What a Gentleman Desires

“I think it exquisite. A bit of a stick, your brother, I suppose?”

“Too holy by half, yes. And dotty over his wife and kiddies, just like some commoner. M’father, too, for that matter. But Grandfather said I had just the right twinkle in my eye, and should get the rose and all once he’d stuck his spoon in the wall.”

And all? What was all? Could the fool be referring to the costume the Society members wore for their disgusting rites? One like Simon found with his late brother’s belongings? Yes, yes, the plot thickens.

Mailer’s pale eyes narrowed, but when he spoke again his tone was light. Not intelligent, but clever. “I don’t often wear the ring, actually, but only resurrected it to remind myself to be more careful in my pleasures.”

“And doesn’t that sound intriguing. You must tell me about this happy lapse. Perhaps I wish to make the same mistake.”

“I didn’t say it was a mistake, other than in shortening my pleasure.” Mailer smiled as he attempted to remove the ring, but it was stuck tight around his pudgy finger. “Who’s got old Barry’s, do you know? Seems to me I heard the earl himself was seen sporting a rose stickpin for a day or two.”

“Really?” Damn. Gideon only wore the thing to draw out the Society, and only a few times before prudently putting it away again once he understood its true meaning. “As Earl, the bugger inherited a near Midas treasury of geegaws and such. And we all know how vain he is, blast him. I doubt he wears the same stickpin twice in a decade. All while keeping me on a budget that would starve a mouse.”

“Older brothers can be the very devil,” Mailer agreed, dropping the subject in favor of pointing out the coach was about to arrive at his estate. “Ah, and would you look at that. There’s my planklike wife, arrived ahead of us as ordered, and the two whelps, all at attention, awaiting their lord and master. That’s all well and good, but there’d best be ice from the icehouse on the drinks table, or heads will roll.”

Valentine looked out the off window of the coach to see Lady Caro and two young children standing at attention on the drive directly in front of the doors to the place, a double row of servants behind them, lining the steps on either side. Ran a tight ship, Lord Mailer did, and didn’t everyone look so happy to see him? They all (save a pair of yapping dogs, who probably greeted everyone with near-insane anticipation) could have been facing a full firing squad for all the joy in anyone’s eyes.

How wonderful he’d thought to position a plain coach at the inn they’d last passed along the roadway; he’d seen his coachman, Twitchill, lounging on a bench just outside the inn door. The man had put a finger to his slouch hat as the Mailer coach rolled past. Valentine considered it prudent to never enter into anyone’s front door without knowing a quick way out the back, as it were. Having to rely on Lord Charles for return transport to London held no appeal.

His gaze slid lastly to the tall, slender, plainly dressed, rather round-shouldered young woman who stood off to the right, darkly scowling behind her spectacles while doing her best to control the two small white dogs on their leashes. He may not have seen her at all, were it not for the yapping dogs, and the way a thin, watery sun seemed to find and catch at streaks of gold in her darkly red hair. Hair she had scraped back tightly into a bun thicker than his fist.

Was he the only one who noticed she seemed to be in costume? Damn Perceval for an interring nuisance, clearly sending a watchdog to spy on him. And to prefer some barque of frailty over him? Or was she only in disguise thanks to his reputation, so that he wouldn’t pursue her? Insulting, that’s what that was, either way.

“Lovely family, Charles, and clearly a well-schooled staff,” he said, leaning back against the squabs once more. “But who’s the drab?”

Mailer poked his head front and peered out as the coach door was opened and the steps pulled down, then laughed. “Ah, the redoubtable Miss Marchant. A piece of work, that one, but she seems able to control m’wife and the brats. Pity she’s plain as a pikestaff and nearly as skinny. Can’t abide a woman without tits. Tits and hips, and the more the better, right? A man deserves something soft to land in, I say.”

