What a Lady Needs

CHAPTER THREE

SIMON BELIEVED THE Earl of Saltwood could comfortably fit any three rooms at Singleton Place inside his dining room and still seat a dozen diners. Not that Ravenbill was small; it was a fine estate. But everything about Redgrave Manor was immense. Most families suffered setbacks over the years, the centuries. The Redgraves seemed to have never taken a backward step.

That meant either unbelievable good luck, or a long line of crafty, intelligent men and women who always chose the right side, the correct moment; when to act, and when to retreat. So how, if what he believed was true, did at least the last two earls reconcile all this bounty with plotting to overthrow the monarchy? It made no sense.

Unless...

“I hope you don’t mind,” he said conversationally as the servants passed around yet another course, “but I spent a bit of time earlier with your obliging butler, familiarizing myself with your beautiful home. Quite an interesting and certainly extensive lineup of portraits in your gallery. From the change in dress, I’d have to think the Redgrave line goes back a considerable distance.”

“Ages, yes,” Kate said from her seat across the wide table. The four of them were gathered at one end of the immense table, with Valentine at the foot and young Adam Collier sitting beside Kate, alternately stuffing his face and attempting discreet peeks at her bosom, fetchingly outlined by her lightly golden silk gown. The puppy. And did he actually believe that pale paste he’d rubbed onto his face really succeeded in covering his spots? Simon sent up silent thanks he was no longer eighteen.

Valentine took up his fork. “True, Kate. Ages. All the way back to the Stuarts, the first time they held the throne, even before the first earl wrangled himself the title. We carry a few drops of Stuart blood, actually, although you’d have to apply to Gideon for the particulars, as the study of our family tree became lost on me by the time our tutor had got to the fifth branch.”

“Descended from kings. And you’re not interested?”

“Good Lord, Simon, who’s even to say what side of the blanket our supposed Stuart was born on in the first place?” Valentine looked to Kate. “And you did not hear me say that.”

“Oh, no, definitely not. But there is that small portrait of the first King Charles in the long gallery, remember? The one who had his head lopped off?”

Valentine widened his eyes in what seemed to be real shock. “I really should have paid more attention, shouldn’t I?”

“I would have. No choice, really,” Adam said, speaking for the first time in long minutes, an interlude he’d clearly felt had been better spent in seeing how many peas he could line up on his knife and then slide into his mouth without dropping any. “My father had me study the monarchies of every last country in creation. Boring stuff mostly, but I haven’t been able to boost it out of my head now it’s there. Charles the first was followed by that Cromwell fellow, and then his son, before the Stuarts came roaring back for a second go at things with Charles the second, but when Queen Anne died, everything went to our first George of the House of Hanover, thanks to a few drops of Stuart blood in him somewhere. You know, Valentine, like you Redgraves.”

“Yes, of course. My brother should be sitting on the throne right now. Idiot.”

“I think the Redgraves are smarter than that, Adam,” Lady Katherine said, patting the boy’s arm. “As I said, kings can be beheaded. Kingship was a messy business back then.”

“They do sillier things than that! Did you know when the Stuarts got back on the throne they dug up Cromwell the first and chopped off his head because the first Charles had his chopped off? I mean, Cromwell had already been dead for dog’s years, but it was a show of power, m’father said. Very important in kingships, showing off your power. Chopping off heads, poisonings, perhaps even drowning royal dukes in barrels of Malmsey wine, whatever that is. Then there were those poor boys in the Tower. Nobody knows who did that, not for certain. You have to be careful most times in not letting what you did get followed back to you, you see, or at least not be the only one who might be blamed. Now, consider Julius Caesar, for one. He was Roman, you know, and—”

“Eat your peas, Adam,” Valentine instructed wearily, and turned back to Simon. “You’d never think our new relative has been tossed out of every school his late father managed to get him into, would you?”

“Only five, my lord, not all of them. One burned down—but it wasn’t me who did it, I swear. Mine was only a small fire, nothing quite so spectacular. I still got the boot, though. Picky things, deans,” Adam grumbled, plucking an errant pea out of his lacy neck cloth. “The only reason I’m not in school now, your lordship, is I’m in mourning. Both my dear parents died in a coach accident, you know. The oil from the outside lanterns caught fire when the coach overturned, and they were both burned up. I’m devastated.”

