“
Quid pro quo.
This for that. An even exchange, although I highly suspect the latter isn’t true in this case.” Perceval’s neck turned rather red above his collar. “Very well, although this has nothing to do with you.”
“On the contrary. Redgrave Manor is located quite near the coast, if you’ll recall, and a prime spot from which to launch an invasion. If we’re to have uninvited visitors from across the Channel, we should be laying in large quantities of truffles and snails.” Valentine smiled his most mischievous smile. “Lord knows we already have enough French brandy.”
“How amusing. But very well, if you’ll promise to go away.”
“Reluctantly,” Valentine lied smoothly. “But, yes, I will go, never to darken your door again. Or would that be window?”
“Again, how amusing,” Perceval said blandly. “The additional towers are merely a precaution. A spy was discovered some months ago, thanks to a loyal subject of the Crown. Although he escaped capture, a discreet search of the man’s abandoned rooms disclosed, among other things, a communiqué written in code, detailing new plans for an invasion.”
Valentine’s mind was racing, even as he leisurely plucked an imaginary bit of lint from his coat sleeve. “My, my. And oh, dear, as well. Such disturbing news, although if memory serves me, Bonaparte has been setting his eyes eastward of late, with his presumed eventual target being Russia. Does he even have the ships and troops to attack us here?” He looked at the prime minister quizzically. “Hmm, and here’s a thought. Easily deciphered, this conveniently discovered communiqué, would you say?” Val asked quietly.
“I’ll have you know the government employs only the most talented...” Perceval sighed. “Yes, easily deciphered. I’ll admit that worried me, but not enough to disregard the information.”
“You had no choice but to react prudently.” Valentine kept his expression blank. It wouldn’t do to embarrass the prime minister by telling him, if the Redgraves were correct in their conclusions as to the reason behind the renewed construction, he and the Crown had been badly hoodwinked. So he contented himself by asking his intended question, the one that had brought him here this evening: “Who warned the government of this suspected spy? Do you know?”
Perceval was rubbing at his cheek, hard, as if to ease some pain in his now tightly clenched jaw. “Yes, not that it helps. I personally received the information via a letter penned to me by one of the king’s coterie of chums, one Guy Bedworth, Marquis of—”
“Mellis,” Valentine finished for him, knowing another hope had been dashed; he would learn nothing from the marquis. “The
late
Marquis of Mellis. Also, if I recall correctly, a great chum of my father’s.”
And known by us to have been a member of the Society during Barry’s time...and perhaps again now, or at least until his death.
“Sudden, was it?”
“Sad, that. Although perhaps fitting. He was found slumped in his favorite chair in his favorite club, you know. There aren’t many better ways to go.”
There’s one,
Valentine thought, prudently lowering his eyes,
that of being carefully dressed and placed in his favorite chair in his favorite club after expending his last energies in the bed of one Dowager Countess of Saltwood—Trixie Redgrave, mine own grandmother. To hear Gideon tell it—which he’d done only with the most reluctance—the worst, other than pulling Mellis’s drawers on, had been attempting to rid the man’s face of an unholy grin.
“He was also a bosom friend of my grandmother,” Valentine managed at last.
Literally.
“A pity then. We’ll learn nothing from him.”
Only what Trixie learned concerning the Society before old Guy cocked up his toes (among other things), and
that,
Prime Minister, is included in Column Two: things you will never know.
“Are we through here?” Perceval got to his feet, indicating he clearly thought so, and since this was, at least for the length of his term of office, his home, Valentine rose, as well. “Please convey the Crown’s sincere thanks for all your family has done, most especially for thwarting that nasty business of shipping troop supplies to the incorrect ports. Although, when it comes to the smuggling of spies and secrets, I suppose this clever group will only find themselves another landing beach, won’t they? These are serious, frightening times, Mr. Redgrave.”
“Downright terrifying, some might say. I realize I’m being given the boot, but are you at the same time dismissing
all
the
Redgraves?”
“How astute of you. Yes, I am. I won’t say the earl hasn’t been helpful, and will not say he has his own personal interests in mind as well as those of the Crown—”
“Ah, but you just said both.”
