What a Hero Dares (24 page)

Half-burnt candles flickered against paintings of men and women engaged in strange sexual acts. Statues of naked women, some caught in the grasp of satyrs, a marble boar, standing upright on human legs, “gifted” with male genitals. Max stopped looking and moved on, past the couches, beyond what he recognized as a whipping stool, ignoring the manacles hanging from the walls, only stopping when he came to the deep red velvet draperies that lined the entire rear wall.

Zoé joined him there, slipping her hand into his. “There’s no altar, is there?”

“There has to be an altar,” he told her, still staring at the drapes. “Help me open these. But get out your knives. Be ready to protect yourself.”

“On three?” she asked, and he heard a slight tremor in her voice.

“No. Now.”

Together, they pulled back the draperies just enough to see what lay beyond.

“The Exalted Leader,” Zoé said, and then turned away.

“You’re all right?”

“No, I’m not. It has to be her, doesn’t it?”

“You’re the only one with the answer to that. Can you manage it?”

Max put his arm around her and they climbed the three marble steps to the Society’s last altar.

It seemed to him as if the woman had
arranged
herself to look her best before she left the world she hadn’t been able to conquer. She was clothed in sheerest black silk, each fold smooth, without a wrinkle. The mask covering her face appeared to be constructed of real gold molded to match her features. The effect was startling, as was that of the small golden rose depicted in full bloom, a diamond at its center, that pierced her left nipple.

But it was the jeweled dagger protruding from her body just at her heart that took and held his interest.

Zoé stepped up beside him. “She killed herself, didn’t she? Like Cleopatra. Even the hilt of that dagger is in the form of a snake.”

“From what I’ve learned about her, I never would have believed she’d kill herself. Shall we take off the mask, get a look at her face?”

Zoé took a deep breath, exhaled it slowly, and then nodded. “Yes, take it off...”

EPILOGUE

I
T
WASN
'
T
A
JOURNAL
Zoé had found. It was a diary.

Yet not even that. It was a retelling of a route chosen, a road traveled, a nightmare this strange woman created and called her dream.

But nobody knew that until later, after both bodies had been removed from the ruins and brought to the buttery, to be laid on cool shelves after Simon and Kate oversaw the removal of the tubs resting there. The burials would be swift, at first light the following morning, but for now the Redgraves would assemble, look, hope that one of them, somehow, would recognize the woman.

Trixie, supported by Richard, made her way down the stone steps into the buttery, only to exit again too soon to have taken the time to inspect the faces of both sheet-wrapped corpses inside. “It's Barry, my Barry,” she said, sobbing. “God help me, it's my own son all over again. Richard, take me away from here.”

Everyone else agreed when they saw the same face they knew only from their father's portrait in the Long Gallery. But nobody knew the woman.

Until Adam, nervously gnawing at his fingernails, more curious than he was afraid, was the last to enter as Max remained inside, ready to cover the faces after the last person came, looked and left.

The boy approached the man first. “Big one, wasn't he?” he said, his smile rather sickly. But then he walked across the stone floor to take a peek at the woman.

He looked at her for a long time, until Max wondered if something was wrong. “Adam, are you all right?”

The boy raised his hand and gingerly laid it on the body. “Mama?”

* * *

T
HE
DIARY
REVEALED
the rest of the story.

How Clarissa Collier had been introduced to the Society via her new husband. How she'd taken to it in a way Turner Collier first appreciated and then, as the years went on, disapproved of more and more.

He was nearly twice her age, not as interested in what had interested him in his youth, and with his friend Barry gone, he'd actually begun to draw away from the Society. But Clarissa wouldn't let him. Even as more and more of his peers began to die, and new members, young, strong, took their place.

Members Clarissa had hand-picked.

When the new leader was chosen, his face was never seen by any of the older members who now began to wonder if they were becoming increasingly expendable and agreed to most anything, because it might be dangerous to disagree.

Now Collier wanted to leave the Society entirely. Nobody followed the rules anymore. He was the Keeper, and rules were meant to be followed.

Oh, how Clarissa longed for the day the man was rolled into his grave.

But first she had to convince him he was in danger, easy enough to do with help from the new Exalted Leader...the lover she had hand-picked.

