Mailer gave a snort of laughter and pounded Valentine on the back in glee, nearly sending him reeling, even as the governess raised her eyes for a moment, a split second, no more, to glare daggers at them both.
Ah. Blue. Huge, and blue, and intelligent...and you’d enjoy nothing more than turning my guts into garters. Miss Daisy Marchant, you’ve done it now...and we will meet again.
* * *
“I
CAN
ONLY
apologize again, Daisy,” Lady Caro said miserably as she sat in front of her dressing table, bony shoulders slumped and eyes threatening to spill over with tears yet again. “His lordship never thinks to mind his tongue.”
Daisy pulled the pair of silver-backed brushes through her ladyship’s long blond hair. She’d been summoned to minister to her mistress, not an uncommon demand. Seven-year-old Lydia and three-year-old William had been tucked up after their porridge and left in charge of the nurse an hour earlier, and now it was time for the mistress of the household to go downstairs to play hostess again for her guest once the men left their brandy and cigars behind them in the dining room.
If Daisy could only get the woman to move. Lord knew she couldn’t seem to get her to eat this past month. And when she did force down a few bites, as when taking her meals with guests, she more often than not, like tonight, then ran upstairs to vomit into her chamber pot.
She’d believed the woman ill, or increasing, but after overhearing Lord Mailer this afternoon, she was now nursing another theory. The woman had begun starving herself in order to avoid her husband’s attentions. In Lady Caro’s place, she knew she might have done the same thing...although she felt fairly certain she’d be more inclined to bounce a brick off his flaming red head. Perhaps she should suggest...?
But not now. First Daisy had a few questions she’d like answered before hopefully convincing her to return to the drawing room. “And Mr. Redgrave? I suppose we can say the same about him for his remarks?”
Lady Caroline looked into the mirror at Daisy’s reflection. “I don’t know. That was all so confusing to me. He was ever so kind to me in London. Perhaps it was only because you’re a servant, although that shouldn’t make a difference, should it? Not if he’s a real gentleman.”
“Perhaps that’s the answer. He’s no real gentleman.”
“Although quite well set up, don’t you think? And clean.” The woman put her hands to her pale cheeks. “Oh, dear, I shouldn’t have said that. Because I’m not in the least interested, of course. Still, if one has to, at least he’s...” Her voice trailed off on a sigh.
Daisy let Lady Caroline’s mind go off on whatever tangent she wished, giving herself permission to reflect (not for the first time), on the physical attributes of Mr. Valentine Redgrave.
She wondered first at his age, as she was all of two and twenty, not that such a fact would ever come into play, seeing as how he’d just hours earlier compared her to a horse, and then added that unspeakable innuendo about
riding.
Still, she thought he was probably no more than a few years her senior, as time had yet to carve a single line in his definitely handsome face.
His hair was a marvel, in such complete opposite to his finely cut clothes that seemed to caress his slimly muscular body, showing off his straight shoulders and strong thighs. From the neck down, he was the compleat gentleman, the pride of his tailor, but from the cravat up? That amused slash of mouth, that faintly foreign aquiline nose, that thick riot of nearly black hair that blew about his face? He appeared a paradox, his perfect features softening, making him look younger than his years. Approachable. Touchable...
But it was his eyes that had intrigued her most. They were not simply brown, but amber, long-lashed and—had it been her imagination?—sympathetic. She could actually imagine his eyes apologizing for the humiliating words coming from his mouth.
But that was ridiculous. He had come to Fernwood in Charles Mailer’s company, hadn’t he? That was really all Daisy needed to know.
“I’m feeling better now, thank you, Daisy. I suppose you can stop now.”
Daisy shook herself back to attention. How long had she been brushing the woman’s hair to help ease her headache? Long enough to feel a cramp between her purposely stooped shoulder blades. “Very good, madam. Shall I call Davinia now to put up your hair once more?”
Lady Caroline’s sigh was audible, almost trembling: nearly a shudder. “Yes, I can put this off no longer, although it’s just Mr. Redgrave this evening. Tomorrow there will be others and it will only grow worse. Charles hasn’t even told me any names. Which could be more terrible, do you think? Knowing, or not knowing? Oh, now I’m saying too much. Perhaps some few drops of laudanum sprinkled on my handkerchief...?”