And as he’d said all of this, Mailer was stepping onto the gravel, his words clearly heard by everyone. Miss Marchant, his children, his staff and, most certainly, his painfully thin little wife. The dogs, whose yapping might have been helpful, had instantly quieted and were even now lying hunched on their fat bellies, as if hoping to disappear into the ground.

“My lord,” Lady Caroline said, dropping into a curtsy, tugging at the female child’s skirts so that she did, as well, while the boy bowed to his father. “Mr. Redgrave. Welcome.” She then turned to the governess. “Daisy? If you’ll return them to the nursery, please?”

Half dragging the reluctant dogs, the woman shuffled over to the small gathering and gave a quick, eyes-averted curtsy to the gentlemen before bringing the children to heel with a discreet clearing of her throat.

“Daisy, is it?” Valentine drawled, leaning his head slightly forward to attempt to discern the color of her downcast eyes. “That won’t be difficult to remember. My sister’s mare is named Daisy. Oddly enough, she’s also a chestnut. Do you ride well, Daisy Marchant?”

Mailer gave a snort of laughter and pounded Valentine on the back in glee, nearly sending him reeling, even as the governess raised her eyes for a moment, a split second, no more, to glare daggers at them both.

Ah. Blue. Huge, and blue, and intelligent...and you’d enjoy nothing more than turning my guts into garters. Miss Daisy Marchant, you’ve done it now...and we will meet again.

* * *

“I CANONLY apologize again, Daisy,” Lady Caro said miserably as she sat in front of her dressing table, bony shoulders slumped and eyes threatening to spill over with tears yet again. “His lordship never thinks to mind his tongue.”

Daisy pulled the pair of silver-backed brushes through her ladyship’s long blond hair. She’d been summoned to minister to her mistress, not an uncommon demand. Seven-year-old Lydia and three-year-old William had been tucked up after their porridge and left in charge of the nurse an hour earlier, and now it was time for the mistress of the household to go downstairs to play hostess again for her guest once the men left their brandy and cigars behind them in the dining room.

If Daisy could only get the woman to move. Lord knew she couldn’t seem to get her to eat this past month. And when she did force down a few bites, as when taking her meals with guests, she more often than not, like tonight, then ran upstairs to vomit into her chamber pot.

She’d believed the woman ill, or increasing, but after overhearing Lord Mailer this afternoon, she was now nursing another theory. The woman had begun starving herself in order to avoid her husband’s attentions. In Lady Caro’s place, she knew she might have done the same thing...although she felt fairly certain she’d be more inclined to bounce a brick off his flaming red head. Perhaps she should suggest...?

But not now. First Daisy had a few questions she’d like answered before hopefully convincing her to return to the drawing room. “And Mr. Redgrave? I suppose we can say the same about him for his remarks?”

Lady Caroline looked into the mirror at Daisy’s reflection. “I don’t know. That was all so confusing to me. He was ever so kind to me in London. Perhaps it was only because you’re a servant, although that shouldn’t make a difference, should it? Not if he’s a real gentleman.”

“Perhaps that’s the answer. He’s no real gentleman.”

“Although quite well set up, don’t you think? And clean.” The woman put her hands to her pale cheeks. “Oh, dear, I shouldn’t have said that. Because I’m not in the least interested, of course. Still, if one has to, at least he’s...” Her voice trailed off on a sigh.

Daisy let Lady Caroline’s mind go off on whatever tangent she wished, giving herself permission to reflect (not for the first time), on the physical attributes of Mr. Valentine Redgrave.

She wondered first at his age, as she was all of two and twenty, not that such a fact would ever come into play, seeing as how he’d just hours earlier compared her to a horse, and then added that unspeakable innuendo about riding. Still, she thought he was probably no more than a few years her senior, as time had yet to carve a single line in his definitely handsome face.

