But there was still the matter of the tunnels at Redgrave Manor, the lights seen moving through the trees, both easily explained when set apart from everything else, but damned unnerving when put together with everything else. He’d already discarded the idea of some sort of treasure; whatever was going on was much more malignant than a mere treasure hunt.
After returning Jessica to Portman Square with orders she lie down for a nap, he’d gone back to his grandmother with more questions. Trixie had completed his education in the ways of the Society as it had been in his father’s time. But she wouldn’t speak about his mother or what had happened that last morning, only to say her son’s death had been for the best, for the sake of the country he would betray, for the sake of the family his growing madness could destroy.
Gideon hadn’t pushed her for more. He could readily see the toll these past days had taken on her. He left her with her damn pug dogs, a glass of wine and Soames, who had actually sat down on the one-armed lounge just as if this familiarity was nothing out of the ordinary. He’d drawn Trixie’s legs up onto his lap and had begun massaging her lady’s bare feet and slim calves with fragrant oil. This didn’t shock Gideon. He’d passed beyond being shocked, he’d supposed, and his grandmother was entitled to anything that pleased her, damn it!
But now he had to concentrate, using the information Trixie had given him. In the past year, six men had been murdered. The Marquis of Mellis probably would have been the seventh, just as Trixie had supposed. The Society had killed off its remaining original members or their descendants from Barry Redgrave’s time, but the Society itself was not dead. No, what his grandfather had begun, what his father had resurrected and enlarged, had fallen victim to some sort of coup. That was the only sensible answer.
But for what reason, to what purpose? To be rid of old, dead wood more interested in brandy, a comfortable chair by the fire, a dog napping nearby, than they were in the debauchery the Society had been formed for in the first place? To remove those who disagreed, silence dissent? To make room for members who could be of more use?
There was one thing about the deaths of those members to cheer Gideon: they were the last to know of Trixie’s intimate knowledge of the Society. Otherwise, he couldn’t feel certain of her safety, her immunity to becoming another “sad accident.”
His grandfather had been a strong leader. With his death, the Society had fragmented. His father had been a strong leader. With his death the Society had lost its purpose over and above its base obsessions. The rites had continued, however, including the induction of a new member five years ago, when Jessica was nearly made a part of the ceremony.
But Trixie had seemed certain Turner Collier would not have voluntarily offered his daughter. Had he been intimidated in some way, threatened?
James Linden had seen or heard something on the day of the proposed ceremony that had frightened him enough to take Jessica and run.
The king is dead, long live the king.
That was the answer, the only logical answer.
There was a new leader of the Society. Perhaps it was that leader who had demanded a well-born vestal virgin be brought to him five years ago, just to demonstrate his power. A strong leader, someone like Barry Redgrave, someone who looked at the Society and saw an opportunity for personal greatness, just as Barry had done.
Gideon was back to the same question: opportunity for what? What in bloody hell had he stumbled onto?
At least he had two names.
Lord Charles Mailer, second son of the Earl of Vyrnwy.
Archie Urban, no title, but a family name that stretched back to William the Conqueror.
Both men were in their primes, although Urban at least had to be nearly fifty. Neither was a society fribble; both were considered to be smart, patriotic servants of the Crown during this time of war. Lord Charles volunteered his services to the Admiralty. Urban was one of the many undersecretaries to the Prime Minister. Both were members of the Society, two of the devil’s thirteen.
Trixie had explained how it all worked during his father’s time, this matter of guests: members of the Society would invite carefully selected persons to join them in their fun; to prance about in robes and masks, chanting satanic nonsense as they indulged their most base desires and depravities with willing or even notso-willing women…or whatever pleasure they craved. All quite sophisticated and civilized.
Oh, there’ll be a foxhunt in the morning, with a lovely dinner to follow. Do bring your lady wife if you wish, I’m sure we’d all enjoy having her.
And then would come the day when the demands for favors in exchange for not telling the world of those depravities would be issued, blackmailing them to gain their cooperation. Over and over and over again.
Both the other members and any guests controlled by a strong leader, one who knew everything and could exploit their weaknesses. In time of war.
“My God,” Gideon moaned, slicing his fingers through his hair. “Madness. Just…madness.”
It was imperative he learn the other names.
Hammer. What could that mean? Would it be something that rhymed with hammer? Was it the opposite of hammer? In the same general family as a hammer? Sharp, compared to the dull, blunt face of a hammer?
Weaver. Could that be literal? No, too easy.
Bird. Too many species to narrow that down.
Burn. Fire? Its opposite—what was the opposite of fire?
No, it was impossible to guess.
There was no choice but to go after the known, Lord Charles and Archie Urban. But first he would check on Jessica and tell her what he and Trixie had decided.
It was time for some sort of good news. He pushed himself away from the desk, not bothering to don the jacket he’d hung on the back of his chair earlier, along with the neck cloth he’d stripped off at the same time, and headed upstairs in his shirtsleeves.
He passed Mildred in the upstairs hallway. “Is she still asleep?” he asked the maid.
“No, my lord,” Mildred answered, attempting to curtsy while holding a silver tray cluttered with crockery. “Her ladyship’s up and fed and telling us she’s fine to go downstairs if she wants to. Doreen and me, we told her she didn’t want to. Never saw anyone quite so pale and wobbly on her pins as her ladyship was when you brought her home, sir.”
“Yes, thank you, Mildred. See to it we’re not disturbed.”
The maid rolled her eyes. “Well, if you think it might put some color back in her cheeks, I suppose it’s—”
“I’m not asking your permission, Mildred,” Gideon said, trying to look imperious, which was more difficult than he would have imagined only a few short weeks ago.
“No, your lordship,” Mildred agreed, a hint of color entering her own cheeks. “I suppose you think you know best. Well, then, sir, I’ll just leave you to it. Doreen’s downstairs, so you’re safe enough there.”
“And ain’t I just the fortunate one,” Gideon mumbled under his breath as he watched the maid as she scurried off toward the back of the house and the servant staircase. The entire household would know within moments that his lordship had taken his ladyship to bed, and in the middle of the afternoon, no less, but then, that was the quality for you. He wondered if there’d be cheering. He supposed this was what happened when a doxy turned lady’s maid, but it would take some getting used to, even if he’d been grateful for the candles and the rose petals.
He knocked lightly at the door and then depressed the latch, not waiting to be invited to enter his bride’s bedchamber. It didn’t occur to him that she might not wish his company, but if it had, her smile of greeting would have calmed those fears.
“Have you come to free me?” she asked him from her seated position on the high tester bed, her ivory