Daisy patted the woman’s shoulder, wishing there were some way she could protect her. But there wasn’t. Not yet. “And have you falling asleep, your nose in your teacup? Wouldn’t that be a silly thing? You’ll be fine, I promise you. Do you remember what I told you?”
Caroline nodded. “Speak only of the weather and my stepchildren and everyone will go away, believing me a dead bore. Which I am, you know. I don’t understand the half of what anyone says, and seem to laugh at all the incorrect times. They make me
so
nervous. They’re all so hard, so brittle.”
And they show up every full moon, just like some mythical beasts risen from the depths, claws and fangs out and ready to pounce. Ah, Rose, how frightened you must have been when you realized your fate. But this time, sweet sister, this full moon, perhaps I’ll be able to learn more....
“Daisy? Daisy, you’re hurting me.”
Daisy quickly removed her hand from Caro’s shoulder, unaware she’d begun digging her fingertips into the woman’s soft flesh. But she felt so useless. She hadn’t been able to help her sister. She couldn’t help this woman. Not yet. Not until she fully understood what was happening. Because there was more happening than she’d first been forced to believe.
“Forgive me, ma’am. My mind must have gone off wandering.”
“And clearly not to a pleasant place,” Lady Caroline said, rubbing at her thin shoulder. “I’m sorry if I upset you. I’m much better now, I promise. Yes, decidedly better. It must be my monthly flux that has me so upset.”
Such intimate talk never made Daisy comfortable, especially Lady Caroline’s seeming obsession with her monthly flux. “Is it so very painful?”
“Only in that it has not yet arrived,” Lady Caroline said as Daisy lifted a small silver bell and rang for Davinia, who was doubtless already listening at the keyhole.
Daisy didn’t care for Davinia, a sour-faced old woman who may be her ladyship’s maid, but clearly knew her quarterly wages emanated from his lordship’s purse.
“She tells him, you know,” Caroline whispered quickly, as if able to read Daisy’s thoughts. “I can’t lie, because she tells him.
Shh,
here she comes. You go back up to the nursery now, Daisy, and don’t bother to think you need must be here when I return.” She raised her voice slightly. “Davinia takes very good care of me—don’t you, Davinia?”
The older woman said nothing, but merely waved Daisy away and began twisting Caroline’s hair back into its original topknot, ready to be strung through with paste pearls.
Daisy curtsied, wished her mistress a good evening and gratefully escaped the dressing room, stepping into the hallway without first checking to see if it was empty, and rolled her shoulders a time or two to relax them as she straightened her posture. Not a mistake she would have made if her mind weren’t so otherwise occupied.
“Well, hello there, Daisy. And where would you be rushing off to?”
Redgrave.
She dropped into a quick, shoulders-front curtsy, keeping her eyes down. “I’m needed in the nursery, sir,” she mumbled quietly as she rose once more.
“To teach them sums while they sleep, I suppose. But only after leaving her ladyship. Got your fingers in more than one pie, do you? Clever.”
Daisy nearly raised her head, but managed to remain quite still in her subservient pose. “I’m confident you know what you mean, sir, but I do not. If you’ll excuse me...?”
He stepped in front of her. “Curiosity compels the question. So, what is it? Impecunious orphaned child of some village vicar? Well-schooled but penniless daughter of a teacher? Or perhaps neither of those, but something more? The possibilities are nearly endless. Your mother married beneath her, your father was disowned,
you
were disowned, naughty puss? Please, must I go on?”
He wasn’t the sort to give up easily. His smile told her that; he wasn’t going to let her pass until she answered his question. If she moved to her left, he would move to his right; if she moved to her right, he would step to his left. The last thing she wished was to be caught up in some awkward dance of moves and countermoves, one he seemed eager to engage in with her.
“Impoverished daughter of the late Reverend James Marchant, Hampshire,” she said, raising her chin. “He also taught Latin to the village boys, if that doesn’t confuse the issue. In any case,
fere libenter homines id quod volunt credunt.
”
“‘Men willingly believe what they wish.’ Julius Caesar. So you’re a bluestocking, as well. No wonder he steers clear. Very well, you may go.”
