What a Gentleman Desires (16 page)

It wasn’t difficult for Valentine to arrange his features in a sneer of disgust. “It’s ridiculous.”

Charles seemed nonplussed for a moment, but then smiled. “Oh, you misunderstand. The mask is just for the procession and a bit of silliness before we really get down to cases.”

“Procession?” Valentine repeated, unfortunately as a mental picture formed in his mind. Women forced to watch as a line of grotesquely masked monsters entered by torchlight, naked beneath their cloaks, probably chanting gibberish, and then moved among them, choosing their partners, their victims. He’d never set foot in another masquerade ball. Never.

“There
is
an order about things, yes. Pomp and ceremony, to add to the excitement and the fear, you understand. But then the masks come off.”

This was it, Valentine’s best chance to avoid the
party
. Thanks to Charfield, he already knew its location. Now he knew the rest, and could plan his timing accordingly once he was certain Daisy was on her way to Redgrave Manor. He had no coach, no Twitchill, but he would have one of the Redgrave outriders. One should be enough...especially once the Society was otherwise occupied with their whores.
And,
he thought with an inward smile,
highly unlikely to be armed
.

“No, Charles. I already told you. Thank you very kindly and all of that, but I decline to make myself a spectacle.”

“But here, look.” An obviously sweating Mailer reached into his pocket and withdrew a wad of black silk. “See? You really need to see this,” he said, holding up what looked to be a snug hood with two long tails of silk obviously meant to be tied behind the head to secure the thing. “Here, try it on. Several wear them, at least at first. Your own mother wouldn’t recognize you. Oh, sorry. Shouldn’t mention your mother, I’ve been told that. But you know what I mean.” He looked toward the hallway. “Damn, got to hide this.”

Mailer quickly tossed the snake head and cloak behind the couch. “Yes, Wright, what is it?”

“Beggin’ your pardon, my lord, but you asked for another decanter. I’ll just show the boy here where to put it down and we’ll be gone.”

Valentine didn’t bother turning around as the footsteps faded into the hallway. He’d knowingly put himself in a corner, but not without a way out. An unlocked window in his chamber and a sturdy drainpipe awaited him, along with the stubborn Daisy and two of the Redgrave outriders carrying a satchel filled with weapons who would meet him on the path just inside the trees.

“There’s no need to try the thing on, Charles. You’ve convinced me,” he said, picking up the wineglass, but then hastily replacing it on the table, its contents still untouched. He put his hands to his waistcoat and began to scratch himself. “Damn. Of all the bloody times for— Charles, give a look,” he said as he frantically unbuttoned his waistcoat and shirt. “Is it—damn, of all the bloody times!”

Mailer was goggling at Valentine’s exposed chest in horror even as he backed away, a high compliment to Piffkin’s expertise with putty and paint. “What...what
is
that? You’re all welts and spots.”

Valentine pulled his shirt closed once more, as too much scratching directly on his skin could dislodge bits of Piffkin’s masterpiece, and picked up the wineglass again; he rather enjoyed teasing Charles with the wine.

“Oh, for the love of God, man, put your eyes back in your head—they’re hives, not the plague, although I’ve been
plagued
with them all my life. But I will attempt strawberries, anyway. My fault, all my fault. I’ll be covered in them if I don’t plunge myself in a cold tub. That keeps them away.
Damn,
they itch! Have dinner sent up, will you, Charles? I’m certain I’ll be fine before we leave.”

“At half-past eight. We leave then. But...but you didn’t try on the mask.” Mailer nearly bleated the words. Clearly the man had been given a mission.

Valentine recommenced scratching. “Charles, don’t be an ass.”

Something sharp poked Valentine in the small of his back. “Charles can’t help being an ass,” a deep male voice commented from behind the couch. “Happily for the rest of us, we learned that long ago. You were going to let him leave, weren’t you, Charles?”

“But only to bathe. He...he’s got these
things
all over him....”