Perceval motioned toward the hallway. “Let it go, Mr. Redgrave. This business about the
Society,
as you insist on terming this particular gang of traitorous thugs, is of no especial import to anyone save your family. We are interested in much larger game now, that of thwarting Bonaparte.”
“And you see no connection between the two, even after being told about the smugglers on Redgrave land. Amazing.”
“You’re wrong again. I don’t
care
about the connection. There’s a difference. Of course these men must be found, and stopped, stamped out, along with any other pockets of traitors, and unfortunately, there are several.” The prime minister was beginning to look testy, not a good look on the man. “You’ve admitted you learned no more names, and in fact, by confronting the men on the beach yourselves rather than contacting me, you may have sent them all to ground, which is the very
opposite
of helpful, Mr. Redgrave. Do you understand now?”
“Yes, I was afraid you might come to that conclusion.” Valentine retrieved his hat, gloves and cane from a dark corner of the study. “So, in other words, thank you awfully for bringing the sticky matter of a group of powerful men out to hand England over to the French to you on a platter, but now please go away?”
“Or else find yourselves brought to task for interfering in Crown business? Very good, Redgrave, that’s precisely what I’m saying. Kindly convey my like sentiments to Lord Singleton. We will take matters from here.”
“Having made such whacking great progress in unmasking these traitors on your own.” Valentine placed his hat on his head at a jaunty angle and then gave it a solid
thump
to secure it. He knew he really should shut up now, before he truly was clapped in irons. He’d gotten what he’d come for: the information about the Martello Towers, and his
congé,
which freed all Redgraves from being in the sticky position of having to report to the Crown (or conduct themselves within the rules, which often got in the way of progress).
But, at the end of the day, no Redgrave wished to hear he’d been
dismissed.
It was a matter of pride, or something.
Perceval stepped back as a clearly confused uniformed guard opened the door for the exit of a man he hadn’t seen enter. Valentine gave him a short salute.
The prime minister followed him, to stand in the open doorway as Valentine hesitated on the marble step, to pull on his evening gloves. “You’re not going to leave this alone, you Redgraves, are you?”
Valentine debated between truth and evasion, deciding it wouldn’t be polite to lie to the prime minister directly after insulting him. “My apologies again to your lady wife for having disturbed you.”
“Just go, Redgrave,” Perceval said wearily.
“Yes, within the moment. Only one thing more. Only a trifling thing, but I must ask. The guns on the Martello Towers, my lord, they’re bolted into place, correct—strong, immovable? Which way do they face?”
“Now you’re wasting my time. You know which way they face. They face the enemy.”
“A sterling defense, although not a great help if attack were to come from inland. They’re rather defenseless in that situation.”
“That wouldn’t happen. The towers were built, are being built, to prevent the enemy from ever landing on our shores, let alone moving inland.”
Valentine leaned in closer, and spoke quietly. “Unless the enemy, helped by, oh, say a band of highly placed traitors calling themselves the
Society,
found a way to slowly bring over and hide trained troops to capture the towers, including those you’ve so conveniently recommenced building. More than one hundred of them, marching along the southern coast. Imagine that, my lord, if you can. Then the enemy those guns would face would be
our
Royal Navy, as we attempt to stop an invading army brought to our shores under the protection of those same guns.”
“That’s not how wars are fought.”
“The gentlemanly rules of warfare only work if both sides agree to them. Or have you never read of the Trojan horse?”
He then smiled, satisfied his parting shot had given the prime minister a lot to think about, bowed and quit No. 10 for the damp of a foggy London evening.
He walked to the corner and the Redgrave town coach that had been awaiting his arrival. A groom hastened to open the door and let down the step, and was therefore able to then carry the whispered direction of Valentine’s next destination up to the coachie on the box. With any luck, he should find his quarry in the card room. Lord Charles Mailer, a man whose acquaintance he’d been carefully nurturing for the past fortnight.
Because no Redgrave worth his salt was ever caught without an alternate plan.
CHAPTER TWO
A
FTER
A
FORTNIGHT
spent carefully cultivating the man’s interest and friendship, Valentine had come to the conclusion Lord Charles Mailer—crude, mean and profane—was an idiot, but he wasn’t stupid.
