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“That seems only reasonable,” Val said, getting to his feet. He looked quite presentable, sitting. But standing? Ah. Few were more impressive than a tall, dark-haired Redgrave, standing, be it Gideon, Earl of Saltwood, or any of his trio of younger siblings, including Kate! The English in them seemed to recede then, and the Spanish side of them came out to play, to remind all of their mother’s fiery blood singing through their veins. Their mother, who had so disgraced the family as to shoot their father in the back in order to save her French lover on the dueling field. One couldn’t be faulted if one imagined a pistol in Valentine’s hand; after all, it was in the blood.
And then, in the space of ten even, silently counted heartbeats, Valentine bowed, as if to acknowledge the prime minister’s power over a lowly creature such as himself. “I can but humbly submit to your command. Only do be so kind as to make certain the irons are clean. This is a new jacket, you understand.”
“Bah,” said the prime minister, clearly immune to both Valentine’s physical presence and his nonsense. “Sit down, Redgrave. I’m not to be taken in like some raw schoolboy. You’re as cooperative as a room full of cats. What have you and our unexpected Romeo discovered?”
“Not me. Oh, no, not me, just as you so cleverly surmised. I’m afraid I was busy elsewhere, on a mission having much more to do with the simpler pleasures in life.”
“A woman. Perhaps several—an entire clutch of fair females. Your reputation precedes you, carefully constructed as it is, to cover your occasional work for some high-ranking government idiot who actually trusts you. But friend to that someone or not, a dank cell awaits you if you don’t soon drop this charade and come to the point.”
Ah. Spencer Perceval wasn’t stupid, and he knew about Val’s occasional service, even if he didn’t know the man or the department. Hell’s bells, he probably didn’t know the department even existed. Such was the amount of secrecy these days, what with spies everywhere from the low to the high, working for either political belief or pay, it didn’t much matter. But a too-interested Perceval was a dangerous Perceval, and to be avoided at all costs.
“A thousand apologies, I’m sure, but I find myself totally at sea. Me, working? I hardly think so. That was the answer you expected, wasn’t it?” When the prime minister smiled at last, Val neatly split his coattails and seated himself once more, this time leaning his forearms on his strong thighs and clasping his hands together between his knees, his posture all business. “All right, then, now that we’re through dancing about, fruitlessly hoping for ripe plums of information to drop out of each other’s mouths, let’s get to it. Thankfully, I do have some progress to report.”
“Spencer, darling, I thought you’d be— Oh. I didn’t realize...”
Valentine rose immediately and took his handsome, ingratiating self across the width of the intimate room, to bow over the lady’s nervously offered hand. “How very good to see you again, dear lady. I vow, it has been an age. Too long...yes, yes, indeed. Wherever has this brute been hiding you?”
“The... That is, our two youngest were ill with the measles, and I didn’t wish to— Mr. Redgrave, you can release my hand now, for I’ve been married to this good gentleman long enough to know not to quiz you on why you’re here. However, Spencer, if I might see you for a moment?”
Perceval was already beside her, and glaring at Valentine. “I’ll return directly. In the meantime, Redgrave, sit yourself down again—and for God’s sake, don’t touch anything.”
Valentine managed to look crestfallen, abashed and wickedly amused, all at one and the same time. It was also an art, this ability of his to play many roles at once for his audience, and if his brilliance didn’t impress the crusty prime minister, it still worked wonders with his lady wife, who scolded, “Spencer, that was rude.”
“Yet, alas, dear lady, a verbal spanking well deserved,” Val said, bowing once more.
He waited until the pair had adjourned to the hallway before helping himself to the wine he’d first offered the prime minister and re-taking his seat as ordered, planning to use this unexpected interlude to align his thoughts. There were things Perceval knew, things he could never know and things he needed to be told. It was all a matter of carefully—keeping to the fowl theme of the evening thus far—lining up his ducks in their proper rows.
Valentine began with a mental listing of things the prime minister knew: The Redgraves had “stumbled over,” as Gideon had so obliquely put it, the existence of a group within the government plotting to assist Bonaparte and help overthrow the Crown. As proof of his words, Gideon had handed over evidence supposedly found near Redgrave Manor that supplies meant for the king’s troops massing on the Peninsula were about to be diverted elsewhere. Gideon also had given the man two names: Archie Upton and Lord Charles Mailer, both employed by the government. Upton was dead now, Mailer was being watched. Perceval was also gifted with an entire bag of moonshine about both men being part of a “secret society” possibly operating in the area, and the prime minister had assigned Simon Ravenbill to go to the estate to investigate.
