some admiration. “Why did she wait so long with Wickham?”
“Probably because she was diddling
him.
You’ve seen her diamond choker, that ruby bib she sets such
store by? They’re only a sampling. She’s been bleeding the fool dry on and off
for years. Oh, close your mouth. You know Trixie. She’s a cat with a mouse,
playing with it as long as it amuses her, and then, once bored, she pounces. I
remember her telling me a few months ago that the man has developed what she
termed a
disky heart,
making him of no further use
to her. She’s probably already ordered the gown she’ll don as one of the chief
mourners when they wall him up in the family mausoleum.”
“And had the bill sent to Wickham?” Max added, pushing himself
up from the desk. “‘Frailty, thy name is woman.’”
“True enough. A true possessor of all the better vices, both
moral and spiritual. We lesser mortals can only admire and aspire. But as she
has ever pointed out, she isn’t evil. She’d never strike just for the thrill of
the thing. All her targets are deserving of her attention in one way or another,
at least to her mind.”
And then Gideon frowned.
“What? You’re suddenly back to that same puss that greeted me
when I came in here. Is it something to do with Trixie?”
Four men, dead in separate
accidents
in the past year. All four former members of the secret
society founded by Trixie’s son. Twenty years. Some would think that too long to
wait for revenge, for some perverted sense of justice. But then how did he
explain Wickham?
“No,” Gideon said firmly, not liking his thoughts and
definitely unwilling to share them. “Nothing to do with Trixie. I was simply
searching my mind for a way to rid myself of that primping, posturing fool I’ve
inherited.”
“Adam?” Max said unnecessarily. “Aren’t you going to toss him
back to school next term?”
Gideon fingered the letter that had arrived in the morning
post. “According to the headmaster, that’s not possible. He was full of
apologies, but it would seem he and a few of the instructors convened a meeting
concerning young master Collier, and decided they would forego the pleasure of
his company in future. I can’t say I blame them. The headmaster went on at some
length about my ward’s sad lack of talent save a decided propensity for
calamity. He actually set fire to his rooms when he employed a candle to burn
loose threads from his waistcoat and the damn thing flamed, so that he screeched
and tossed it in a cupboard, then went off to dinner. If not for a
quick-thinking proctor, they could have lost the entire dormitory.”
“I’d never say the boy doesn’t rattle when he walks, so many
loose screws in his brainbox. But there’s other schools.”
“Yes, there are. He’s been asked to vacate several of them. If
I buy him a commission the tongues will wag that I’m trying to have him killed
in order to gain his inheritance, and if I send him to the estate Kate will have
murdered him within the week. In other words, I’ve been sitting here this past
hour or more cudgeling my brain to discover what sin it was I’ve committed I’m
being punished for in the form of that paper-skulled twit.”
“Some sin? Only one? If I weren’t in such a hurry to be off, I
could pen you a list. Not only that, but I don’t think I can stand watching you
this way, brother. Glum. Defeated. It’s so unlike you. So much so, I find myself
wondering if there’s something you’re not telling me, something much more
disturbing than locating a deep well in which to deposit your latest ward.”
Maximillien could play the fool with the best of them, but he
was rarely
fooled.
Gideon looked at his brother. “Go away, Max.”
“Ah, then I’m right. I’ll have to write Val and tell him. Where
is our baby brother, by the way?”
“I was unaware Valentine still required a keeper.”
“Another subject open to debate. But we should at least be
aware of where he is, don’t you think?”
“Not if we don’t want to know,” Gideon suggested, smiling in
real amusement. “But, to ease your mind, the last I heard he was heading for
some place in Lincolnshire, to lend support to a friend whose father had, to
quote our brother, taken a turn for the worse.”
“That’s kind of him. So he’s off to be a supporting prop at
some deathbed?”
“Hardly. The bad turn was financial. His friend merely needed
someone to put up the blunt for his trip home. Naturally, Valentine offered one
of our coaches, and his company on the journey. And probably half his allowance
for this quarter, knowing Val.”
“He’s a good friend. Or, as Kate often says, a numbskull. She
swears some day that soft heart of his will land him in the briars. Has he ever
said no to an appeal? Then again, considering that ludicrous fribble we’ve got
residing with us now, have you? It’s your soft heart, both you and Val are stuck
with soft hearts. Thankfully, Kate and I escaped the taint.”
Gideon directed yet another cool, dispassionate stare at his
brother. “Are we done here now?”
“Oh-ho, speaking of briars,” Max said, putting up his hands in
mocking defense. “How about I leave you to your troubles and be on my way?” He
turned to quit the room, but at the last moment turned back to add, “Thorndyke
told me of your rather unusual visitor this morning. Showed up all unaccompanied
and left in some sort of huff. Spirited, that’s the world Thorny used. Curious.
But she’s not the reason for that long puss, correct?”
“Goodbye, Max. Safe travels.”
“I thought as much. Thorndyke said she’s quite the looker. Red
hair. I’ve always been partial to red hair on a woman. I don’t even mind the
freckles. She have freckles, Gideon? Even where the sun doesn’t reach?”
When Gideon was really angry, he went quiet, the sort of quiet
that could sound, to the object of his anger, much like a loud clashing of
cymbals.
“Right,” Max said, nodding. “Forgive me. Clearly the lady is
not a subject open to discussion. I’m off to ease the path of true love, Val is
off to be a supporting prop, Kate is steadfastly refusing to leave the estate,
and you’re—well, whatever it is you’re doing, I suppose you’ll let the rest of
us know in your own good time.”
Once his brother was gone, Gideon rested his chin in his hand
for a full quarter hour, thinking, and then pushed back his chair, giving in to
the inevitable. There was nothing else for it, he had to confront Trixie.
* * *
A
N
HOUR
LATER
HE
WAS
cooling his heels in his grandmother’s drawing room in Cavendish
Square, staring down the pair of yellow pug dogs who were eying his highly
polished Hessians as if they would take great pleasure in lifting their legs
against them.
She’d named the beasts Gog and Magog, after the ancient carved
wooden giants that stood just outside the Guildhall, perhaps because they were
no more than ten inches from ears to paws, or perhaps because she was amused by
the thought the giants were reportedly the product of a coupling of wicked Roman
daughters and the demons then inhabiting Albion, one day to be Britain. To
Trixie, that would explain quite a bit about her fellow citizens of the
realm.
In any case, Gideon thoroughly detested the dogs and, in
return, they didn’t care a whit what he thought of them. It was rather
lowering....
“Gideon, my pet, what terrible thing have I done that brings
you to my door?”
Giving the dogs one last warning look, Gideon got to his feet
to admire Lady Beatrix’s entrance, accomplished, as always, with a mixture of
imperiousness and panache that was the envy of her detractors—all of them
women.