Mailer; he meant Lord Mailer. Daisy, not about to pretend she didn’t understand who
he
was, was instead about to point out that Mr. Redgrave did not have charge of either her comings or her goings. She quickly thought better of it. The man was already too interested by half, not that she could understand why.
None of Mailer’s other
guests
these past months had ever paid her the least attention.
“Thank you, sir,” she said, curtsying yet again, hoping there was no sarcastic edge to her voice.
But as she moved to make good her exit he grabbed at her elbow, eased closer. She looked up into his odd amber eyes, and nearly flinched. She could see flecks of gold in them, and the intelligence, the humor. “You’re more than welcome, Daisy. It’s too late now, but in hindsight, considering the man doesn’t have a discerning hair on his solid-as-a-plank head, do you ever think those hideous spectacles may have taken the thing a step too far?”
Really? She’d been rather proud of the spectacles. Plain glass, but thick as windowpanes, so that anyone would think she was half-blind. She’d been wonderfully overlooked for three months, by everyone. But not, drat him, Mr. Valentine Redgrave. He couldn’t have shocked her more if he’d suddenly grown horns. Her stomach plummeted to her toes. Her blood ran cold, sending tiny pinpoint prickles to dancing on her skin. She wondered if she might faint.
“Forgive me, Mr. Redgrave. I have no idea what you mean by—”
He released her arm. “No, of course you don’t. I won’t even ask whom you work for, because I’d like to cherish the notion that even those hare-brained idiots in Downing Street wouldn’t insert anyone so obvious. Just remember this if you will, as I certainly make it a point to do so. Appearances are often deceiving.”
Whom did she work for? Goodness, whom did
he
work for? What on earth was he talking about?
Still, she took a chance. Perhaps it was the eyes...or that she was as foolish and gullible as her sister. Or that she so needed an ally that, like some drowning sailor, she would reach desperately for any floating straw. Because lately she’d been feeling as if she’d stumbled into something very much over her head, and if Redgrave had shown up here for some reason of his own, well, maybe he knew what was going on. “And behavior can be deceiving, as well, Mr. Redgrave?”
“Good girl. I loathe long explanations, but if my instincts are correct—and they very nearly always are—one may be needed here, from each of us. Where can we meet tomorrow?”
Meet?
Daisy hadn’t expected that. Then again, she didn’t seem to expect anything that came out of the man’s mouth. “We...um. I insist Lydia and William be out-of-doors at least three hours a day, one directly after breaking their fast, and another two after luncheon. Dependent on the weather, naturally.”
“Naturally. Wouldn’t want the little dears to catch a chill. Then we’ll be well chaperoned, if that worries you,” Valentine said, nodding his approval. “Very well, I’ll be certain to be on my best behavior so as to not shock the kiddies. Until then, Daisy, I suggest you don’t attempt anything foolish, such as searching my rooms. You might startle Piffkin.”
She blinked. “You brought your dog here?”
When Valentine Redgrave smiled in real amusement, it was as if the sun had just come out, to burn away any remnants of a cloudy day. Daisy could fairly fancy she felt its warmth, and had to fight a ridiculous urge to bring herself closer to the intoxicating heat. She’d been forced to depend on her wits on her own for so long...had she actually come to hope for help in any port?
“My valet, Daisy, although I see your point. But, contrary to what his name might imply, unlike Mailer’s pitiful specimens, he doesn’t bark. He bites.” He glanced toward the door to Lady Caro’s dressing room, as if he’d heard something. “And now I must go, and so must you.”
“But we don’t even... That is, I don’t see why we should— Oh, hang it,” she ended to his departing back as he headed for the main staircase.
What had just happened?
But she knew what had just happened.
A pair of soft amber eyes had just happened. A warm smile. That thick mane of hair her fingers itched to touch.
Was Valentine Redgrave a badly needed ally, or an exceedingly clever foe?
Or was he simply the most beautiful man she’d ever seen up close? Perhaps she was just as gullible and needy and soon to be disillusioned as poor, doomed Rose.
CHAPTER THREE
“J
UST
THE
TWO
of us for breakfast, Charles?” Valentine asked as he was ushered into the morning room by one of the footmen. “How cozy.”