“Yes,” Simon said blandly as Kate hid her smile behind her serviette. “Yes, I can see that. Allow me to offer my condolences, Mr. Collier.”

“Well, it was nearly two months ago, and Gideon tells me I’m rich as Croesus now, save for the fact he’s my guardian for another three years, and now that he’s married my sister, I’m family, as well. I’d rather be in London, but it’s as his lordship says, one can’t always have everything one wants, at least not while he’s in charge of me, and he lives only for the day I reach my majority. But he likes me. I’m certain of it. Everybody likes me.”

This was all said with such artlessness, such nonchalance—and probably a dearth of brainpower backing his words—Simon felt himself unable to reply.

Kate, however, wasn’t so reticent.

“That’s because you’re such a lovable looby,” she said, nudging Adam with her elbow.

The boy carefully patted at his hair, dark and stiff with pomade, so that it probably wouldn’t have moved by a single strand in a gale. “Thank you, Kate.”

Lady Katherine rolled her eyes. “You’re welcome—looby.”

“Yes, well, Kate, shall we have our dessert in the main drawing room?” Valentine broke in. “We’ll join you and Adam there in an hour.”

Kate agreed, and the men all rose as she departed the room, smiling over her shoulder at Simon, who nodded his acknowledgment of her favor. He fought the urge to follow her.

“You’re going to have brandy and cigars now, aren’t you? I’d rather stay here with you and the marquis. My father and his friends used to step outside after dinner and piss off the balcony into the garden. I think they held contests. Do you do that, too?”

“We most assuredly do not,” Valentine said coldly. “Or, as my grandmother the dowager countess would say, were you raised by wolves? Now go harass Kate while the grown-ups among us talk.”

Simon watched the boy mince off in his red-heeled evening shoes and sat down once more. “That’s Turner Collier’s son? Was the man sure? I’d worry my wife had played me false if I ended up with a popinjay like Adam.”

“Jessica says he’s his mother’s child, down to his ridiculous shoe tops. Jess, um, she left home when he was only twelve, leaving behind, she vows, a sweet, bashful child who sang songs with her. Gideon ended up with the guardianship of him a few months ago, thanks to Collier’s ridiculous will that named the Earl of Saltwood, but didn’t happen to mention which one. You know Collier was involved with the Society in my father’s time, correct? From what we’ve been learning, he was also his closest friend and associate. Wait. Don’t answer yet.”

The baize door opened and Dearborn himself carried in a tray holding a crystal decanter and two snifters. He then employed the small key he’d carried with him to unlock a drawer in the immense sideboard. He extracted a rosewood humidor, smartly snapping back the lid and offering the selection inside first to his lordship’s guest, and then to Valentine, who took two, pocketing one for later, probably.

The butler then deftly managed the ceremony of assisting in the tip-cutting and lighting of the cigars for each man by way of a short candle also on the tray, bowed and retired from the dining room.

“He loves doing that,” Valentine commented as he puffed on the cigar and then smiled in satisfaction. “Ah, wonderful. Count on Gideon to have nothing but the best. I’m more of a cheroot man myself, but cigars take longer, leaving us more time to talk before we’ll be expected to rejoin the children.”

“Children? Your sister made her come-out last season. She’s hardly a child.”

“True,” Valentine said, putting a finger to his lips before quietly pushing back his chair. “Follow me. Quietly.”

Simon did as he was told, casting only one regretful look at the decanter of brandy as they headed for one of the many sets of French doors leading onto some sort of balcony. If the Earl of Saltwood’s good taste in cigars was matched by his selection of spirits, he knew he was missing a treat.

“What’s all this about?” he asked as Valentine gently closed the door behind him.

“Notice we’re on a balcony, Simon. It runs the length of the dining hall, with the only entrances leading from that room. If Adam’s right, I finally realize why the balcony may have been constructed this way, but I chose it because we’re a good twenty-five feet above the gardens and Kate won’t be able to hear us.”

“She’d eavesdrop? Why would she do that?”

