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The Regency Redgraves: What an Earl Wants / What a Lady Needs / What a Gentleman Desires / What a Hero Dares
“Baron Harden, who died in that fall down the stairs. My God, it’s that simple?”
“The journals were only for the members. They aren’t all so simple as mere opposites, but they’re not all that difficult. Either, less, soft. If you didn’t already know the names, you would have no idea what this list of words refers to, now would you?”
“And my father?” Jessica asked, leaning forward on the couch.
Trixie ran a fingertip down the list of names. “Ah, here we are. Miner. Because colliers are miners, correct? Now let me see…” She squinted at the page. “Yes, here are the two I can add to our list of deceased members. The Right Honorable Noddy Selkirk, another second generation member, has to be Church. He fell afoul of a rock slide while hiking in the Lake District this past autumn, and Cecil Appleby would have to be Pear. Lord knows he was shaped like one. He supposedly succumbed to some sudden stomach ailment a few months past, although I now have it on the highest authority his tongue had turned black.”
“Who is this highest authority?” Gideon asked.
Trixie rolled her eyes. “You’re questioning me? Cecil’s valet is brother to my glover’s assistant, if you must know. It can take positively hours to fit a new glove properly, and there’s plenty of time for gossip. It took an entire afternoon last Thursday, and an order for six new pairs of gloves, but I’m assured my information is correct. I had the bill sent to you.”
“I suppose I can’t quibble with that,” he said, smiling.
“As well you shouldn’t. And now poor Guy has cocked up his toes. Here he is. Cot, which of course stands for Bedworth.” She ran her finger down the list of names. “Strange. I don’t recognize any of these. If they were still passing father to eldest son, I should know these names. Perhaps one of you should be writing them down?”
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… .
THE 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 notso-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. “Umhmm,” 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?”
She looked down at her body, closed her eyes for a moment as he slid a second finger inside her. “I…I’ll reserve judgment on that. You…ah…you’re very adept at this, aren’t you?”
“Modesty precludes me from answering that, but I do harbor hopes. Do you have any idea how good you feel?”
“I’m…I’m beginning to,” Jessica said, leaning back slightly, bracing her hands against the mattress. “Oh…that feels wonderful.”
“Yes. The purpose of the exercise. You don’t mind?”
She made a small noise, rather close to a purr. He took it for a no.
He moved his fingers again, slippery now with the liquid silk of her quick arousal. Her breathing had gone swift and shallow, and he increased the rhythm of his movements even as he moved his mouth along her body, licking at her breasts, taking her nipple into his mouth.
She was all response, all heat and glory and freedom, at ease with her body and how he made her feel. But she was far from passive.
Just when he thought he was about to take her over the edge, she pulled away from him, only to push him down on his back and begin unbuttoning his pantaloons. Her glorious hair fell loose around her face as she looked at him. “I already know how I like it best, and that’s with you inside me. Do you mind?”
Did he mind? Such an intelligent woman, such a silly question.
The speed with which he divested himself of his pantaloons, then lifted her up and over him, lowering her until their bodies meshed, became one, was probably as good an answer as any.
“AND YOU’RE CERTAIN you locked the door?” Jessica asked him as they lay there, bodies still delightfully entangled, attempting to recover their breaths. Really, she was turning into quite the wanton after only a single day of marriage. She rather liked it.
“I did. And warned Mildred we weren’t to be disturbed.”
“Good. Because I really don’t want to move. Not for days.”
“That’s convenient, because I don’t think I can move, perhaps not for entire days, but at least not in the near future. You didn’t tell me you ride,” he said, nipping at her earlobe. “You’re quite…accomplished.”
She didn’t pretend not to understand what he meant. What would be the sense in that? “Thank you, naughty as that statement was. It’s been years, but I’ve always loved to ride. Is that how you see the thing? As riding?”
“How do you see it?”
She snuggled closer. “As much more satisfying than the sidesaddle, that’s for certain. Is that why men ride astride and condemn women to the sidesaddle?”
“Fearful you might gain pleasure from it, you mean? I hadn’t considered it, but you may be right. Shame on us.”
She slid off him, her expression once again pinched, her cheeks pale. “Yes, shame on men. Not all of you, but certainly enough of you. Where did men first get the idea women are here for their pleasure but are to be denied any of their own? Really, denied much in the way of any sort of freedom. As if our minds are feeble, and we’re not to be trusted with our own bodies. I’m sure Trixie has opinions on that.”
“Yes, and she’s been taking her own peculiar brand of revenge for most of her life.”