His lordship looked up from his plate of coddled eggs, a bit of yolk clinging to his chin. “You were observed speaking with Miss Marchant yesterday evening,” he said without preamble. “Why? Making some late-night assignation after all you said to the contrary?”
So he’d been correct; that door had opened a crack.
Hmm. Take umbrage? Look puzzled? What to do, what to do? Valentine knew he needed a reaction, quickly.
He spoke while making his way along the sideboard, loading his plate with a steady hand, his back to Mailer.
“Daisy? Although she’d be more fittingly named after some noxious, prickly weed,” he said, having decided on a course of action. He would—for the moment—ignore the fact that Mailer’s servants reported to him, and concentrate on keeping Daisy’s secret safe. “I fear my gentlemanly conscience belatedly got the better of me. When I chanced to see the sad creature slumping down the hall on my way downstairs, I felt bound by good manners to apologize for my earlier remarks. Lord knows she’s got enough
problems
on her own, without me adding to them. One can only hope the poor woman doesn’t now decide to take me in affection, for that would only lead to sorry disappointment. She couldn’t raise my
interest
were she to fling her naked self at my feet.”
Adding a single slice of buttered toast to his plate, he turned about to face his host, his eyelids narrowed. “Now if you’d care to explain
why
my movements are being watched, I’d own to being quite curious to hear your answer.”
Perfect. Admit to something—mea culpa, mea culpa—and then quickly turn the tables so that the other person is cast into the role of wrongdoer. Kate’s advice did come in handy from time to time. Look at Mailer—the wind seems to have entirely gone out of his sails.
“I—I only thought to ask if she’d bothered you in any way,” Mailer said, not precisely a master of improvisation. “My wife took her on a few months ago while I was not at home. She’s no thief, I tempted her by leaving my ring on the hallway table...”
Valentine sat himself down and flourished his serviette before placing it on his lap. “That ring? Perhaps it simply wasn’t to her taste.”
Mailer held out his hand, the diamond at the center of the golden rose catching the sunlight. “There’s nothing wrong with this—you don’t think it isn’t
masculine
enough, do you? I mean, a rose?”
I could skewer that damn ring through his nose and lead him around by it, no question. A true follower, nothing remotely resembling a leader. A man we need, but not the man we seek.
“Nonsense, Charles, I’ve already told you it’s a fine ring.” Then, unable to resist, he added with an indulgent smile, “If you favor that sort of thing.”
Mailer twisted the
thing
around his finger, and this time slipped it off and into his pocket. “The thing is, I believe Miss Marchant may be
smart.
” He said the word as if this were somehow vile, to be avoided at all costs.
Valentine coughed into his hand, to cover a grin. “Really? I would have thought that preferable in a governess, perhaps even mandatory.”
“They’re just nursery brats, what do they need of a governess? Companion is more like it, that’s what she is. I don’t like it. I didn’t mind, not at first. But she makes my skin crawl somehow. I catch her looking at me, and I—”
“Look back?” Valentine asked as he cut into a thick slice of ham; who would have thought sparring with idiots could so increase his appetite. Then he looked up, pulling a face. “Charles, you must be jesting. Nobody could be
that
desperate. It would be like seducing a broomstick.”
“God’s teeth, no! When I have— No! She’s in the way at times, that’s all. Besides, I’ve never been partial to red hair.”
Valentine took a bite of ham while keeping his amazed gaze on Mailer. “Really?”
“I know, I know. I’ve red hair, and I loathe it. But it’s on top of my head, so at least I’m spared having to look at it.”
Valentine threw back his head and laughed. “Charles, you’re a complete card. It’s no wonder I like you so much as to bury myself here in the country,” he said, and watched as the man preened. “Now tell me again about this amazing party you dangled in front of me, as I only see the two of us here. And your lady wife, of course.”
Mailer frowned. “Yes, I know. I received a note earlier. It seems there has been a delay of some sort, and the remainder of the party won’t arrive for another few days.”
Valentine considered this dollop of news. Perhaps the rest of the
part
y
was still out hunting for their missing shipment from France? Searching for their goods, and for one Honorable Ambrose Webber, who had so foolishly put a period to his own existence rather than be captured, and who now was most probably nothing more than a skeleton lying at the bottom of the Straits of Dover, bits of him having filled the bellies of a variety of marine life.