Although that description of the man seemed to contradict itself, Valentine meant it. If he could suspend a sign above Mailer’s head, to remind him of his conclusions, it would read:
He’s a Buffoon, But Tread Carefully!
In physical appearance, Lord Mailer was...unimpressive. At least when held to Valentine’s high standards. The man dressed importantly, impeccably, but without flair, sans any real style. When it came to fashion, he followed the crowd, and if the crowd arbitrarily decided to suddenly begin rolling up its cravats and tying them about its foreheads, Lord Charles Mailer would be trotting through Mayfair resembling nothing more than a rather puffy, pale-faced, red-haired American Indian.
This second son of the Earl of Vyrnwy, and carrying one of that powerful man’s merely honorary titles, Mailer had until recently volunteered his services at the Admiralty, until leaving town quite suddenly after his friend Archie Upton had stepped (been pushed?) under the wheels of a brewery wagon. But Mailer couldn’t seem to stay away from Mayfair. He’d returned only a single day after Valentine had arrived in the metropolis, planning to visit with his grandmother before moving on from there to chase his target down on his small estate. But Trixie was not in London. Mailer was.
Valentine considered all of this to be serendipity, or perhaps even a heavenly blessing on his plan. The seeming duet of coincidences might also be traced back to the devil, he supposed, which was why it was never a good idea to dig too deeply into such things. Trixie would only have
deviled
him with questions about Mailer, anyway, since it was she who had discovered his and Upton’s association with the Society.
Simon Ravenbill had earlier attempted to break down Upton and Mailer in order to gain more insight into the Society, but Valentine believed Simon had been too heavy-handed in his pursuit. Valentine...well, he rather prided himself on his finesse. He wouldn’t say he had Mailer landed in the boat quite yet, but he had fairly well seated the hook in the man’s mouth. It was simply a matter of playing his fish now—feeding him line, then reeling him in again, all while inwardly despising him, another of Valentine’s talents.
Really, he should consider a whirl or two on the stage, except Gideon would most certainly not approve, and Trixie would embarrass him by shouting “Bravo!” over and over and perhaps even personally driving a wagonload of roses onto the stage.
But back to Valentine’s new chum.
Lord Mailer believed himself a wit, and, remembering his crude and mean nature, his humor often took the form of ridiculing his fellow man. His mind seemed never to stray far from sex—when he’d last had it, how much he longed for it, when he would next have it—and he delighted in publicly recalling his most memorable encounters.
Lord Mailer had arrived in town with his shy, blonde and unfortunately sallow-complexioned bride of less than a year—his second, as the first had perished in a sad accident involving a fall from a cliff (highly suspicious, that, to a man like Valentine), leaving behind two motherless children. He alternately ignored or teased Lady Caroline unmercifully, so that she kept her head down in public, seldom spoke above a whisper and rarely lifted her eyelids above half-mast.
As Valentine had led the woman into the dance at Lady Wexford’s ball the previous Saturday, Lady Caro had physically flinched when he’d taken her elbow, and then hastily explained she’d stumbled on the stairs that morning, and bruised her arm.
The woman couldn’t lie worth a damn, and Valentine, with his well-known weakness for ladies in distress, now had another reason to enjoy bringing Mailer down. But at least until the fact the man drew breath was no longer of importance to him, Charles Mailer would not know any of this.
Then he would.
Valentine looked forward to that day.
“You’re smiling beneath that hat, aren’t you, and not asleep at all,” the man who should by rights be measuring every breath commented as the well-sprung Vyrnwy coach smoothly rolled along through the countryside. “Good. Saves me the bother of having to elbow you awake. We’re nearly at Fernwood.”
Valentine eased himself upward out of his comfortable slouch, his booted feet no longer deposited on the facing seat, and tipped up the brim of his dove-gray curly brimmed beaver. He raked a hand through his nearly black, thick and overlong hair, which then tumbled in soft waves about his forehead and ears, the result a good rendering of a handsome, perfectly dressed and endearing ragamuffin. A look he knew suited him. “You said something, Charles? Good God, don’t tell me I was snoring. I’d never again be able to stay the night in any ladybird’s bed, if I knew that.”
