Because if Gideon had told her he loved her, she would have told him she loved him, too, I love you quite truly.
And that, at least according to Mildred, would be the worst thing she could do.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
GIDEON WATCHED JESSICA as she kept her head bent slightly, as if she needed to keep all her concentration on the luncheon plate in front of her. Perhaps she was remembering how their evening had ended and wondered if she believed she’d reneged on some sort of marital agreement they’d made. My protection in exchange for your body. That was a lowering thought and didn’t make him feel particularly proud.
Then again, was what they had really a marriage, except in the legal sense of the word? He had a quick, fleeting thought of Jessica and him lounging on the grass at Yearlings, one of his smaller estates, located in prime horse country. Just the two of them, alone—talking, laughing, getting to know each other far from London and any thoughts about a possible lethal legacy of his father’s damn Society.
It seemed so unfair that they couldn’t have that. Or could they?
He hadn’t seen her since he’d pressed a kiss against her hair that morning and left her to snuggle deeper beneath the covers. He’d rather prided himself on the fact he hadn’t attempted to kiss her awake, hadn’t attempted a lot more. Perhaps he was learning restraint. It was a new experience for a man who had never really questioned his belief that he could take what he wanted because…No, he had no ending for that thought. At least none that wouldn’t make him uncomfortable.
In any event, he’d hurried his valet through the chores of bathing and dressing, and ordered his mount brought around front before the clock had struck nine, an ungodly hour for any gentleman of the ton to be out and about in Mayfair unless he was finding his way home after a long night.
A discreet enquiry at one of his clubs—meaning, a gold coin slipped into the gloved hand of the majordomo—had given him the direction of one Marquis of Singleton, for all the good that had done him. It was hours too early to leave his card, but at least now he knew where the man lived, in case he decided to pay him a visit.
From there, he had gone to Cavendish Square, brushing past a disapproving Soames and heading straight for his grandmother’s bedchamber. After all, thanks to the recently deceased Marquis of Mellis, he now knew the way.
He learned three things during that very brief visit.
One, Trixie had no recollection of a Ravenbill ever being mentioned as a member of the society.
Secondly, there was a reason no one saw his grandmother before two in the afternoon. Gideon’s conclusion was nobody would want to, not if they’d sleep nights! He’d found Trixie still abed, lying on her back in the very center of the large mattress as if she’d been laid out for a viewing, her hands and arms wrapped in thick, greasy-looking cotton gauze, her hair dark with some sort of pomade, and her face, neck and chest slathered with a lavishly applied cream the color of spring leaves. The room was hot, and smelled of at least six different scents; some medicinal, some flowery, none of them particularly appealing.
And, lastly, he’d learned that, petite as she was, old as she was, Beatrix Redgrave could launch a silver candlestick more than twenty-five feet with deadly accuracy.
Absently rubbing at his left shoulder—he’d been too shocked to duck quite fast enough—he finally broke the not completely companionable silence of the luncheon table. “I saw Trixie this morning. She sees no connection between the Marquis of Singleton and the society.”
Jessica laid down her fork. “But Ravenbill? Bird?”
He shrugged. “Coincidence? Or it proves we were right to conclude they’re no longer confining membership to eldest sons, which seems eminently logical. In other words, I don’t think we can dismiss Simon Ravenbill as yet. I’m much more concerned with your belief you saw him several years ago.”
“Wearing a French uniform,” Jessica pointed out, and now she was turning the fork over and over on the tabletop. “I know it was him. I just don’t know what it means.”
Gideon felt the impulse to go around the table and take her in his arms, swear to her that no one would ever hurt her, not while he lived. He wouldn’t allow it. But fear was fear, and he wasn’t immune to the feeling; he had to protect her.
“It could mean two things,” he told her. “If the Society is somehow aligned with the enemy, he could have been there to help further their cause with Bonaparte. Either that, or he’s working for our government. The former worries me, the latter possibly more so, as we wouldn’t want to do anything that might jeopardize whatever role he’s playing and put him in danger.”
Jessica blinked at him. “I hadn’t thought of that possibility. It would make what he said to Lady Caro and Mrs. Urban last night take on an entire new meaning. It would have been a threat, or even a dare, wouldn’t it?”
“It would, yes. The man may be playing his own game. No matter which scenario we could choose, I believe we need to stay out of Singleton’s way until we know more. Hell, Jessica, at the moment, seeing you with those women, he may believe I’m a part of the Society.”
“If he’s even aware of the Society,” Jessica pointed out correctly. “Perhaps he’s been watching them because of what they’re doing, perhaps he has suspicions of his own or the government has suspicions for some reason. But perhaps only Lord Charles and Mr. Urban are suspects. They may have no idea of the scope of the conspiracy, that there’s a devil’s dozen of them plus anyone they might be blackmailing into cooperating with them. There are so many possibilities, far too many of them. We were chasing murderers, that’s how this began for you, and I was attempting to protect Adam. We’re out of our depth now, Gideon.”
And now they’d come to the heart of the matter.
“I agree. We’ll soon have a different theory for every day of the week, won’t we? It’s the deaths of the more longtime members that started it all, just as you said. That, and a tree branch poking a hole in the Redgrave mausoleum. I certainly didn’t go into this with any thoughts of stumbling into anything quite so dangerous. My father has a lot to answer for, doesn’t he, even twenty years dead?”
“Your father, and mine. But there’s something else to consider. If my father hadn’t died, you and I would never have met, would we? I wouldn’t have approached you about Adam, you wouldn’t have learned what happened five years ago, you wouldn’t have confronted Trixie—none of it. Those murders may have been the worst mistake the Society could make. Gideon, we know so much, but clearly not enough.”
That wasn’t precisely true, but Gideon knew this wasn’t the moment to tell her he did know one thing, one very important thing: it was time for Jessica to be as far from London as possible. He’d have to ease his way into the subject, however; he’d already ducked one candlestick today.
“For the moment, let’s concentrate on the marquis. I won’t ask you again if you’re positive you recognized him, but I will ask you to once more consider if he may have recognized you.”
She shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. I had the hood of my cloak raised, and I stayed behind Richard for the most part. But I suppose it’s possible he might recognize Richard, and then remember me.”
“Yes. Richard. We’ll have to do something about that, won’t we?”
Jessica lowered her head into her hands. “Yes, I know. Poor Richard, he loves London so. You’ll send him off?”
“Only as far as Redgrave Manor.” He took his chance. “And you with him.”
Her head shot up, her eyes gone wide. “What? But why?”
“Because, either way, Jessica, patriot or traitor, if Singleton recognized you last night or his memory