Terrified after the failed attempt, Turner Collier had agreed with his beloved wife. They had to protect Barry Redgrave's dream. They'd have to take the bible he'd kept for years, and not turn it over to the Exalted Leader as ordered, but remove it from its hiding place and take it with them as they escaped England altogether. The Society was corrupt; he would not give them the bible.

“But he didn't take it and run,” Simon told Max as he stood at the mantel and recited, rather like a schoolboy, uncomfortable knowing Jessica and Adam were in the room, listening. “I saw the ashes, in the cave. Clarissa died still not knowing where he'd hidden the real bible. She believed the information inside it would have made her very, very rich. And untouchable, powerful.”

Gideon was nodding. “The coach accident wasn't real. The bodies I saw were real enough—Collier, certainly, and whoever the poor woman was who died in Clarissa's place.”

“I think we can all guess the rest. Clarissa followed in our grandfather's footsteps, in our father's footsteps...and made the same mistakes they'd made. She'd begun to believe she was everything she wanted to be. Oh, and according to her last entry,
we
killed her. We destroyed her dream. Although I imagine we had a little help in that direction from your pirate friend, Simon, and even, oddly, from Anton Boucher.”

“Is that enough for one night? Anyone curious to know every last detail can certainly peruse this thing at their own leisure.”

“Put it in the fire, Max,” Jessica said, the first time she'd spoken since entering the room, her arm around her half-brother. “Please.”

* * *

“T
IRED
?” M
AX
ASKED
Z
OÉ
as he leaned over on the bed and kissed her cheek.

“I may never sleep again,” she said, even as she snuggled against him. “All the deaths, all the betrayals, all the heartache and degradation...and all the product of one woman? It's nearly incomprehensible.”

“One woman following the lead of two men who showed her the way. Did you watch Adam tonight?”

Zoé sighed against his chest. “He came into the room with Jessica supporting him, and left it supporting her. Even Trixie commented on it. She really cares for her
twit,
you know. I only wish we could find this damnable bible. I know your grandmother does, too.”

“I know. As long as it exists, there also exists the possibility that someday, somehow, someone
will
find it, read it, believe it all possible and there will be a new incarnation of the Society in some yet unknown time. Please, God, long after I'm gone.”

Zoé hated loose ends. Max had always teased her about being too neat, even obsessed with every last detail. But this was important, more than a simple loose end, a single strand that could never be woven into anything of substance.

She had to find that— “Max!” When he didn't respond, she shook him and called to him again. “Max! Wake up! I know where it is.”

“Wonderful. Whatever this
it
is, I'm sure it will still be there tomorrow.” He turned over and immediately went back to sleep.

“Max!”

He bolted upright, quickly looking around the room. “What? Is the Manor on fire?'

“Yes. That's it exactly,” she said, pushing her arms into her dressing gown. “The house is on fire. It started in the Long Gallery. Come with me.”

He scrubbed at his eyes, but then climbed out of bed, muttering something under his breath about the perfidies of women as he jammed his legs into his breeches and nothing else.

By the time they reached the huge copper doors, Zoé had begun feeling slightly apprehensive and possibly more than a little worried she was wrong. But when the doors opened, and she and Max and Jacko—who'd been dozing near the kitchens and decided to follow them—stepped inside, her fears calmed.

She was right. She knew she was right.

“This way,” she said.

“There is only one way. It's a
hallway
.”

“Don't spoil it, Max. Come on, follow the roses.”

“Women,” Jacko grumbled. “Never wanted one, myself. Haven't seen the need.”

“Good on you, Jacko,” Max replied, but hastened his step in any case, because at last Zoé had stopped, just in front of the portrait of his father.

“It was the rose,” she explained quickly. “The one in her— The one we saw tonight. It made me think of all the other roses. The roses lining this corridor. The rose in your father's cravat. Truly, Max, I think it's the roses.”

“They get like this sometimes,” Jacko whispered. “Something about the phases of the moon.”

“Jacko! You're huge—I mean, you're tall and strong. Can you please try to take down this portrait?”

“I do what I'm told,” he said, and stepped in front of the portrait. But it didn't lift up. Instead, as he tugged, it swung open.

“Zoé, you're a genius,” Max breathed, holding up the candle he'd brought with him, and they all could see the thick tome resting inside the wall.