“Is that where you went last night, after you left me at Lady Wexford’s? To rut? Who was she? Titled slut, paid whore? Either way, the older ones are always more grateful, ain’t they, if you take my meaning.”
“A gentleman never tells,” Valentine responded evasively as he slid a slim silver box of pastilles from his waistcoat pocket, flicked it open with one hand and popped a scented tablet into his mouth. “Here, for God’s sake take one. It will be an improvement over the sausages you swallowed down when we stopped for luncheon.”
Mailer glared at the contents for a moment, probably considering whether or not he’d just been insulted, and then fished out two pastilles for himself; the fellow was a glutton even in the smallest things. “You want me to tell you first, is that it?” he asked, clearly not letting the subject drop. “Very well. I had to content myself with my own wife, curse the luck. I’d do no worse sticking my cock through a knothole. That would be a
large
knothole.”
“As you say. Please don’t be too disappointed if I’ll not tease you for a personal inspection,” Valentine said, longing to choke the man.
“Yes, so I say, blast you. Stiff as a board, that woman.”
The silver lid snapped shut. “Then why bother?”
“You’re not leg-shackled, so you wouldn’t know. Got to keep them in line, that’s why. Because they’re women. They’ll do the damndest things if you ever slacken your hold on the leash.”
Like be so desperate as to step off a cliff to be away from you? Or perhaps she tugged too much on the leash and had to be pushed, and that’s why, for wife number two, you chose such a timid mouse?
Valentine yawned behind his hand, having grown tired of his role of avid satyr, but sure it was time to trot it out for yet another airing.
“This is why I’m so grateful for our friendship, Charles, and for this invitation to visit your estate. All this wisdom you shower on me. Although, not to insult Lady Caro, if you don’t mind I think I’ll choose my own wife if that day ever dawns. Which I highly doubt. I’ve no need of an heir, for one, and much as I enjoy indulging myself in their anatomy, as a species I find females to be uniformly loathsome and inferior.”
“Enjoy their anatomy. Ha! If you ain’t a card, Redgrave. Believe me, you’ll have plenty to choose from, just as I promised. I knew I liked you, from that first night, even if you took Madame La Rue’s three best dollys up with you, and kept them busy for, what was it—three hours? I heard none of them were fit for service for days afterward.”
“Rumor only, Charles. Only two weren’t fit for service. The third damn near killed me with enthusiasm.”
Gad, this is nauseating, especially since the man’s breeches are showing a decided bulge.
In truth, Valentine had treated the three ladies of the evening to several hands of whist and a supper he’d ordered up from the kitchens, and then paid the madam generously so that she’d keep the ladies out of service for a few days, claiming they were
too worn for work.
Two had napped on the bed until he’d left, but the third had offered herself, an invitation Valentine had turned down as gently as possible, his dedication to Crown and family not extending to a possible bout of the pox.
“As for the other, no insult taken,” Mailer said with a dismissing wave of his hand. The one with a gold ring on the index finger, fashioned in the shape of a fully opened rose.
Valentine couldn’t resist; he would let out a little more line, even while setting the hook deeper. “You know, Charles, I’ve been longing to ask. Barry, my late father, had just such a rose depicted in his portrait at the Long Gallery at Redgrave Manor, only his was in the form of a stickpin. Although the diamond may have been larger.”
“You don’t say?” Mailer held up his hand to inspect the ring, fingers spread, frowning at the diamond at its center. His hand trembled slightly, and he quickly lowered it again. “Gift from my maternal grandfather, actually. M’brother Geoffrey wanted nothing to do with it, said it was gaudy.”
“I think it exquisite. A bit of a stick, your brother, I suppose?”
“Too holy by half, yes. And dotty over his wife and kiddies, just like some commoner. M’father, too, for that matter. But Grandfather said I had just the right twinkle in my eye, and should get the rose and all once he’d stuck his spoon in the wall.”
And all? What was
all?
Could the fool be referring to the costume the Society members wore for their disgusting rites? One like Simon found with his late brother’s belongings? Yes, yes, the plot thickens.
Mailer’s pale eyes narrowed, but when he spoke again his tone was light.
Not intelligent, but clever.
“I don’t often wear the ring, actually, but only resurrected it to remind myself to be more careful in my pleasures.”
