What a Hero Dares (14 page)

“Only Simon. He advised me to consider it all moonshine, and both men are now locked up in the basement, our makeshift dungeon, as Val terms it.”

“Good. And I agree with the marquis. I find it easier to believe the woman made up the story out of whole cloth, because it suited her. The question is, how did she manage to gather so much information in the first place, about the Redgraves, the Society, the plans your grandfather and father hatched?”

“By being there. That’s the only possible answer.” Max got to his feet, clearly feeling they’d stumbled on something important. “By being a part of the Society.” He turned to look at Zoé. “You saw her. You said she was past her first blush of youth, or something like that. How old do you think she is?”

Zoé shrugged. “I know she was no debutante, but I’d have to say no more than five and thirty, or a few years beyond that. As your grandmother proves so well, there’s magic in those pots and powders we women keep on our dressing tables.”

Max was pacing now, rubbing at his beard. “According to Val and Simon, the Society had a penchant for relieving themselves of wives who grew either too fat or too long in the tooth to excite the other members, or too unwilling to cooperate in the ceremonies, then married younger women. Much younger. Look at Trixie, for God’s sake, she was barely out of the nursery.”

“They were in the habit of murdering their wives? Off with their heads? How terribly medieval.”

Max stopped pacing and faced her. “Until their wives more recently began murdering them, yes, but let’s keep to the point. I think we can safely assume this woman was brought into my father’s re-creation of the Society.”

“As the wife of one of the Devil’s Thirteen, as Kate explained the hierarchy to me this morning, or else she wouldn’t have been able to learn everything she learned. Do you know who the Thirteen were in your father’s time?”

“Some of them. Definitely not all, but Trixie might agree to help us there. She only doles out information she deems necessary, and I can’t blame her. I can give you one, and that would be Adam’s mother. It turns out his father—Jessica’s father—was my father’s second-in-command, or some such rot. The Keeper. Keeper of the rules, for one, and keeper of the journals each member was required to turn over to him. He’d then condense everything into a yearly addition of the Society’s bible. Everything’s there, the code names they used, their rightful names, their assigned role within the Society.”

“You’re serious? Then we only need to find this bible, correct, and we’re more than halfway there?”

“We did find it, along with the journals. Kate and Simon located them in a cave right here on the grounds. Society member names are all in code in the journals, unfortunately, and even worse, Turner Collier set fire to the bible before he—and Adam’s mother—were similarly burnt to crisps in what we’ll laughingly call a coach accident.”

“I think my head’s spinning. Your brother Gideon married Jessica—Jessica
Collier
—and Adam—that silly but rather adorable twit I met this morning—is her brother?”

“Half brother. Collier’s first wife, Jessica’s mother, died, and Mailer married—”

“A much younger woman. Of course he did. The aging wife conveniently deceased, to be replaced by that much younger woman, keeping to the pattern. But she’s also dead.”

“Very dead. Gideon made sure to see the bodies. That’s what started this whole thing, you know. Collier’s outdated will left Adam’s future to the earl of Saltwood, Jessica wanted custody of her brother, and somehow the Society was mentioned. That’s the first we ever heard of it, through Jessica. Our conclusion is that there was some sort of coup inside the Society, and the last of those remaining from my father’s day were eliminated.”

“To be replaced by one very enterprising woman who then assembled her own Devil’s Thirteen, along with plotting with Bonaparte and, oh yes, somehow including Anton in there somewhere. You did say the wives had begun dispatching their husbands, correct?”

“Yes, that’s true enough. Coaching accidents, tumbles down the stairs, eating spoiled food, fallen upon by footpads. The wives actually plotted together. We probably have at least three or four suspects to choose from. We’ve also got one of the new Thirteen tucked away upstairs,” Max told her, actually smiling. “Valentine sent him to us, all but wrapped up with a bow around his neck. We have solid proof of another one, and Val was on the scene when a third was, shall we say, fatally punished for incompetence.”

“And all to our benefit, Max. They’re turning on themselves. The new order eliminating the old, the wives rising up against their husband tormentors. One faction of Coopers clearly mistrustful of the other branch of the family, those who’d stayed behind. Today, Coopers who’d remained here won’t be pleased to hear that the returned Coopers murdered one of their own. Enter Anton, stir in Bonaparte, and we’ve got quite a stew bubbling on someone’s hob.”

