Kasey Michaels - [Redgraves 02] (23 page)

It took only the faint light from the candelabra to tell them they’d just discovered the true meeting place of the Society. If the rooms above them were the antechamber, this was hell itself, and they were being welcomed into it by a statue depicting a woman and three men, all intermingled and unlike anything seen on the backs of Trixie’s playing cards or in the rooms above their head.

“I thought we’d find the... Is this where they—?” Kate asked, taking a step back and handing over the candelabra. Her voice was none too steady, and he doubted his would be, either.

“Go upstairs, Kate, you’ve seen enough. Please, sweetheart—go.”

She didn’t fight him. She simply turned, her complexion white as chalk, and left him there, dragging Tubby along with her, the light coming from beyond the opened panel to guide her return upstairs.

Simon held up the candelabra, the shadows cast by the candles even further distorting the look of horror and pain depicted on the female’s face. He longed for that sledgehammer Kate had considered earlier, so he could smash this monstrous tableau into bits.

He walked about the room, hunting and lighting banks of fat white candles, strangely shaped red-and-black candles, until he could see into every corner. His heart pounded, his palms had gone moist. His brain silently screamed in protest as he believed he could hear the ghosts of raucous laughter, the tearing sobs.

The chamber was enormous, probably as wide and half as deep as the dower house above it. Even the dust and cobwebs and the scurrying of small feet as mice ran for cover couldn’t mute the horror.

The statues and paintings here were anything but artful. They didn’t hint at what went on here, they screamed it out in every way. Everywhere were depictions of coupling. Men, women...costumed beasts. Every perversion played out in stone, or on canvas, and even in large tapestries hung on the ivory marble walls.

There were fainting couches, everywhere, large red velvet cushions strewn on the carpets. Silver manacles hung from the walls. A variety of whips and paddles were propped on racks beside a spanking horse, a whipping stool and even a velvet-lined set of stocks.

An ornately carved wooden machine hanging with restraints and turning cranks could be nothing less barbaric than a crude stretching rack to be found in a medieval dungeon.

Dusty and flyspecked and discolored with age, mirrors hung everywhere; above couches, on the walls, set in swivel stands.

There was a small stage off to his right, two rows of chairs placed in front of it for the audience who had sat there to watch whatever bizarre performance could be enacted in front of them.

Every vice, every perversion, every curiosity, all satisfied here.

He nearly tripped over a low stone trough, and lowered the candelabra he held, only to quickly raise it again when he realized the trough was half-filled with a thin ribbon of lamp oil. The trough was only one of several that ran snakelike around the room. When the oil was lit, the low rivers of flames would twist and turn, curling about, casting weird shadows on the walls, mirrors and participants, turning everything around him into a macabre reflection of hell.

But what drew Simon, what he could no longer avoid after inspecting cabinets filled with rotting costumes and implements he didn’t wish to put names to, was what held pride of place on a raised platform at the far end of the room, all but surrounded by thirteen pink marble phalluses, the centermost statue of the bizarre circle taller, and gold tipped. The flat-topped centerpiece they encircled had been fashioned in the form of a person; one with arms and legs spread, and complete with silver manacles. Its base was carved with skulls and devil’s heads. Tatters of what once had been red tapestry draperies hung from the ornate, mirrored ceiling.

This was it, there could be no question. He was looking at the sacrificial altar.

Thank God Kate had only been able to see a few feet into this chamber of horrors.

Behind the altar was a door, again unlocked, that led to a large sitting room lined floor to high ceiling with wooden bookcases filled with leather-bound books.

They’d found the journals.

There were chairs and ottomans and couches, tables and smoking stands; several wine racks and dusty glasses and decanters. This was a library, one fashioned for the members who might enjoy stepping inside to do a bit of pleasurable journal-reading. A library for sophisticated ghouls.

But there was no larger tome anywhere, nothing that could be considered the Society bible. They’d made progress, but what Gideon Redgrave had declared the real prize still eluded them.

Holding up the brace of candles, Simon walked the bookcases, noted the journals were organized by year, and stopped only once, to remove two volumes bearing his brother’s code name, Bird. He would respect the Redgrave privacy by not attempting to search out Barry’s journals, those of Kate’s grandfather and even those belonging to Jessica and Adam’s father, Turner Collier; the Keeper. That would be up to the Redgraves themselves, God help them.