Zoé smiled. “Yes, indeed. Are we going to tell everyone else?”

“Tomorrow. Jacko,” Max said, looking at the bible he now held in his hands. “You say you're a man who follows orders. What do you say to stoking up the kitchen fire until it's a wild, hot blaze?”

Zoé rested her head against his shoulder. “We start now, don't we? We began before...but we'll really start now.”

“Yes, sweetheart, that's just what we'll do.”

* * * * *

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WHAT AN EARL WANTS
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CHAPTER ONE

London,
England
1810

T
HE
EIGHTEENTH
E
ARL
of Saltwood, one Gideon Redgrave by name, struck a pose just inside the entrance of the narrow house in Jermyn Street, looking for all the world a sketch from the
Journal des Dames et des Modes
come to life. Not by so much as a flicker of an eyelid did he give away the fact that he'd no idea he'd knocked on the door of number forty-seven only to be ushered into a gaming house. His man of business would answer for that omission when next he saw him; the earl didn't care for surprises.

He allowed a curtsying maid of indeterminate years to relieve him of his hat, gloves and cane, and then shrugged off his evening cloak, watching as the woman folded it lovingly over her arm. A gold coin appeared from his pocket, and he held it in front of her wide-open blue eyes. A copper coin would do for most, but Gideon Redgrave believed the gold coin to be an investment, one that would pay dividends when his belongings came back to him in the same pristine condition in which they'd been handed over, rather than having suffered the unfortunate accident of walking out the door in his absence.

“Yours if my possessions are safely returned when I leave,” he told her, and the maid bobbed her head enthusiastically before scurrying away.

He resumed his pose, meant to have all eyes come to him and their owners too busy being either envious or impressed to think up mischief while he surreptitiously acclimated himself to his surroundings. And the eighteenth Earl of Saltwood's appearance was, without fail, nothing short of enviably impressive.

The superb tailoring of his darkest blue cut-away tailcoat accentuated the snowy perfection of his silk brocade waistcoat, but not so much as it displayed the earl's astonishingly fit physique, broad shoulders, flat stomach and narrow waist. Pantaloons of formfitting buff doeskin clung lovingly to long, muscular lower limbs, ending just at the calf, above silk stockings and low-heeled black patent evening shoes.

His only ornamentation, other than the thin black grosgrain ribbon hanging about his neck and attached to the quizzing glass tucked into a small pocket of his waistcoat, was the small golden rose depicted in full bloom and no more than a single inch in circumference, nestled in the folds of his intricately tied cravat. This latter bit of fancy was a recent affectation, one that had caused comment in some circles, but to date, no one had dared speak of it to his lordship.

Thick, longish hair the color of midnight tumbled over his smooth forehead in natural curls that sent other gentlemen to their valets and the crimping iron to duplicate. Hints of his Spanish mother could be seen in the strong, aquiline nose that saved him from too much beauty, the unexpected fullness of his mouth, the sensual smolder in his dark eyes. There was an earthiness about the man not completely disguised by the trappings of fine clothes, a sense of dangerous energy tightly leashed yet always simmering just below the sophisticated surface.

In a word, the eighteenth Earl of Saltwood was intimidating. In two, if applying to the female population, he was marvelously irresistible.

When he was noticed, and he was always noticed, several of the men who recognized him for what he was, if not who he was, prudently realized they had pressing business elsewhere and quit the room in some haste. Conversations broke off abruptly. Hands stilled in the act of shuffling cards or pulling in chips. The more daring among the players turned their chairs about for a better view of what was sure to be an interesting few minutes, at the least.

One of the hostesses, the term surely taken quite as loosely as the morals of any female in the hall, ran her moist tongue around her lips rather hungrily. She gave her smiling approval of the impossible-to-disguise manly muscle between the gentleman's thighs and took two steps forward, tugging down on the already low neckline of her cherry-red gown before she was grabbed at the elbow and hastily pulled back.

“For Lord's sake, Mildred, control yourself. He's not here for that.”

Gideon Redgrave extracted his chased-gold quizzing glass, raising it to one eye, and slowly surveyed the surprisingly well-lit and clean yet faintly down-at-the-heels room before allowing his gaze to halt and hold on the woman who had just spoken.