“Please stop before you find yourself forced to say
woe, what a tangled web we weave
. But I have to agree. This Exalted Leader could be having considerable trouble at the moment. That’s always helpful. How do you suggest we add to her problems?”

Zoé considered this for a moment. “I think the first thing we need to do is have a small chat with this captive your brother sent here. No.
I
have to have a small chat with him. He doesn’t know me, doesn’t know I exist, but he might know about Anton. Perhaps I can convince him I come as a friend.”

“But you’ll need some sort of story, some sort of disguise that gives you a reason to be in the house. I’m sure I can find a maid’s uniform. A mobcap and apron. You’ll look quite fetching. What else?”

“Clogs.”

“Yes, and clogs. And the key might be helpful.”

“Does your family keep country hours? Do we have time for this before we’re called down to dinner? Oh, the devil with it, we’ll make time.”

She was already stripping off the night rail, and rummaging in the wardrobe for underpinnings. “Do you think he speaks French? That would be helpful, although just hearing French should be enough to convince him.”

Max walked up behind her and slid his arms around her waist, pressed a kiss against her nape. “I was ready to sulk, and you knew it, and now we’re leagues ahead of where we were, and I’m past feeling the least bit moral about trumped-up marriage lines or anything else. And you, my splendid partner, grow more beautiful by the moment. We might actually be happy. Do you think we’re both insane?”

“Probably,” she said, turning in his arms. “Or maybe we both like winning a bit too much.”

He kissed both her cheeks, and then lingered over her mouth until she knew it would be dangerous to continue. Max seemed to know that, as well. They had work to do.

“Together, we can never lose,” he said before letting her go.

“You never stop trying, do you? I think I’m beginning to like that.”

His smile told her she’d said just what he’d wanted to hear. She probably needed to hear herself say the words, as well. Their sad past seemed to be melting away, fading into nothingness, as if they’d never been parted. She never would have believed that possible.

“Persistence has its own rewards. Shall we try it again?”

The first-warning dinner bell rang somewhere below them.

“Damn,” he swore. “Civilization will get in our way, won’t it?”

“Or we might have been rescued from something we’d just regret,” she pointed out, hating herself. It was too soon, too soon. And Anton still stood between them. “At any rate, so much for your captive, and I have to wash again, and my hair is still damp. You should apologize for distracting us both from the business at hand.”

“Never,” he said, grinning.

She stepped out of his arms. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

He reached for her. “One last kiss? I may still be somewhat melancholy about this bastard business.”

She gave him a playful shove in the chest. “Go! Come back when you hear the second gong.”

* * *

Z
OÉ
ENTERED
the main saloon of Redgrave Manor on Max’s arm just as the enormous floor clock in the foyer struck the hour of six, aware that all eyes were on her as she cast a quick glance down at her bosom. Didn’t any of the Redgrave women have more than ample chests? She felt as if hers might pop out of the pale blue gown at any moment. In a French ballroom, she’d hardly be out of place, but in an English country estate she could only be considered scandalous.

Max had been most appreciative of her appearance, but did ask if her borrowed wardrobe possibly included a shawl.

She curtsied to the room’s occupants in general, and then allowed Max to tug her around like a puppy on a lead, introducing her to everyone. She’d seen some of the men that first night, but only barely, before she was ignominiously dragged away to her attic prison.

Lady Katherine—Kate—winked at her and smiled, and the handsome blond gentleman now bowing over Zoé’s hand had to be no one else but Simon Ravenbill, Marquis of Singleton.

Adam Collier was next, his cheeks obviously rouged, his hair once again wet and slick with pomade and his rig-out beyond description. “My dear Mademoiselle Charbonneau,” he said dramatically before kissing her hand.
“C’est mon honneur profonde pour laver vos chaussettes.”

Zoé managed to keep her composure, but Kate didn’t hold back her laughter or her comment. “You birdbrain, you just said it was an honor to wash her socks.”

Adam looked aghast, or perhaps bilious, beneath his rouge. “I did not! I studied all the afternoon, and I most certainly did not— Oh, crimey-cripes, I did, didn’t I?”

Zoé nodded. “But I appreciate and applaud your effort, Mr. Collier.”