Valentine leaned against the stone balustrade. “Because I’m an idiot, but she’s not. Within a minute of your going off with Dearborn, she asked me if you’d been a soldier. Because, if you can believe this, you eat quickly and efficiently, and walk with command in your step, or some such nonsense. It has been less than a full day and I already have the headache, watching her pretend—badly, I might add—watching you pretend. If I didn’t know you’re acting on orders, I’d actually believe you saw her and were instantly struck. But it isn’t going to work. Sooner or later, Kate is going to see through the thing from both sides. Hang Gideon and Perceval for sorry plotters and me for thinking I could boost Kate through some hoops of my own as long as we were putting on this charade. We have to call it off.”

“I thought I was doing fairly well,” Simon said, damned if he’d call it off, not if Valentine was going to use the failure to send him on his way. He was here to find those journals and anything else he could find. Besides, pretending an interest in Lady Katherine wasn’t the hardship he’d imagined. Not by a long chalk.

“Simon, if you did any better I’d have to pop you in your nose. But that’s probably because you haven’t met Kate yet. Not really.”

Simon smiled. “She’s a bit of her own person, isn’t she? She’s beautiful, entrancing, really, and quite unexpected.”

Valentine looked at the glowing tip of his cigar. “Go easy, my friend.”

“I’m doing my best, but even a brother should be able to recognize her unique beauty. That said, don’t think I was unaware that she was—how should I say this? Putting me on? Yes, that’s it. Crude, but correct. And all while somehow already knowing I was doing the same thing. Hell, Val, I’d compliment her, and her eyes would fill with laughter, all through dinner. So how do we fix this?”

“I’d say by you taking yourself back to London, but I doubt you’d go without a fight.”

Simon’s jaw tightened, and he wondered if the reaction was all because of his hunt for the journals, and had nothing to do with learning to know the intriguing Kate better. “And you’d be correct.”

“Which leaves us with telling her the truth, although Gideon won’t ever see it that way. Against all common sense, he still harbors the hope we can keep Kate away from the worst of this. Are we agreed?”

“Agreed,” Simon said, reluctantly pitching the cigar over the balustrade.

“Oh, too bad. Dearborn doles out Gideon’s prize cigars very carefully to younger sons,” Valentine said, peering down into the gardens. “I was going to ask Kate to join us in the dining room. She quite likes the smell of a good cigar.” Then he laughed and reached into his pocket. “Here—take this one, and I’ll go find her, bring her back here.”

“Don’t you think you should first tell me what she knows. I don’t want to say anything to shock her.”

“Redgraves don’t shock easily. Besides, what she hasn’t yet been told she’s probably conveniently overheard.”

“And Adam? What does he know?”

“I’d have to say he doesn’t even know how to find his own backside with both hands, but the truth is he was a font of information for us, even though he has no idea what his father was preparing him for, which was membership in that damned Society. That business about learning all the monarchs? Mostly, what his father was attempting to teach him was about assassinations, governments being overthrown, the how of the thing. What worked in the past, what failed. That, and giving him an education that went well beyond the usual visit to the local tavern on your sixteenth birthday and the trip upstairs with one of the barmaids as the entire taproom cheered you on your way. Can you imagine? Lessons in debauchery.”

“I noticed him ogling your sister overtop his peas,” Simon said, suddenly not finding the boy’s antics so amusing.

“Yes, we’d thought about having all the younger housemaids fitted with chastity belts. Either that, or arming them with pikes, so they could fend him off. But we’ve found he’s more boasting and wishful thinking than anything else. Collier had him keep a yearly journal of his conquests. Gideon said it read mostly as very bad fiction, which isn’t to say he hasn’t had his successes, willing ladies who like the feel of heavy coins in their palms.”

Simon rubbed a hand across his mouth. “And that’s how you—”

“Adam mentioned the lessons, the journal, to Jessica, and we quickly learned the boy also had a copy of his father’s journal for last year, given to him to use as a reference or some such thing. Dates, the participants, the, um, the actions taken. As I said, Adam’s entries were mostly that of an overactive imagination, but Collier’s journal was something else entirely.”

“So I’ve heard. The members’ names all listed somewhere in it, although in some sort of code. It’s how you discovered Sir Charles and the late Mr. Urban, correct? Again, I’d like to see one.” One in particular...