“And doesn’t
that
sound intriguing. You must tell me about this happy lapse. Perhaps I wish to make the same mistake.”
“I didn’t say it was a mistake, other than in shortening my pleasure.” Mailer smiled as he attempted to remove the ring, but it was stuck tight around his pudgy finger. “Who’s got old Barry’s, do you know? Seems to me I heard the earl himself was seen sporting a rose stickpin for a day or two.”
“Really?”
Damn. Gideon only wore the thing to draw out the Society, and only a few times before prudently putting it away again once he understood its true meaning.
“As Earl, the bugger inherited a near Midas treasury of geegaws and such. And we all know how vain he is, blast him. I doubt he wears the same stickpin twice in a decade. All while keeping me on a budget that would starve a mouse.”
“Older brothers can be the very devil,” Mailer agreed, dropping the subject in favor of pointing out the coach was about to arrive at his estate. “Ah, and would you look at that. There’s my planklike wife, arrived ahead of us as ordered, and the two whelps, all at attention, awaiting their lord and master. That’s all well and good, but there’d best be ice from the icehouse on the drinks table, or heads will roll.”
Valentine looked out the off window of the coach to see Lady Caro and two young children standing at attention on the drive directly in front of the doors to the place, a double row of servants behind them, lining the steps on either side. Ran a tight ship, Lord Mailer did, and didn’t everyone look so happy to see him? They all (save a pair of yapping dogs, who probably greeted everyone with near-insane anticipation) could have been facing a full firing squad for all the joy in anyone’s eyes.
How wonderful he’d thought to position a plain coach at the inn they’d last passed along the roadway; he’d seen his coachman, Twitchill, lounging on a bench just outside the inn door. The man had put a finger to his slouch hat as the Mailer coach rolled past. Valentine considered it prudent to never enter into anyone’s front door without knowing a quick way out the back, as it were. Having to rely on Lord Charles for return transport to London held no appeal.
His gaze slid lastly to the tall, slender, plainly dressed, rather round-shouldered young woman who stood off to the right, darkly scowling behind her spectacles while doing her best to control the two small white dogs on their leashes. He may not have seen her at all, were it not for the yapping dogs, and the way a thin, watery sun seemed to find and catch at streaks of gold in her darkly red hair. Hair she had scraped back tightly into a bun thicker than his fist.
Was he the only one who noticed she seemed to be in costume? Damn Perceval for an interring nuisance, clearly sending a watchdog to spy on him. And to prefer some barque of frailty over
him?
Or was she only in disguise thanks to his reputation, so that he wouldn’t pursue her? Insulting, that’s what that was, either way.
“Lovely family, Charles, and clearly a well-schooled staff,” he said, leaning back against the squabs once more. “But who’s the drab?”
Mailer poked his head front and peered out as the coach door was opened and the steps pulled down, then laughed. “Ah, the redoubtable Miss Marchant. A piece of work, that one, but she seems able to control m’wife and the brats. Pity she’s plain as a pikestaff and nearly as skinny. Can’t abide a woman without tits. Tits and hips, and the more the better, right? A man deserves something soft to land in, I say.”
And as he’d said all of this, Mailer was stepping onto the gravel, his words clearly heard by everyone. Miss Marchant, his children, his staff and, most certainly, his painfully thin little wife. The dogs, whose yapping might have been helpful, had instantly quieted and were even now lying hunched on their fat bellies, as if hoping to disappear into the ground.
“My lord,” Lady Caroline said, dropping into a curtsy, tugging at the female child’s skirts so that she did, as well, while the boy bowed to his father. “Mr. Redgrave. Welcome.” She then turned to the governess. “Daisy? If you’ll return them to the nursery, please?”
Half dragging the reluctant dogs, the woman shuffled over to the small gathering and gave a quick, eyes-averted curtsy to the gentlemen before bringing the children to heel with a discreet clearing of her throat.
“Daisy, is it?” Valentine drawled, leaning his head slightly forward to attempt to discern the color of her downcast eyes. “That won’t be difficult to remember. My sister’s mare is named Daisy. Oddly enough, she’s also a chestnut. Do you
ride
well, Daisy Marchant?”