Valentine’s mind was working furiously. It hadn’t been Wright and a footman who’d entered the drawing room. It had been Wright and another person, and when the butler left, the other man had remained, having ducked out of sight behind a chair or some such thing. Clever. And stupid of him, not to have bothered to turn around when the butler entered. But that was over, the damage done.

Now to get himself shed of the man and the knife. And he needed to do it before the man eased his way around the couch and closer to him. At the moment, he was rather off-balance, and that favored Valentine. It was the only advantage he had.

Mailer had both hands curled into fists and jammed against his mouth, so that Valentine could barely understand him when he spoke. “You’ve a knife. But...but, Hammer, we’re not supposed to kill him.”

“Post—you blabbering
idiot!
”

Yes, Post was an idiot, and wasn’t that fortunate. The knife suddenly didn’t trouble Valentine so much.

With a quick, jerking motion of his right hand, Valentine aimed the contents of the wineglass toward the source of the voice directly behind the couch. Just as quickly, he bent his knees, swiveled to his left while snapping the stem of the thin crystal glass from its bowl with his thumb and forefinger, turning the now sharp stem into a weapon. By the time he’d turned enough to face the man Charles had called Hammer—no more than a split second although it felt like hours—the man’s still extended knife arm presented the perfect target.

Plunging the stem into the inside of Hammer’s beefy wrist set the man to howling even as the blow sent the knife flying across the room.

The black-silk-hooded man Mailer had called Hammer pulled the crystal stem from his wrist, and then screamed in horror. The stem had, with the greatest good luck, sliced through an artery. Blood spurted out in an arc with his every heartbeat. Hammer clamped his other hand around the wound, yelling for Mailer’s help.

If these two had any talent other than perverse ambition, Valentine knew he’d have had no chance against them. But they weren’t soldiers, weren’t even particularly brave. No, they were the sort of puffed-up schemers who had others do their fighting for them.

Yet desperation must have given Mailer courage because, just as Valentine was reaching toward his boot and the knife hidden there, he launched himself at Valentine’s back with the force of a charging bull. Already off-balance and half-tangled in furniture, he went down under Mailer’s more considerable weight, pinned between the edge of the couch and an overturned table.

Mailer’s knee pressed into the small of his back as the man—what was he trying to do? The silk mask? Why was he shoving it at his face, rubbing it on his face, pressing it against his nose and mouth?

Valentine’s every muscle tensed as he attempted to buck Mailer from his back. He held his breath, refusing to breathe, but now Hammer had unhelpfully pressed his boot against the side of Valentine’s head.

Not the wine. The mask. Something had been soaked into the mask. He had a moment’s remembrance of his initial assessment of Mailer—
a buffoon, but tread carefully!
How had he forgotten his own advice? He had to get up. He had to get out. Daisy was waiting for him. She’d wait forever, or attempt something brave and stupid. Daisy! Ah, God, Daisy!

Valentine attempted to jackknife his body, hoping to tumble Mailer off his back, but this time his muscles didn’t fully cooperate. He was running out of air. He needed to breathe. His brain, his heart, his lungs, every last cell in his body, all were demanding he breathe....

CHAPTER TEN

D
AISY
REMEMBERED
LOOKING
into the hand mirror that was all she had left of her mother, marveling at her own reflection. She had barely recognized herself. She’d always been the
other
sister, the plain one with the white skin and curly copper hair, too tall, too thin and gawky next to Rose’s petite but curvy frame. And definitely too bookish and serious.

She’d seen a softness about her now, around her eyes, her mouth, something she hadn’t quite understood but easily concluded had something to do with the way Valentine looked at her, as if she wasn’t only passable, but passably pretty.