“And again, no, you wouldn’t,” Valentine said, shaking his head. “We especially dread finding anything our father wrote. And our grandfather, as well. Believe me, Simon, this isn’t easy for any of us. According to our grandmother, the Society members kept yearly journals from the beginning, during my grandfather’s, shall we say, tenure as leader of the group. And then the Keeper, as that privileged member is called, the latest one being Adam’s father, gathers the journals every year, compares them and dutifully records everything into their unholy bible. All the names, the secrets, the intrigues, the debaucheries, the supposed crimes, going back all those years. God knows who some of their guests were. Prime ministers, royal princes, men of letters, leaders of our military. Seduced, corrupted, blackmailed. Sometimes eliminated. Nobody knows the true extent of the Society’s activities. But we’re certain of one thing, none of that information can ever see the light of day.”

“I begin to see your point.” Simon had to tamp down his excitement at this revelation. The answers were in the bible. He had to find the bible. “I hadn’t heard of any bible. Just the journals.”

“Really? Gideon always did play his hands close to his chest. The journals will give us more clues, we hope, although we’ll be dealing with those blasted codes. Only the supposed bible will give us everything, all neatly spelled out for us. My brother has hung his hopes on it, at least. But now that you’re here, you might as well know the rest. We’re looking for one other thing.”

“And what would that be?” Simon spoke quietly, aware Valentine was speaking with some reluctance.

“Not what, who. The seventeenth earl,” Valentine said, forcing a smile. “A tree fell against the mausoleum last winter and broke a lovely stained-glass window—not that you need know all of that. We don’t visit inside the family’s final resting place unless we’re walling up a Redgrave, so nobody had noticed our father’s crypt had been broken into, or knows when, but we’ve decided it had to be shortly after he was interred. In any event, the old lech’s remains have been taken, providing we don’t believe he somehow got up and toddled off on his own with a whacking great hole in his back.”

The Redgraves had a lot to hide. Their sordid history going back two generations—and now a missing earl. “The Society took him? Why?”

Simon shrugged. “We don’t know. Gideon believes they propped him up somewhere and held their own ritual. Remember, the rumors include that of devil worship, and Barry was their exalted leader or some such rot.”

“Yes, I’d heard about that aspect of the Society. Rites, rituals, rumors of virgin sacrifices.”

Valentine looked at him curiously, and Simon realized he just may have said too much. The man bantered so easily, it was easy to forget he was a Redgrave, and probably much more intelligent than he let on. Gideon Redgrave got what he wanted through sophisticated intimidation; Valentine Redgrave probably did just as well with his outward charm.

“Is that so. Well, that’s discouraging, isn’t it? How would you know about that?”

“I’ve been investigating the two men you found for more than a year before you Redgraves joined the party, we could say. That included familiarizing myself with hellfire clubs in general. Scratch most anyone in one of the London clubs and they’ll soon come up with stories their grandfather told them about Sir Francis Dashwood, and others like your father,” Simon answered carefully, because he hadn’t heard any of that, not officially. But he’d made it his business to learn anything and everything he could about the Society. In the past six months, he’d made the Redgraves themselves targets of his investigation, half hoping they were behind it all and he could get back to his own life.

Then again, who could say whether or not the Redgraves were acting out of loyalty to the Crown, or in some convoluted, self-serving way meant to take suspicion away from them? Give the Crown one small success to prove their loyalty, and then be able to operate with Prime Minister Perceval’s full assistance. Simon wished he wasn’t so inclined to like this odd family. Especially when it came to the quixotic Lady Katherine.

“In any event, we hope he’s here, somewhere on the estate. We already know there were tunnels, because one caved in last year, as well as caves, although I’ve never seen one, so if they exist they’ve been cleverly disguised. It’s a large estate.”

“I’ll agree with that.”

“Our grandmother doesn’t know. We just want to find him and put him back. Barry was a rotter to his toes, from all accounts, but he was her son.”

“And your sister knows this, as well? That the body has gone missing?”

“She does now.”

Both men turned to see Kate standing at the other end of the balcony, more than half-hidden in the shadows. She stepped forward, her face pale in the moonlight, her arms wrapped about her as if she’d taken a chill. Simon felt an insane urge to go to her, hold her in his arms, comfort her.