Valentine rather hoped there wouldn’t be a fish course at dinner.
“That’s a pity, then, isn’t it? Do these tardy guests have names, or are they to be a surprise? I rather dislike surprises, Charles. You said I was in for elevated political conversation and some entertainment that indulges what even the most lenient fleshpots in Piccadilly refuse. I suppose I could deal with the loss of the former, but if you’ve been exaggerating the latter, well, then, Charles, shame on you, and I’ll be leaving.”
“No, no, you can’t leave— That is to say, you’ll miss all the fun! As to the other guests? Well, you see now, that’s the thing,” Mailer said, pushing a split, smoked herring around his plate with his fork. “It’s all true, just what I said—beyond your wildest imaginings, I promise you. But...but I explained this, didn’t I? No, I suppose I didn’t.” He looked across the table at Valentine, his expression hopeful. “I didn’t? Are you sure?”
Valentine imagined the herring shoved halfway down Mailer’s throat. Nasty, but the image helped him tamp down his temper. “No, you didn’t, and yes, I’m quite sure. Why don’t you do that now, if you’re done dissecting your kippers. I admit to being highly intrigued.”
Mailer put down his fork. “The thing is...the thing is, I’m not certain who is coming. It...
varies.
Yes, that’s the word. Varies. Variety being the...the something of life.”
“The very spice of life, the thing that gives it all its flavor. Cowper said it first, I believe.” Valentine sat back in his chair. “I see.” Then he sat front again, glaring at Mailer over the candlesticks. “No, that’s a lie. I don’t see. Are you host of this
party
or not?”
Mailer dismissed the servants with an abrupt wave of his hand, then leaned forward toward Valentine, not speaking until the door closed behind the footmen. “Look, sometimes it’s...well, the guests are known, and we meet here at Fernwood. But at other times we meet somewhere else, and the entertainment is more...anonymous.”
“Here, perhaps there—and you say you don’t
know?
Not the time, not the place? My first instincts were right, weren’t they? You’re all talk, Charles, boastful talk and wishful thinking. I should simply hire a coach and head back to town. I’ve already explained my appetites, and you assured me—”
“Oh, but I meant it, I meant every word! Anything and anyone you want, anything and anyone you desire. London’s brothels are but pale imitations of what you and I deserve, just as I told you that night after we left Madame La Rue’s and you complained yours all objected to the restraints.”
“Love knots, and not for long,” Valentine corrected, remembering with extreme distaste the
sharing
of experiences Charles had insisted upon after they’d departed the brothel. “Compliance. It’s all in the way you present the thing.”
“Yes, if you’re into begging,” Mailer said, his eyes gone flat and hard. “If it’s pleading you want to do, it can be arranged, but why beg when you can demand, hmm? Did I tell you about the time I—”
It was time to take charge of the little fish.
“Again with the boasts, and all as you continue to tell me I must be patient,” Valentine said, tossing his serviette on the table and getting to his feet; if he took one more bite he might just cast up his accounts in Mailer’s face. “Two days, Charles. I can almost enjoy being bucolic for two days, but no more. Understood?”
Mailer rose, as well. “Yes, yes, do that. Anything you wish, anything at all. The grounds are lovely, you know.”
“But your wife isn’t. I do not want to see her at table again while I’m in residence. Do you understand?”
Mailer nodded furiously. “She’s sadly indisposed as of this moment. Is there anything else you require? One of the maids? I can personally recommend—”
Valentine cut him off. “A man of my name and reputation doesn’t so lower himself as to diddle the servants.” He took a line from his grandmother’s verbal arsenal and asked, “Were you raised by wolves?”
“I—I—I say, Valentine, that wasn’t called for.”
Valentine bowed, figuratively feeding out more line. “You’re correct. Forgive me, Charles. I’m embarrassed to say my hot Spanish blood doesn’t deal well with delays. If you’ll excuse me now, I believe I should take myself off outside, perhaps to walk away my foul mood, partake of a liquid lunch at some nearby pub. We’ll speak again at the dinner table. Perhaps by then you’ll have more news on your other guests. Should we call them guests? Fellow participants, perhaps?”
