CHAPTER THREE

      SIMON BELIEVED THE Earl of Saltwood could comfortably fit any three rooms at Singleton Place inside his dining room and still seat a dozen diners. Not that Ravenbill was small; it was a fine estate. But everything about Redgrave Manor was immense. Most families suffered setbacks over the years, the centuries. The Redgraves seemed to have never taken a backward step.

      That meant either unbelievable good luck, or a long line of crafty, intelligent men and women who always chose the right side, the correct moment; when to act, and when to retreat. So how, if what he believed was true, did at least the last two earls reconcile all this bounty with plotting to overthrow the monarchy? It made no sense.

      Unless...

      “I hope you don’t mind,” he said conversationally as the servants passed around yet another course, “but I spent a bit of time earlier with your obliging butler, familiarizing myself with your beautiful home. Quite an interesting and certainly extensive lineup of portraits in your gallery. From the change in dress, I’d have to think the Redgrave line goes back a considerable distance.”

      “Ages, yes,” Kate said from her seat across the wide table. The four of them were gathered at one end of the immense table, with Valentine at the foot and young Adam Collier sitting beside Kate, alternately stuffing his face and attempting discreet peeks at her bosom, fetchingly outlined by her lightly golden silk gown. The puppy. And did he actually believe that pale paste he’d rubbed onto his face really succeeded in covering his spots? Simon sent up silent thanks he was no longer eighteen.

      Valentine took up his fork. “True, Kate. Ages. All the way back to the Stuarts, the first time they held the throne, even before the first earl wrangled himself the title. We carry a few drops of Stuart blood, actually, although you’d have to apply to Gideon for the particulars, as the study of our family tree became lost on me by the time our tutor had got to the fifth branch.”

      “Descended from kings. And you’re not interested?”

      “Good Lord, Simon, who’s even to say what side of the blanket our supposed Stuart was born on in the first place?” Valentine looked to Kate. “And you did not hear me say that.”

      “Oh, no, definitely not. But there is that small portrait of the first King Charles in the long gallery, remember? The one who had his head lopped off?”

      Valentine widened his eyes in what seemed to be real shock. “I really should have paid more attention, shouldn’t I?”

      “I would have. No choice, really,” Adam said, speaking for the first time in long minutes, an interlude he’d clearly felt had been better spent in seeing how many peas he could line up on his knife and then slide into his mouth without dropping any. “My father had me study the monarchies of every last country in creation. Boring stuff mostly, but I haven’t been able to boost it out of my head now it’s there. Charles the first was followed by that Cromwell fellow, and then his son, before the Stuarts came roaring back for a second go at things with Charles the second, but when Queen Anne died, everything went to our first George of the House of Hanover, thanks to a few drops of Stuart blood in him somewhere. You know, Valentine, like you Redgraves.”

      “Yes, of course. My brother should be sitting on the throne right now. Idiot.”

      “I think the Redgraves are smarter than that, Adam,” Lady Katherine said, patting the boy’s arm. “As I said, kings can be beheaded. Kingship was a messy business back then.”

      “They do sillier things than that! Did you know when the Stuarts got back on the throne they dug up Cromwell the first and chopped off his head because the first Charles had his chopped off? I mean, Cromwell had already been dead for dog’s years, but it was a show of power, m’father said. Very important in kingships, showing off your power. Chopping off heads, poisonings, perhaps even drowning royal dukes in barrels of Malmsey wine, whatever that is. Then there were those poor boys in the Tower. Nobody knows who did that, not for certain. You have to be careful most times in not letting what you did get followed back to you, you see, or at least not be the only one who might be blamed. Now, consider Julius Caesar, for one. He was Roman, you know, and—”

      “Eat your peas, Adam,” Valentine instructed wearily, and turned back to Simon. “You’d never think our new relative has been tossed out of every school his late father managed to get him into, would you?”

      “Only five, my lord, not all of them. One burned down—but it wasn’t me who did it, I swear. Mine was only a small fire, nothing quite so spectacular. I still got the boot, though. Picky things, deans,” Adam grumbled, plucking an errant pea out of his lacy neck cloth. “The only reason I’m not in school now, your lordship, is I’m in mourning. Both my dear parents died in a coach accident, you know. The oil from the outside lanterns caught fire when the coach overturned, and they were both burned up. I’m devastated.”

      “Yes,” Simon said blandly as Kate hid her smile behind her serviette. “Yes, I can see that. Allow me to offer my condolences, Mr. Collier.”

      “Well, it was nearly two months ago, and Gideon tells me I’m rich as Croesus now, save for the fact he’s my guardian for another three years, and now that he’s married my sister, I’m family, as well. I’d rather be in London, but it’s as his lordship says, one can’t always have everything one wants, at least not while he’s in charge of me, and he lives only for the day I reach my majority. But he likes me. I’m certain of it. Everybody likes me.”

      This was all said with such artlessness, such nonchalance—and probably a dearth of brainpower backing his words—Simon felt himself unable to reply.

      Kate, however, wasn’t so reticent.

      “That’s because you’re such a lovable looby,” she said, nudging Adam with her elbow.

      The boy carefully patted at his hair, dark and stiff with pomade, so that it probably wouldn’t have moved by a single strand in a gale. “Thank you, Kate.”

      Lady Katherine rolled her eyes. “You’re welcome—looby.”

      “Yes, well, Kate, shall we have our dessert in the main drawing room?” Valentine broke in. “We’ll join you and Adam there in an hour.”

      Kate agreed, and the men all rose as she departed the room, smiling over her shoulder at Simon, who nodded his acknowledgment of her favor. He fought the urge to follow her.

      “You’re going to have brandy and cigars now, aren’t you? I’d rather stay here with you and the marquis. My father and his friends used to step outside after dinner and piss off the balcony into the garden. I think they held contests. Do you do that, too?”

      “We most assuredly do not,” Valentine said coldly. “Or, as my grandmother the dowager countess would say, were you raised by wolves? Now go harass Kate while the grown-ups among us talk.”

      Simon watched the boy mince off in his red-heeled evening shoes and sat down once more. “That’s Turner Collier’s son? Was the man sure? I’d worry my wife had played me false if I ended up with a popinjay like Adam.”

      “Jessica says he’s his mother’s child, down to his ridiculous shoe tops. Jess, um, she left home when he was only twelve, leaving behind, she vows, a sweet, bashful child who sang songs with her. Gideon ended up with the guardianship of him a few months ago, thanks to Collier’s ridiculous will that named the Earl of Saltwood, but didn’t happen to mention which one. You know Collier was involved with the Society in my father’s time, correct? From what we’ve been learning, he was also his closest friend and associate. Wait. Don’t answer yet.”

      The