If she’d thought about it, if she’d had the leisure of time to think about it, she would probably conclude he liked her, quite a lot. Perhaps almost as much as she liked him, because she did care for him, oh, so very much. Even in the midst of all this horror and ugliness, he had the power to stir her senses as well as her mind. She believed she might now have at least a small inkling of the joy Rose had found with her Walter. And in time, God willing, she would forget the rest of it, banishing evil and replacing it with good.

She’d wrapped the mirror in her extra petticoat, placed it in the very center of her tapestry bag before closing it and carefully dropping it out the window. She’d earlier done the same with Agnes’s few belongings, and now leaned out the open window far enough to assure herself both bags had landed safely behind the shrubbery.

Looking back, it all seemed to have happened so long ago.

Daisy had then gone downstairs to the nursery, where a willing Agnes waited, both her beloved charges dressed and eager for an adventure. Agnes was going to take them to a secret stream to catch
real
frogs, which only came out when the sun was going down. They had to be very quiet, though, or else one of the other servants might hear them, and they’d all be shooed back upstairs to the nursery.

Piffkin and a pair of outriders, as planned, already awaited them on the path through the trees. There, they would wait for Daisy to bring Lady Caroline along, and would then set off immediately for the out-of-the-way inn, Piffkin in charge. The outriders would remain, to watch over Daisy until Valentine was safely out of the house, mounted on Charfield’s horse and on his way. That had been her single request: to be allowed to wait for him before she and one outrider moved on to the inn, the other riding with Valentine. He’d seemed almost flattered, until she’d added that she wouldn’t trust him not to do something foolish if he didn’t know she was there, patiently waiting for him.

Daisy had kissed both children, given the nervous Agnes a bracing hug and watched as the trio headed for the servant stairs. She’d held her breath, watching from her attic window, until Piffkin had emerged from the trees, hustling them to cover.

Everything had been going exactly according to plan.

All that had been left was for her to return to Lady Caroline’s chamber, as the woman had insisted on packing at least one small bag, and they also would be safely away.

The woman had been difficult to convince, so great was her fear of Lord Mailer, but Daisy had managed it, just as she’d managed to avoid Davinia, who had been conveniently absent, completing some special chore for Lord Mailer.

She’d knocked softly at her ladyship’s door and then quietly stepped inside. Lady Caroline had been standing in the center of the room, her smile sickly, her hands twisting together in front of her.

“You’re ready?” Daisy had asked, looking about for a traveling bag and seeing none. “You said you were going to pack a few belongings.”

“I changed my mind. What if we’re caught? Charles would be so angry. He could kill me.”

Daisy had attempted to hold down her temper. “He wouldn’t do that.”

“He killed his first wife. He took her up to those terrible stones and pushed her over the cliff. He said her scream was the most exciting thing he’d ever heard.”

They were wasting time, but Daisy had felt she needed to know more. “He
told
you this? Why?”

“I...told him I didn’t want to...to do it anymore. I couldn’t bear doing it anymore. That’s when he told me. About her scream and...and how if...if I wouldn’t
delight
those horrible men anymore then...then I could delight him with...with my scream.” Lady Caroline’s words had come more quickly then, nearly tumbling over themselves. “He even dragged me up to the stones, to pretend he was going to push me over the edge. He made me promise I’d always obey him. It’s easier to obey. Don’t you see? I have to think of myself.”

“So do I. I wish I had time to argue some sense into your head, but I don’t.” Shaking her head, Daisy had turned her back on the woman only to feel a heavy bag come down over her, pinning her arms to her sides as she was wrestled to the floor.

“Don’t struggle,” Lady Caroline had cried from somewhere above her. “I had to protect myself...you see that, don’t you? It...it won’t be so bad, not if you cooperate.”

“You fool!” Daisy managed even after Davinia—it had to be Davinia—began all but smothering her through the rough burlap. She’d twisted her head about, trying to avoid the pressure, her frantic kicks fruitless as they struck nothing but air.