“When were you going to tell me, Valentine? When I tripped over him?”

“Kate, I—”

“Never mind. I probably know the rest. The journals, the bible and the rest of it—the reborn Society and its plans to open England’s door and let Napoleon stroll in. I’m a woman, yes, but I’m a Redgrave first. I’m a part of this. God help us, it’s our heritage. So now that the farce is over, and not a moment too soon, we’ll meet tomorrow morning at seven to take that ride, and then resume the search. Oh, and one thing more. Simon, I don’t know how you’re involved, or why Gideon allowed you here, but know this. You stay the bloody hell out of my way or I’ll have your liver on a stick.”

With that, she pulled open one of the other French doors and was gone.

Valentine took a long pull on his cigar and then rather violently tossed it down into the garden. “My apologies, Simon,” he said tightly. “I didn’t have a chance to introduce you before she took her exit. That was my sister Kate.”

Simon was still looking at the empty spot where Lady Katherine had stood. He felt incredible helplessness, not unmixed with guilt. “Shouldn’t you go after her? Clearly she’s upset.”

Valentine looked at him in some surprise. “That’s what you got from that? She’s upset? She’s homicidal, man, not that I blame her. Hell of a way to find out about old Barry.”

“I wouldn’t care for the method, no. Does she even remember him?”

Valentine shook his head. “No, she was only an infant. I don’t even remember him, or my mother for that matter. You can look at Barry in the Long Hall, but Maribel’s portrait is up in the attics if you want to see her—or you could just look at Kate.”

Simon thought for a few moments. “Sometimes it’s more comfortable to build castles in your mind than to actually live in one.”

“How marvelously obscure. But I understand what you’re saying. Kate probably built our parents into perfect beings in her mind, victims of circumstance and a cruel fate. They were far from that. Our grandmother told her everything she felt she had to know before her first season, but these past weeks have been a painful revelation to all of us. Kate probably most of all. You’re right, I have to go to her. If I don’t appear by the time our mounts are brought round tomorrow morning, check to see if my body has been stuffed behind a rosebush. Here, take your cigar.”

Simon nodded his thanks, but then slid the cigar into his pocket for later in the evening, as he doubted he’d find sleep easily tonight, so a head-clearing walk in the gardens might be in order. For the moment, he was going to find his way back to the long gallery and take another look at Barry Redgrave, and then hunt up the portrait of his father, the sixteenth earl, as well. He’d thought he’d seen something in the background of Barry’s portrait earlier, but he’d dismissed it. Now he wanted a closer look without Dearborn standing behind him, because he’d imagined he’d seen the faint outline of a draped tartan painted in one dim corner inside the frame.

Not the Hunting Stuart tartan, which could be worn by anyone, but the distinctive red and green of the Royal Stuart, reserved for members of the Stuart line, and worn only with the permission of the king.

But that would be insane....

CHAPTER FOUR

KATE WATCHED AS Simon mounted his horse, a fine shiny brown stallion with a white blaze on its handsome face. The horse was ready for a run, but the marquis controlled it beautifully. Not that she’d compliment him on either his fine judge of horseflesh or his horsemanship. Not now, and not if he cleared two five-bar fences while sitting backward in the saddle, playing the flute.

She wasn’t feeling in charity with Simon Ravenbill this morning. She wasn’t very happy about the world in general.

At least Valentine had now answered all her questions, promising he was holding nothing back and there would be no more unpleasant surprises.

The marquis of Singleton wasn’t Valentine’s new friend, but working for the government, and here with Gideon’s blessing. She was only the silly young female who should be hoodwinked, tricked, cajoled if necessary, even romanced, just to keep her from knowing what any fool could see was happening beneath her own roof.

Gideon would get a scathing letter from her in the next few days. Valentine had already received notice of her displeasure with him, and Simon Ravenbill could just go hang, for all she cared.

“Where are we off to?” Valentine asked from atop his bay gelding. “Kate, which fields are lying fallow this year?”

“The entire West Run, but first I want to see the mausoleum.”

“Kate,” Valentine warned, but his tone was resigned. “All right, as I’d rather you didn’t go on your own. Do you mind, Simon?”