Dead men’s names did him no good. It was the living members who concerned him, and the names to put with the codes were in the bible.

But he would protect Holbrook as much as possible. It had been a promise he’d made in front of his brother’s tomb inside the family mausoleum. Eventually, if they ever located the supposed bible, his brother’s name would be revealed there, yes, but never his private thoughts, his questionable deeds.

Tucking the journals inside his jacket, Simon turned his attention to the obvious once more: Was there a tunnel leading from this place? If so, where did it go? What lay at the end of it? The bible? Barry Redgrave’s body?

Because he would not allow Kate in here, not if she had to pass through that damnable hell to see the journals. No. There had to be another way. He took up a single candle and once again walked along the bookcases, this time watching the candle flame intently.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

B
Y
THE
TIME
Simon had climbed the stairs and reentered the drawing room, Kate had replaced the dustcovers, and was sitting curled up defensively on one of the couches, Tubby beside her as she leaned her head against his.

“Kate?”

She didn’t answer. She had nothing to say to him, to anyone.

“Kate. We probably have to lift the statuettes together.”

Sighing, she gave Tubby a kiss on his ear and unfolded her legs, reluctantly standing up and heading for the fireplace. She was fine, she was in control, she would manage...she had to manage.

“On the count of—”

“I know! Let’s just do it!” she exploded, surprised at the nearly hysterical vehemence in her voice. “Sorry,” she mumbled, lowering her head. She was a cauldron, ready to boil over, Vesuvius about to erupt. Couldn’t he see that? Didn’t he understand? Oh, God, she couldn’t allow her emotions to surface again. She had to hang on, just until she could be alone.

But Simon only calmly counted out the numbers and, together, they watched the panel slide back into place.

All gone. Hidden once more. But never to be expunged from her mind.

Simon merely stood there. Waiting. What did he want her to say?

“I...I expected a library of sorts. The journals,” she said at last, feeling herself close to the tears she’d been suppressing while Simon had been...whatever it was he’d been doing. God! How could he have stayed down there so long!

“They’re there,” he told her, taking the statuette from her hand and replacing it on the mantelpiece. “Not the bible, unfortunately, but the journals are there, dating all the way back to the beginning.”

Kate swallowed down hard, her dry throat paining her. “They are? And...and an entrance to the tunnel?”

“Also there, behind one of the doors. There was no need for secrecy once inside the...once inside. It’s the other end of the tunnel we need to find. From this side, Kate, it will stop at the pit beneath the greenhouse. I found several other openings, smaller, brick passages leading straight up. For ventilation, you understand. We would probably find the openings in the shrubberies outside. But you’re not listening to me, are you?”

She thought she understood what he was saying, save for the constant buzzing in her ears. “Trixie...my mother...”

“Don’t, Kate. We don’t know that,” Simon told her sternly.

She felt her bottom lip begin to tremble. “Don’t we? No...no wonder she shot him. I’d always blamed her, for leaving me. I always believed him to be perfect—perfect, Simon. What a fool I was.” She looked up at Simon. “It...um...it would appear that either way, at the bottom of it, I’m descended from a...from a long line of monsters.”

He tried to pull her into his arms, but she pushed him away. Pity would destroy her.

“No, Simon. Trixie made everything all seem deliciously outrageous and funny. The statues along the stairway in Cavendish Square? Naughty, yes, but only to discommode high-nosed people she believed feigned their outrage while their minds were filled to the brim with naughty thoughts. She laughed, Simon. We all laughed. But
this?
Why didn’t she order it all taken away years ago, broken up, burned?
Why?
”

“That’s something you’ll have to ask her, isn’t it?”

Kate’s head snapped up. “How can I do that? I
can’t,
Simon. I don’t want to know. She must have her reasons.”

“Or her fears. She couldn’t dismantle everything without help, Kate, without someone telling someone else, until the secret was no longer a secret. So she turned it all, even this house, into a tremendous folly of her husband’s, certain no one would ever find that panel.”

“She should have removed the statuettes,” Kate said dully. “She would have done that, yes? Unless she sometimes went down there to—what could she possibly
do
down there?”

“The cobwebs weren’t disturbed,” Simon pointed out, finally taking Kate’s arm and guiding her toward the door. “For all we know, especially if she didn’t trust anyone else to come with her, she never learned what we stumbled on today—how to open the panel. Let’s just get out of here for now, all right? You can write to Gideon and Valentine, tell them we’ve located the journals. Gideon can take it from there. You’re done, sweetheart. You did what you set out to do.”

