What a Gentleman Desires. Kasey Michaels
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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.
And if they wanted him dead?
It was going to take more than a swordstick to protect him if he made a misstep. More than the stiletto tucked in his boot or the small pistol stuck into an inside pocket of his hacking jacket.
At least he had cleared one possible distraction out of his way. The so timid and sad Lady Caroline would be confined to her rooms. She was safer there, he hoped, and at least she wouldn’t be looking down the dining table at him with pleading eyes, or sadly staring at the wall, her mind gone somewhere else, making him want to forget he still needed Charles Mailer breathing. He contented himself by thinking the woman would make a much happier widow.
Now to get rid of Perceval’s so-obvious agent. He worked most effectively alone, without having to worry about anyone else getting in the way and muddying the waters. Especially a woman, damn it.
Leisurely swinging his cane, Valentine set off across the scythed lawns in search of the patently false governess and her charges, telling himself he was merely interested in rousting the woman from the estate.
But perhaps he wouldn’t shoo her back to Downing Street quite yet...not before he had satisfied his curiosity to see Miss Daisy Marchant with her hair down....
* * *
“I WANTTO go inside, Daisy,” seven-year-old Lydia complained. “My boots are pinching. Why did we have to wear boots? I don’t like it here. It’s muddy, and it smells.”
Daisy gritted her teeth, inwardly cursing Valentine Redgrave for a slugabed. Did he really think children slept past the first crowing rooster of the morning? They’d been up, and fed, and dragged into the fresh air before the dew had left the grass, and she would soon be at her wits’ end to keep them amused...and out of doors.
“I told you, sweetheart, I’ve decided upon a lesson in botany, and that’s why we’re in the greenhouse, to learn the names of all the pretty flowers.” And to stay out of sight of the windows of the house, and Lord Charles Mailer, not that Mr. Redgrave seems to be a man of his word.
Lydia grinned rather evilly. “Willie doesn’t care about botany. He’s eating dirt out of that pot over there.”
“Oh, laws—now I remember why I take care my usual charges are all above the age of ten. William, stop that!” Daisy hastened across the hard dirt floor to where the child was happily smearing dark, rich soil over his chubby cheeks. “What on earth do you think you’re doing, young man?”
Willie looked up at her, his small baby teeth and round blue eyes shining in his otherwise muddy brown face, and shrugged.
Clearly, Daisy thought, the boy was a prodigy. He didn’t answer her because it should be obvious to her what he was doing. Either that, or the child would eat anything that even vaguely resembled food, which was more likely.
She picked him up at the waist and held him at arms’ length in order to carry him to a nearby trough and pump, where she made short work out of cleaning his hands and face, which didn’t mean her plain morning gown came away from the exercise in pristine condition. Her cuffs were soggy and there were a few splashes of mud on her