She advanced on him with some purpose, the light of confrontation in her sherry-brown eyes, her fairly remarkable chin tilted up as if she had somehow raised the battle flag and was announcing her intention to unleash a broadside. But then she stopped, smiled and dropped into a mocking curtsy.

“Lord Saltwood,” she intoned quietly, her voice slightly husky, as if she might be whispering risqué endearments in the privacy of a candlelit boudoir, “I've been expecting you. Do you prefer a public airing of our differences, or would you care to retire to my apartments for our chat?”

She was...magnificent. Gideon could think of no other description. Taller than most women, slim almost to the point of thinness, yet subtly curved. Hair the color of flame against the severity of her high-necked black gown, skin the color of finest ivory. The eyes, mocking, the mouth, full and wide...and
knowing.
No sane man could look at her without imagining his fingers tangling in that mass of warm curls tumbling around her shoulders, sinking himself deep between her thighs, plunging into the promised fire as she wrapped long legs up high around him.

Which, of course, would be total madness.

Gideon's eyes widened fractionally, just enough to dislodge the glass, and he deftly caught it by its ribbon and replaced it in his pocket. “You've the advantage of me, madam. You are—?”

“Exactly who you think I am, my lord,” she returned, her wide smile frosting only slightly about the edges. “And now that you and your glowering face have served to quite ruin what had promised to be a profitable evening, you will please follow me.”

She turned sharply, the scent of sweet lavender tickling his nostrils as her fiery mane, seeming much too heavy for her slim neck, swung about as if in a belated attempt to catch up with her. Her modest gown, a stiff, unyielding taffeta so in contrast to the riot of tumbling curls, rustled as she walked.

“Here now, where do you think you're—?”

She raised her hand to the faintly rotund, gray-haired man who had stepped out from behind the faro table, his eyes on the earl as if measuring his chances of knocking him down. Though he clearly found them miniscule, he straightened his shoulders, no doubt prepared to give his best if asked. “Simply carry on, Richard, if you please. I'm fine.”

“Yes, you do that, Richard,” Gideon drawled as he and the woman easily made their way through the throng of patrons who had all stepped back to afford them a pathway. He was painfully aware he somehow had been put in the ignoble position of potential despoiler of virgins, which was above everything ludicrous.

“Your employer's virtue is safe with me.”

A young man, looking fresh from the country and obviously a fellow with more hair than wit, dared to chuckle at this remark. “There's virtue here? Stap me, I wouldn't have come if it was
virtue
I was looking for.”

“Stubble it, Figgins,” the man next to him warned, saving Gideon the trouble of having to turn back and waste a dark stare on the impudent puppy. “Don't you know who that is? The fella's a Redgrave, for God's sakes. He spits bigger'n you.”

Gideon suppressed a smile. He hadn't heard that one before. But how convenient that his reputation preceded him; it made life so much easier.

He stepped forward as he realized the woman had stopped in front of a baize door, clearly waiting on him to open it for her. Liked to play at the lady, it would seem, straight down to the prim black gown and the erect nature of her posture. Pity for her that her hair and eyes and mouth—and that voice—hadn't been informed of this preferred pretense.

“Oh, please, allow me,” he drawled sarcastically, bowing her ahead of him as he depressed the latch, before following her up a long, steep flight of stairs surprisingly located just on the other side of the door.

The stairs were between two walls and just well lit enough for him to be able to enjoy the sway of her bottom as she climbed ahead of him, holding up her stiff skirts, affording him a tantalizing glimpse of slim ankles, as well. Ah, and a hint of calf. Lovely.

The woman was contradiction after contradiction. Buttoned nearly to her chin, yet her slippers were silver-heeled black satin. He could imagine himself kissing them from her feet and then rolling down her hose, just so far, because he enjoyed the feel of silk-encased legs on his back....

He was forced to hold the banister as she stopped, extracting a key from a pocket in her gown and slipping it into the lock. He'd wondered about that, the easy access to the staircase, and how many times in the course of an evening this route might be traveled by patrons and the women.

As if to assure him, she stepped inside the apartments, motioning for him to close the door behind him as she said, “No one is allowed here. We won't be disturbed. Would you care for wine, or would you rather simply be on with it?”