His hair was a marvel, in such complete opposite to his finely cut clothes that seemed to caress his slimly muscular body, showing off his straight shoulders and strong thighs. From the neck down, he was the compleat gentleman, the pride of his tailor, but from the cravat up? That amused slash of mouth, that faintly foreign aquiline nose, that thick riot of nearly black hair that blew about his face? He appeared a paradox, his perfect features softening, making him look younger than his years. Approachable. Touchable...

But it was his eyes that had intrigued her most. They were not simply brown, but amber, long-lashed and—had it been her imagination?—sympathetic. She could actually imagine his eyes apologizing for the humiliating words coming from his mouth.

But that was ridiculous. He had come to Fernwood in Charles Mailer’s company, hadn’t he? That was really all Daisy needed to know.

“I’m feeling better now, thank you, Daisy. I suppose you can stop now.”

Daisy shook herself back to attention. How long had she been brushing the woman’s hair to help ease her headache? Long enough to feel a cramp between her purposely stooped shoulder blades. “Very good, madam. Shall I call Davinia now to put up your hair once more?”

Lady Caroline’s sigh was audible, almost trembling: nearly a shudder. “Yes, I can put this off no longer, although it’s just Mr. Redgrave this evening. Tomorrow there will be others and it will only grow worse. Charles hasn’t even told me any names. Which could be more terrible, do you think? Knowing, or not knowing? Oh, now I’m saying too much. Perhaps some few drops of laudanum sprinkled on my handkerchief...?”

Daisy patted the woman’s shoulder, wishing there were some way she could protect her. But there wasn’t. Not yet. “And have you falling asleep, your nose in your teacup? Wouldn’t that be a silly thing? You’ll be fine, I promise you. Do you remember what I told you?”

Caroline nodded. “Speak only of the weather and my stepchildren and everyone will go away, believing me a dead bore. Which I am, you know. I don’t understand the half of what anyone says, and seem to laugh at all the incorrect times. They make me so nervous. They’re all so hard, so brittle.”

And they show up every full moon, just like some mythical beasts risen from the depths, claws and fangs out and ready to pounce. Ah, Rose, how frightened you must have been when you realized your fate. But this time, sweet sister, this full moon, perhaps I’ll be able to learn more....

“Daisy? Daisy, you’re hurting me.”

Daisy quickly removed her hand from Caro’s shoulder, unaware she’d begun digging her fingertips into the woman’s soft flesh. But she felt so useless. She hadn’t been able to help her sister. She couldn’t help this woman. Not yet. Not until she fully understood what was happening. Because there was more happening than she’d first been forced to believe.

“Forgive me, ma’am. My mind must have gone off wandering.”

“And clearly not to a pleasant place,” Lady Caroline said, rubbing at her thin shoulder. “I’m sorry if I upset you. I’m much better now, I promise. Yes, decidedly better. It must be my monthly flux that has me so upset.”

Such intimate talk never made Daisy comfortable, especially Lady Caroline’s seeming obsession with her monthly flux. “Is it so very painful?”

“Only in that it has not yet arrived,” Lady Caroline said as Daisy lifted a small silver bell and rang for Davinia, who was doubtless already listening at the keyhole.

Daisy didn’t care for Davinia, a sour-faced old woman who may be her ladyship’s maid, but clearly knew her quarterly wages emanated from his lordship’s purse.

“She tells him, you know,” Caroline whispered quickly, as if able to read Daisy’s thoughts. “I can’t lie, because she tells him. Shh, here she comes. You go back up to the nursery now, Daisy, and don’t bother to think you need must be here when I return.” She raised her voice slightly. “Davinia takes very good care of me—don’t you, Davinia?”

The older woman said nothing, but merely waved Daisy away and began twisting Caroline’s hair back into its original topknot, ready to be strung through with paste pearls.

Daisy curtsied, wished her mistress a good evening and gratefully escaped the dressing room, stepping into the hallway without first checking to see if it was empty, and rolled her shoulders a time or two to relax them as she straightened her posture. Not a mistake she would have made if her mind weren’t so otherwise occupied.