Perceval knew there was more to it than that, must be wondering about the depth of the Redgrave involvement, but had prudently not asked. Yet.
Then there was what the prime minister could not be privy to: this particular secret society could be traced back to the time of Valentine’s father and grandfather. A hellfire club with a carefully concealed history of attempted treason mixed in among the seemly mandatory satanic rites and naughty sexual antics so in vogue with such groups of powerful and ambitious men. Men who believed themselves both entitled to such pleasures and immune to discovery and scandal (until they were proven wrong, on both counts). The Redgraves wanted to help, not be thrown into prison as likely suspects!
Then there was the news Simon and Kate had sent to him, which had to be told: information, gold coin, spies and quite a bit of opium made the crossing between the beach at Redgrave Manor and France...or at least it had done until Simon and a band of unnamed local smugglers had put a stop to this traffic a scant two weeks ago.
Unfortunately, the prime minister would also have to be told the Redgraves had learned nothing more about the identities of the current members. No names, no other locations had been found. The Society had definitely used the estate, its caves and handy beach, but they hadn’t left their mark there.
There was one name, that much was true: one Society member who had acted as leader of the smugglers. But as the captured man had chosen suicide over confession, his body quietly disposed of at sea, Valentine had decided Perceval didn’t need to know of that small failure, or of Simon’s dire warning: “A leader who can convince others to kill themselves in order to protect him is a deadly dangerous man surrounded by worshipful fanatics. Be alert at all times, strike first and, for God’s sake, don’t bother attempting to capture any of them alive. If you hesitate, you’ll die, and Kate will be exceedingly out of humor with you.”
An unlovely thought all-around, Valentine believed, excluding the leavening remark about his sister, and advice he’d committed to memory. Perceval would scoff at such dramatics, being the coolheaded logical Englishman to his core, but the fiery Spanish blood in Val’s veins believed nothing impossible when it came to his fellow man.
As to the Redgraves themselves, their own family history? Ah, much had been learned there thanks to Val’s brother Gideon, their sister, Kate, and Simon Ravenbill, and even the dowager countess, who’d had the misfortune to witness the first two incarnations of the Society.
But none of that more sordid history would ever be shared with the prime minister. It was certainly true that, because of that family history, the Redgraves were better armed to defeat the Society...but they were also more vulnerable to having that salacious history made public knowledge. That would never do!
And so, with the Crown’s help—and, truthfully, preferably without it—the Redgraves would put a stop to the Society, for reasons both patriotic and personal.
Gideon had done his part, uncovering the existence of the Society in the first place, and Kate and Simon had put an end to the smuggling. Now, with their brother Maximillien on the Continent, tracking clues on that end, it was up to Valentine to take up the trail that, once followed, could destroy the Society forever, protect the Crown from the greedy Bonaparte, and tuck the scandalous Redgrave history away once and for all.
One, two, three. As simple as that. Three paths, three goals. Except they also were three giant steps, none of them easily taken, and with deadly pitfalls strewn along the way to trap the unwary.
With scarcely any solid clues to follow, the main purpose of Val’s visit tonight was to dazzle Perceval with news of the smuggling and then quickly gather information about one thing that had been bothering him. Hopefully, Perceval would be so happy to see the back of him he’d give it to him.
And so it was a scant few minutes later, after feeding carefully selected information from columns one, two and three to the prime minister, that Valentine asked: “Who ordered the construction of more Martello Towers along the southern coast? There were to be no more, the threat of French invasion long past. And yet now, amazingly, more are popping up. Why? Is there something you haven’t told us? For shame, sir, for shame, when my brother has been so exceedingly honest with you.”
“Only a fool would believe that last statement. Besides, I’m certain I was asking the questions,” Perceval said smoothly.
Val sat back at his ease, crossing one leg over the other once more, his forearms resting lightly on the arms of the chair, indicating he was now in charge. They were both actors on a private stage, with nothing said or done without careful thought. Politics was a battle of sorts, fought with innuendo...and sometimes great fun, actually. “You were. Now, having been so marvelously cooperative, it’s my turn. Quid pro—whatever the rest of that is. I’m the second of two younger sons, and not expected to be brilliant.”
“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
AFTERAFORTNIGHTspent 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.”