She shook her head. “Not completely done. There’s still the bible...and my father.” She gave a short, choked laugh. “Maybe the Society didn’t take his body. Maybe the devil came for it personally.”

Once again, Simon attempted to take her in his arms. Again, she pushed him away. “Please don’t touch me. How can you bear to touch me? I’m one of
them.
Don’t you understand? I lured you, I tricked you, and now you think you must marry me. I’m no better than any of them. Trading favors for what I want.”

She was trembling. She might even be sick, right here on the floor of the dower house, which would be rather fitting, she supposed wildly. Not that this place could be any more foul that it was.

The place she’d brought him. The place where she’d so freely given him her virginity...and more.

This horrible place!

I didn’t know. I didn’t know! I thought myself so sophisticated, so prepared for any challenge. What a fool I am!

“I left you alone up here too long, didn’t I?” he said at last. “Gave you much too much time to twist everything about so that what we shared here together last night is now the nightmare, no longer the dream. And do you know something, Kate? Do you?”

“What am I supposed to
know,
Simon?” She lifted her chin; that way her tears might not escape her eyes to roll down her cheeks. “There’s nothing you can say that will change my mind.”

“Exactly. You’ve decided to feel sorry for yourself, and you’re going about it as you do everything, with all that’s in you. But do it knowing this, Kate. I won’t try to convince you I love you, I won’t say the words, not in this place, because love has never been here, has it? I’ll wait you out, I’ll give you time to cast out your demons or whatever the hell it is you think you need to do. I’ve got time. I’m not going anywhere.”

He was so kind. So wonderful. It would be so easy to walk into his arms, forget everything but him. But she couldn’t. She simply couldn’t. Not now.

“Thank you, Simon,” she said quietly, and then pulled open the door and left the house, waiting for him and Tubby to join her before locking the door. “I’d like to be alone now. If you don’t mind.”

“You’re going riding, aren’t you?”

She nodded, brushing at some dust and cobwebs on his sleeve. “There’s cobwebs and cobwebs, Simon. Maybe I can find a way to get one kind out of my head.”

He didn’t fight her; he clearly meant to stand by his words.

“What did you do when you found out about your brother’s involvement with the Society?”

His smile nearly broke her heart. “I crawled into a bottle for two days. I don’t recommend it. Take your ride, but be careful.”

She couldn’t stand another moment near him, not without falling apart. So she only nodded, and turned in the direction of the stables, nearly breaking into a run once she turned the corner at the far end of the dower house. When she got there, it was to see the showy team of white horses being led out of the traces of her grandmother’s coach.

Trixie had arrived, in all her usual glory. The woman Kate had always believed in, loved with all her heart; the outrageous, silly, daring-all-things, deliciously scandalous Lady Beatrix Redgrave, dowager countess of Saltwood. The woman the
ton
courted and petted, never daring to do anything less. The woman who never lied, but simply avoided the truth. The beautiful, petite, sweet-smelling angel who had overseen the raising of her four grandchildren without ever growing up herself.

The woman Kate had always striven to emulate, believing her the best of all people.

The woman who had known the worst of horrors about her husband, her son, had clearly been living a lie all these many years, keeping the worst of secrets in order to protect those she loved.

She looked toward the Manor house, imagining Trixie reclining on her favorite couch in the main drawing room, a glass of wine nearby, regaling a doting Dearborn with naughty stories, feeding sugarplums to her ridiculous little yellow pug dogs, looking so much younger than her years. The world as her oyster, Trixie the perfect pearl.

And all that time knowing, remembering. Protecting.

Kate roughly wiped at her tears, and called for Daisy to be saddled.

* * *

S
IMON
CLIMBED
THE
terrace steps two at a time, intent on entering the drawing room through the French doors and then aiming himself directly at the drinks table.

He wouldn’t crawl into a bottle. As he’d warned Kate, that was never a good idea. But he’d visited hell in the past hour, and he needed at least one drink to clear some of the brimstone and ashes from his mouth.