“That's direct, in any case. Be on with what, madam? I had thought I was calling at a private residence, the object conversation. Seeing the nature of this house, the possibilities have become almost limitless. Not that I'm not tempted.”

She lit a taper and gracefully moved about the room, lighting candles. “You flatter yourself, my lord, and insult me. I'm not in such dire need of funds. We turn cards here, nothing else.”

Gideon sat himself down on a nearby chair, deciding she could remain standing if she so wished, but he was going to make himself comfortable. Redgraves always made themselves comfortable; and the more comfortable they looked, the more on guard any sane person in their midst became. “You might explain that to—Mildred, was it?” he suggested amicably.

He did his best not to blink as she toed off the silver-heeled shoes and kicked them beneath a table as if happy to be rid of them. “I cannot presume to control the world, my lord, only the small portion of it beneath this roof. Mildred and the others make their own arrangements as to what they do outside this establishment.”

“That's...civilized. So, a gaming hell, but no brothel. A fine line between disreputable and despicable. Am I to perhaps applaud?”

She looked at him, long and hard, and then reached up both hands and deftly twisted the heavy mass of curls into a knot atop her head before walking over to a small drinks table holding a single decanter of wine.

“I don't particularly care what you do, my lord,” she said as she poured some of the light amber liquid into a single glass before turning to face him. “As long as you relinquish guardianship of my brother to me.”

“Oh, yes, Miss Collier, the demand presented to me via your solicitor. I can readily see the eminent sense in that. Clearly a fit place for the boy.”

“The name is Linden, my lord.
Mrs.
Linden. I'm a widow.”

Gideon could not suppress his smile this time. “Of course you are. How very proper. My apologies.”

“You can take your apologies, my lord, and stuff them in your...ear,” she said, and then turned her back to him as she lifted the glass to her lips. She didn't sip; she drank. He could see that her hand trembled slightly as she lowered the empty glass to the tabletop. The wine was for courage, clearly. He almost felt sorry for her.

Almost.

But then she turned back to him, her eyes shining in the light of the candles. “We've begun badly, haven't we? Are you certain you don't care for a glass of wine?”

“A lady shouldn't drink alone, I suppose. Very well.” Gideon got to his feet and availed himself of the decanter. The wine, when he tasted it, was unexpectedly good, when he'd assumed it would be cheap and bitter. “Do you have a first name, madam?”

The question seemed to surprise her. “Why would you— Yes. Yes, I do. Jessica.”

“Preferable to either Linden or Collier. Very well. My condolences on your recent loss,
Jessica.
I was remiss in not stating that at the outset.”

“My father's death means nothing to me, my lord, as we'd been estranged for several years. But thank you. I only wish to become reacquainted with my brother.”

“Half-brother,” Gideon corrected. “The son of your father and your stepmother, also sadly deceased. You have no questions about that sad event?”

Jessica shrugged her shoulders. “No. Should I? When I read about their deaths in the
Times,
an accident with their coach was mentioned. I'm only glad Adam was away at school, and not in the coach with them.”

“All right,” Gideon said, looking at her carefully. “There's still the matter of a rather large fortune, not to mention the Sussex estate. All of it in trust for your half-brother, who was not estranged from his parents.”

“That's also of no concern to me. I support myself.”

“Clearly,” Gideon said, casting his gaze around the sparsely furnished room. “Bilking raw youths in town on a spree profitable, is it?”

“We don't
bilk
anyone, my lord. We don't allow it. If we see some fool gaming too deep, he's sent on his way.”

“Vowing to sin no more, I'll assume, his ears still ringing from the stern lecture you've administered.”

Jessica looked at him unblinkingly, her brown eyes raking him from head to toe before seemingly settling on his chest; perhaps she wouldn't be so brave if she looked into his eyes. “I don't like you.
Gideon.
”

“I can't imagine why not. Another man wouldn't have answered your summons. I'll admit to curiosity being my motive for obliging you, but please don't hold that against me.”

“And it only took you a month, and then you arrived on my doorstep at this ungodly hour of the night, clearly as an afterthought. Or perhaps your planned evening turned out to be a bore, leaving you at loose ends? I'm sorry, I suppose I should be flattered.”