“Don’t fight them, Daisy. Especially not Charles, when it’s his turn. I saw one fight, and he put his hands around her neck as he took her and...and when he was done she wasn’t moving anymore. Don’t fight, Daisy, don’t fight. Please, I had to do it, I had to save myself. But you don’t have to die. You’ll see. You’ll learn. Some even begin to enjoy it. Stop fighting!”

Where Daisy had found the strength to dislodge the larger woman she didn’t know, but she’d found it. Now Davinia was on her back, and Daisy, straddling her, had managed to rid herself of the burlap sack. She saw the world through a red haze of rage. Charles Mailer had killed her sister. Those monsters had watched as he’d killed her sister. Lady Caroline had watched, as well, and most probably this woman scratching at her now, trying to be free.

Without conscious thought, Daisy had raised her clenched fist and driven it down sideways into Davinia’s face, as if she was pounding on a tabletop. Not once, not twice, but over and over again. She had the strength of a thousand men, the fury of an army of banshees. Blood spurted from Davinia’s nose, and that didn’t stop her blows. Nothing would stop her, not until the woman let loose her tight grip around Daisy’s back. She had to let go, why didn’t she let go?

But then Lady Caroline, timid, pathetic Lady Caroline, had grabbed hold of Daisy’s bun, wrenched back her head, and pressed a wet cloth over her nose and mouth.

“Hold still!” her ladyship shouted. “I told him you’re a virgin. He hadn’t thought of that. He’s promised to let me go when I bring you to them. I’m the one who deserves saving, not you. You’re just another nobody like the others. They’re making the altar ready for you now. Stop fighting me!”

They were handing her over to the monsters. She was going to die before she’d ever been able to live. Tears of hate were replaced by those of regret as Daisy felt herself slipping away into oblivion, never to see Valentine again, never to know happiness....

* * *

V
ALENTINE
WAS
WRONG
again. Charles Mailer was both an idiot
and
stupid.

Even as he believed himself mere heartbeats from having to inhale a damning breath, he could feel Mailer’s grip on him easing. The man had been holding the mask. He’d even pressed his hands to his face when Hammer entered the room and put the knife to Valentine’s back. The mask was in Mailer’s hand now, as he attempted to rub it against Valentine’s mouth and nose.

Mailer was older and heavier, but not stronger. He’d had too many good meals, moving his jaws up and down probably the extent of his physical exertion. Because he was breathing rapidly, nearly panting with effort...and every breath he took included at least a hint of whatever in hell the mask had been soaked in.

Now, with a sigh, Charles Mailer lost consciousness, his full weight collapsing across Valentine’s body, the hand holding the silk dropping away from Valentine’s face.

With a final upward heave of his back, Valentine dislodged the man’s weight, then pulled back from his position between the sofa and overturned table before Hammer could lift his foot, sending the man tumbling backward, unable to save himself without having to relieve the pressure he was holding on his injured wrist.

Exhaling in a rush to draw in clean air, Valentine half crawled to the French doors, once more holding his breath. He pulled himself upright with some effort, slapped down at the handle until it finally gave way and, bent nearly in half, staggered out onto the flagstones.

His legs weren’t fully cooperating and his mind was swimming, but he knew what he had to do. The path lay to his left, and so did the stables. One hundred yards, no more. Yet he felt as if he was walking through waist-deep water, with miles and miles to go.

Daisy. Have to get to Daisy. Have to get her safely away.

Still breathing only when his body forced him to do so, he somehow reached the stables, where he fell to his knees and dunked his entire head and shoulders into one of the horse troughs, rubbing his hands over his face to rid his skin of anything that was left of the solution from the mask.

When he at last raised his head, one of the young grooms was staring at him, wide-eyed.

“Sir?”

Valentine flashed the groom a lopsided grin. “Drunk...drunk as a...as a wheelbarrow. Canya...canya help a man up? Ah, tha’s better. De-demon drink. Here.” He fumbled in his pocket for a coin. “Didn’t see me, y-hear. There’s a g’lad. Shames me all hollow, it does.” He lifted one shaking finger in the general direction of his lips, wavering where he stood. “
Shhhhh
...didn’t see me.”