His brother had...cavorted in a similar place. Earned his damnable golden rose at a similar profane
altar,
clad in his obscene, terrifying costume, not a man at all, but a beast, mindless, soulless, damned. Holbrook was dead, paying the ultimate price for his sins. But did that mean Simon couldn’t be furious with him, wish he were alive so he could shake some sense into him? What kind of man resorted to such unnatural behavior? What sort of mind even thought up anything so heinous?

Haters of women. Even the willing ones.

Simon stopped just in front of the French doors as his mind whispered those unexpected words.

Debasing. Deflowering. Punishing. Controlling.

“Is that it?” he asked himself out loud, brushing at his sleeves, his waistcoat, trying to rid himself of any remaining dust or webs before stepping inside. “Am I to head back to London and scout about Mayfair to find all the unhappy marriages, all the frustrated sons? Aphrodite and Eros, remember—mother and son? Good God, that’s half of London, perhaps half of England itself.”

One ambitious man, believing himself to be royal, uses any means, any weakness, to further that treasonous ambition. Preying on the weak, gathering the greedy, tying them to him via their vices, their failings, their hungers; forcing them, if necessary, to do his bidding. Even going so far as to involve their own wives in the hellfire fantasy, proving their willingness to make
sacrifices
for the good of the whole. Promising much, demanding more.

Simon knew he shouldn’t be surprised. Kingdoms had risen and fallen on sex for centuries. Wars had been fought, thousands, millions, had died. Women blamed for the lust of men. Men destroyed by clever women.

Sex, greed. The ultimate weapons.

First the father, and then, somehow, the son. Madmen, the pair of them. But clever enough to prove dangerous.

And now a third rebirth of the Society; employing the same methods, seeking its own end.

Could it all still be about the Stuart blood? Could he really be certain no Redgraves were involved? No, he wouldn’t think that way; that way there be dragons, now that Kate was in his life. In time, she’d see the past for what it was, unchangeable, no matter how fervently she wished to somehow alter it. She’d come to terms with it, and he’d be there for her future, their future. But if he destroyed her family, past or present, she would never forgive him.

He lifted one last remnant of cobweb from his sleeve, thinking
Oh, what a tangled web we weave....

Still shaking his head, he depressed the latch and stepped into the drawing room, now considering snatching up the wine decanter and taking it upstairs with him as he ordered a tub.

“Ah, and here’s the clever lothario Dearborn has been telling me so much about. It has been impressed on me, mightily, that a betrothal is in order, perhaps even in some haste. Stealing kisses behind the stables? Naughty boy, you’ve shocked Dearborn all hollow, you know. Come, come. Closer, you handsome creature. I don’t bite.” There was the slightest pause. “Often.”

A stolen kiss? Oh, madam, if you only knew...yet so much better you don’t.

Simon forced himself to relax, smile, as he approached one of the couches situated just beneath the largest chandelier and the tiny woman who reclined on it, her painted toes visible, along with a slim silver chain around her right ankle. Her ladyship looked less a dowager than Adam Collier’s outlandish rigouts resembled Beau Brummell’s sober ensembles.

Her black gown was artfully cut, concealing her shoulders, a stiff, raised collar elongating her throat and somehow helping to accentuate the creamy skin of her chest. Poofed cap sleeves topped sheer black netting that enclosed her arms to her wrists, ending in lace-edged ruffles. A thin black ribbon was tied just beneath her small, uplifted bosoms, its ends trailing onto the couch.

She even had a black lace something-or-other tucked into her short, silvery-gold cap of curls, diamonds twinkling at its center, as did the diamonds in her ears, and ringing several of her fingers.

Her eyes were large and a startlingly clear blue beneath kohl-darkened lashes, her cheeks and mouth subtly rouged, and her scent reached up to tease at him rather than overwhelm him.

If this was the lady’s idea of mourning dress, her evening gowns must be a sight to behold.

“My lady,” he said, bending over the hand she so languidly offered. “Dearborn, it would seem, has preempted me. Yes, I do have every intention of wedding your granddaughter.”

“Intention? Not every sincere wish, every humble hope? How direct you are, young man. And very unlike your late brother, both in looks and temperament. My belated sympathies on your loss last year, as long as I’m dressed for it.” Trixie’s self-deprecating laugh was the tinkling of silver bells, impossible to resist no matter how outrageous her words. “He was such an unhappy man ever since what cynics like myself might term his rude awakening.”

After Simon excused himself to pour a glass of wine, and better marshal his thoughts, Trixie waved him to the facing couch on the other side of a low oval table.