“Adam. Everyone calls me Adam. Well, most everybody. Mostly, Trixie calls me the twit. Affectionately.”

That comment sent Kate into peals of laughter again, until Simon whispered something in her ear that sobered her. “You’re right, I’m being mean. I’m sorry, Adam. Kiss her hand, wash her socks? Hardly any difference at all.” She then turned to her betrothed, her nose wrinkling delightfully. “That probably wasn’t much better, was it? But you would make me do it.”

“Not appreciably, no, but you did try. My apologies, my sweet,” the marquis said, the look on his own face one of absolute adoration. Zoé could understand why. Lady Katherine Redgrave was a minx, but she was a thoroughly delightful one.

“All right, that’s enough of that, Adam. You can perform again for us later when you tuck your serviette into your neck in order to slurp your soup.”

“I only protect my neckcloth, Val,” Adam protested to the handsome young man who’d just deserted the mantelpiece to stride toward Zoé. Another darkly handsome Redgrave. The place was littered with them. “I still say the soup spoons are defective. Now, if you’ll all excuse me, I fear I must retire for a space, to collect myself.”

“True enough. You are rather scattered,” the man said, giving Adam a jovial clap on the back.
“Mademoiselle?”

Zoé offered her hand, and he bowed over it, but did not kiss it. “Valentine Redgrave,
mademoiselle,
and delighted to make your acquaintance. Max has been a bear these past months, and now we know why. Please don’t disappear again, or he’ll doubtless go into a sad decline.”

“Shut up, Val,” Max said evenly.

The younger man smiled. “Do you know, for a few years, when I was still in the nursery, I actually thought that was my name?
Shut up, Val
. But now please allow me to introduce you to my affianced, Miss Daisy Marchant, and her delightful sister, Rose.”

The young woman Zoé assumed was Daisy nearly rose from her seat, right hand extended, before Val’s discreet clearing of his throat had her sitting down once more. “Delighted to make your acquaintance,
mademoiselle.
Please forgive me for not rising, but that rudely indiscreet man standing beside you has cast himself in the role of social tutor to this former governess. I humor him,” she ended, and her smile transformed her rather ordinary face into a thing of beauty.

Zoé leaned closer. “Good for you. I’d kick him in the shins.”

Beside Daisy, the petite blonde beauty with the eyes of a sorrowful saint looked up at her, slightly aghast.

“She didn’t mean it, Rose,” Daisy whispered. “Say your hello to Mademoiselle Charbonneau.”

Hadn’t Kate said something about the sister having recently been ill? She hadn’t mentioned that the woman was also nervous as a butterfly in a windstorm. “Oh, please, I doubt this is the time for formality. Call me Zoé.”

“Isn’t that lovely, Rose?” Daisy said, lightly squeezing her sister’s hand. “We’re all going to be friends.”

But Rose only smiled apprehensively and looked to Daisy.

“I’m delighted to make your acquaintance. What a lovely gown. It makes your eyes look blue as cornflowers.”

Zoé hoped perhaps this time Rose would say something, but instead that cornflower-blue gaze shifted toward the entrance hall and grew to nearly twice their size. “Oh,
my,
” she breathed, quickly getting to her feet, as did everyone else.

Zoé wasn’t surprised to see the Dowager Countess Beatrice Redgrave Borders just entering the room, leaning delicately on the arm of her husband and looking positively regal, dressed as she was in black from head to toe.

“In mourning for Angus,” Max whispered in her ear. “Until we plant him tomorrow.”

Zoé nodded her understanding, smiled to Richard Borders as she rose from her curtsy and then saw what she should have seen the moment the man entered the room with Richard and Trixie. “Tariq,” she whispered. “Your savior.”

“Yes, we spoke earlier. What I don’t understand is how I never saw him when he was trailing me around the Continent. It isn’t as if he’s easily overlooked.”

“No, he isn’t, is he? But, then again, you have been slipping of late,” Zoé responded with a teasing smile, looking past Max to see Rose staring at Tariq and his magnificent attire in something close to rapture. He was probably unlike any man she’d ever seen.

“Good evening, my pets,” Trixie said as Richard led her to an embroidered chaise and she collapsed gracefully onto it, her legs raised onto the cushions, arranging her satin and lace skirts around them. “Another long and sad day, I’m afraid. Max, you spoke with him last.”