“Ha-ha,” Mailer laughed nervously, and waved him on his way.
At the doorway, Valentine turned to see the man once again attacking his kippers, seemingly confident the conversation had gone well, that he’d ridden over some rough ground and traversed it all to his satisfaction.
What a total ass.
Valentine returned to his assigned bedchamber, running down Piffkin in the dressing room. The valet retrieved his master’s newly brushed hat and smoothed gloves before handing him a carved ivory-topped sword cane.
“Really, Piffkin? It’s not as if I’m to be strutting up Bond Street, now is it?” Valentine asked, refusing the hat and gloves. He did accept the cane, but only to prop it against the wall. “As for the cane, I’m taking a leisurely country stroll over my new bosom chum’s estate, not facing a Piccadilly alley alone at midnight.”
The dour-faced man of uncertain years merely shrugged and turned back to the pressing iron he was employing to smooth one of a pile of pristine neckcloths currently residing on a tabletop. Piffkin wore white cotton gloves at all times, even when pressing neckcloths or laying out towels for the master’s bath. This, more than anything, described Piffkin. The gloves, and his fatherly concern for
young Master Valentine.
“There may be bears in the woods, sir,” he said in way of explanation.
“Piffkin, there haven’t been bears on this damp island in a thousand years. All right, except those brought here from Europe for bear-baiting, a despicable excuse for sport.”
“Indeed. One or two may have escaped a cruel master, and even now lurk close by, eager to revenge themselves on any passerby so foolish as to stumble about in unfamiliar woods, unarmed.”
Piffkin turned to smile broadly at Valentine, showing a remarkable gold tooth Valentine had always admired but never dared to inquire about since he was seven, and the valet, then nursemaid, had told him he’d been given it as a reward for saving a princess in a tower. If the man didn’t want his charge to know the true story, then so be it. Valentine had secrets he wouldn’t care to share with Piffkin, either.
“Observe me as I dutifully tuck the cane beneath my arm, thankful to have such a caring friend concerned for my welfare.”
“Concerned? I simply don’t wish to have to clean up the mess in an effort to make you presentable for the dowager countess. Sewing your ears back on and such before laying you out,” Piffkin said, the gold tooth in evidence once more.
“How much does Trixie pay you over and above what I do, Piffkin? How often do you report to her? I’ve always wondered.”
“Her ladyship worries over all her chicks. Be on the lookout for those bears, Master Valentine. I do believe they are plentiful here,” the valet said, and returned to his pressing, the conversation obviously over, his charge dismissed to go bear hunting.
Valentine was fairly well pleased with himself as he made his way downstairs and was bowed out-of-doors by a small boy in preposterously gilded livery.
For one thing, he knew for certain now that coincidence had nothing to do with his new friendship with Mailer. As he had been cultivating the man, the man had been cultivating him, most probably on orders sent to him at his country estate, which had brought Mailer hieing back to Mayfair. Purposely seeking him out, being amenable, testing him as to his politics and his pleasures, hanging the bait of unlimited debauchery while Valentine pretended an avid interest in both.
That was why he could run hot and cold with Mailer, threaten to leave and be indulged, insult and be smiled at in return. Mailer was acting on orders: get the fellow here and we’ll see what we’ve got. It hadn’t hurt that, while feigning drunkenness, Valentine had babbled about collapsed tunnels at Redgrave Manor and dirty little books full of wild tales that would put the ancient Kama Sutra to the blush.
Valentine knew he wasn’t Gideon, but he was a Redgrave, probably appearing as the easiest target for the Society. How did they plan to use him? So far, he’d convinced Mailer he was a kindred spirit, both in sexual tastes and politics. He’d waxed poetic about the glorious Bonaparte over a half-dozen bottles of wine, extolling the freedom of men and the injustice of this English folly concerning titles and younger sons. Being the first to push free of the womb took no special talent, it was sheer good luck, and deserved no special rewards, Bonaparte would reward endeavor, not birth order, et cetera.
He’d been brilliant, he thought, but he wasn’t foolish enough to believe he’d got here on his own; he was here at Fernwood because the Society wanted him here.