He staggered off in the direction of the tree line.

“Yes, sir. But...but the Manor lies
that
way, sir.”

Valentine pulled himself up straight in the exaggerated way only drunks believe lends them an air of sobriety. “I know that,” and then continued on his way, heading straight for the trees. Each step was still an effort, but his mind was clearing.

His right. He had to turn to his right now, make his way into the trees and turn left to find the path.

Right, no, left. No, right...right?

No matter. He was out of sight of the manor house, safe within the trees. He simply had to keep moving. Daisy was waiting.

Never disappoint a lady. Especially this one. Just keep moving. Hold on to the trees. Take a step. Take another. Another...I’m coming, Daisy, I’m coming.

“Mr. Redgrave, sir. It’s Luther, sir, over here. You just stay there. Here I come. We’d about given up. Are the ladies behind you? Mr. Piffkin said there was to be a pair of ladies.”

* * *

D
AISY
LOOKED
INTO
the mirror, and wondered who was looking back at her. Then, losing interest, she closed her eyes and let her chin fall forward onto her chest.

Something was wrong. What was wrong?

She remembered being so very sick, vomiting again and again into a basin someone held for her. She remembered that, and the pain that had threatened to blow off the top of her head. The single time she’d attempted to look at her surroundings, she’d nearly screamed when light as bright as the sun poked knives into her eyes.

Someone had given her something to drink, something sweet and cloying. The pain began to ease almost immediately, and her body seemed to float. She didn’t open her eyes now only because it was simply too much effort. She’d rather float.

Hands had touched her, arms had lifted her, eased her down in a warm tub.
Ahhh.
Wonderful.
She remembered that. She’d allowed her head to loll on her shoulders as she was soaped, and rinsed, and lifted once more, only to be wrapped in warm toweling and laid on a cool, smooth pallet.

Yes, she’d been sick. And Mama had given her a bath and put her back to bed.
I miss you, Mama....

And still, she’d floated. A smile curved her lips as something warm was poured on her stomach and hands began smoothing the liquid all over her. From her shoulders to the toes of her feet, she was being warmed by the liquid, the many hands.

Daisy’s eyes had flown open and she attempted to push herself up, but then someone said
Give her more
and she tasted the cloying muskiness on her tongue again and her sudden panic had melted away. She had melted away, floated away, disappeared in a lovely
poof.

Yes, she remembered. But wasn’t there more? Wasn’t there still something she’d forgotten?

Somebody took hold of her shoulders, shook her.

“I told you—look at yourself!”

“No,” Daisy said, her voice slurring. “Not me. Want to sleep...”

The slap, both the sound of it and the pain it caused, nearly toppled Daisy from the chair, but someone roughly steadied her. “Open your eyes! Look at yourself!”

It’s easier to obey.

Daisy worked to open her eyes, raising her eyebrows several times before her eyelids would cooperate...and there was a stranger in the mirror again.

This time the stranger was a doll. A porcelain-headed doll, with wild copper curls, eyes as black as midnight, cheeks and mouth red with paint. It had been clothed all in flowing white veils somehow held together between its breasts with a garish golden brooch in the form of a rose in full bloom. A diamond winked at its very center.

A rose
.
There was something about a rose...no, not a rose. Rose.

“How much did you fools give her? She should be awake by now,” the same voice said: a woman’s voice, and exceedingly angry. “I want her awake, aware, when he sees her, when we give him his marching orders. See to it. Have her downstairs in one hour.”

There were mumbles, coming from somewhere behind Daisy. She paid them no attention. She was remembering now.
Lady Caroline. Rose. Valentine.
She drew in a short, sharp breath, all the haziness gone in an instant.
Valentine. She had to get to him. He was waiting for her.