Jessica laid her head on Gideon’s shoulder and absently stroked her hand over his bare chest. “I hadn’t thought of that. But she is, isn’t she? I remember teasing Richard about women always being the downfall of men, in one way or another. Is that it, Gideon? Are you men afraid of us?”
He kissed her hair. “Terrified.”
“Well, you probably should be. We seem to know your weaknesses.”
“You’ve certainly found mine,” he agreed, lifting her hand to his lips. “As for the rest of it, on behalf of all mankind, I most abjectly and humbly apologize.”
“Thank you. But it’s not enough.” She gathered the sheet about her and sat up, looking down at him. “I don’t mean you, not precisely you. I mean men. In general. Apologies are not enough. Especially since most of them wouldn’t mean a word they said in any event.”
“Probably not.”
Jessica ignored him, for she’d gotten the bit between her teeth now, her mind whirling with various bits of information that seemed to be parts of a puzzle she’d carried with her for a long time, its pieces suddenly falling into place.
“Men are stronger, physically. You can’t be afraid of a woman’s inferior strength. So it has to be our minds you fear. After all, you can take our bodies—because we’re not as physically strong—but that doesn’t mean you can control our minds.” She looked at him again as he pushed himself up against the pillows. “You think we’re smarter than you, don’t you?”
“It’s not that simple, Jessica.”
“Oh? Then you admit we’re smarter?”
“And there’s your answer, just in the way you so neatly turned my words to your advantage,” he said, pulling her against his shoulder.
She laughed. “I rather did, didn’t I?”
“Yes, you did. And we men have yet to learn how to defend ourselves from that particular little trick. You’re smarter, softer, definitely prettier, with the ability to think with your hearts as well as your minds—while we men have just to look at you to lose our control over both. You possess the ability to have us make total fools of ourselves, madam, and we resent the hell out of that. We’d much rather think of you as weaker, in body and mind and morals, devious and manipulative by turn, needing our guidance and protection—and we reserve the right to blame you for anything stupid we do, as well as any evil anywhere in the world.”
Jessica considered all of this for a minute. “Oh,” she said at last. “That actually makes sense. You’re afraid of us, but since you’re physically larger and stronger than we are, you’ve been able to create laws and all sorts of rules meant to keep us firmly under your thumbs, and make false declarations of how better fashioned you are to take care of us, not in order to protect us, but in order to protect yourselves from us.”
“And since you’re smaller and softer and so much smarter than we are, you continually find ways around the barriers we’ve so carefully built around our supposed superiority.”
“And then you condemn us as devious, when it’s you who force us to employ those superior weapons, because otherwise we’d be nothing. Chattel.”
“Sex is a woman’s game, Jessica, even if men believe they invented it. It’s the lever, when placed in the right spot, which has always been able to move the world. We men can’t give you any more weapons than you already hold—a place in government, or commerce, or even on the battlefield. We know you’d be too good at all of it. Why else do we insist on calling the great Elizabeth Tudor our virgin queen, made her, in our minds, not really a woman at all, but more of an aberration. We can’t risk seeing you as equal to men, treating you as our equals, not when we know you’re vastly superior.”
She looked at him assessingly. “And you really believe that? I mean, that women pose so much danger, and have to be kept under the thumbs of men?”
“Me? Absolutely not.”
“Yes, but if you did subscribe to this supposed theory, would you admit it?”
His grin was wicked. “Absolutely not.”
“Why, you—” She launched herself at him halfplayfully, and he snagged her wrists, all but flipping her onto her back, his body lying across hers. “Oh, so now you’re out to prove your superior strength?”
“On the contrary. I’m about to prove yours. Do you remember the first day you came to Portman Square?”
She wriggled her body beneath his, rather enjoying the feelings he was arousing in her. “I do. But what does that have to do with—”
Her wrists still trapped, he brought his head down to within inches of hers, his eyes clearly contemplating the sight of her slightly parted lips. “Do you remember our wager that day?”
“The dogs,” she said. And then, beginning to understand, she wet her lips with the tip of her tongue.
“You’re not playing fair, Jessica. Some would say just like a woman. But yes, the dogs. You wagered me Brutus wouldn’t be able to withstand temptation for ten seconds, but that Cleo could and would.”
Sex is a woman’s game. He’d said it, and she was beginning to believe him.
“I believe he didn’t make it past four.” She moved again, lifting her leg and curling it around his. “Cleo could have managed twice that and possibly more. Just as I could outlast you with ease.”
Gideon raised one expressive eyebrow. “Really? Would you care to wager the five pounds I lost on that assumption?”