“Is that where you went last night, after you left me at Lady Wexford’s? To rut? Who was she? Titled slut, paid whore? Either way, the older ones are always more grateful, ain’t they, if you take my meaning.”
“A gentleman never tells,” Valentine responded evasively as he slid a slim silver box of pastilles from his waistcoat pocket, flicked it open with one hand and popped a scented tablet into his mouth. “Here, for God’s sake take one. It will be an improvement over the sausages you swallowed down when we stopped for luncheon.”
Mailer glared at the contents for a moment, probably considering whether or not he’d just been insulted, and then fished out two pastilles for himself; the fellow was a glutton even in the smallest things. “You want me to tell you first, is that it?” he asked, clearly not letting the subject drop. “Very well. I had to content myself with my own wife, curse the luck. I’d do no worse sticking my cock through a knothole. That would be a large knothole.”
“As you say. Please don’t be too disappointed if I’ll not tease you for a personal inspection,” Valentine said, longing to choke the man.
“Yes, so I say, blast you. Stiff as a board, that woman.”
The silver lid snapped shut. “Then why bother?”
“You’re not leg-shackled, so you wouldn’t know. Got to keep them in line, that’s why. Because they’re women. They’ll do the damndest things if you ever slacken your hold on the leash.”
Like be so desperate as to step off a cliff to be away from you? Or perhaps she tugged too much on the leash and had to be pushed, and that’s why, for wife number two, you chose such a timid mouse? Valentine yawned behind his hand, having grown tired of his role of avid satyr, but sure it was time to trot it out for yet another airing.
“This is why I’m so grateful for our friendship, Charles, and for this invitation to visit your estate. All this wisdom you shower on me. Although, not to insult Lady Caro, if you don’t mind I think I’ll choose my own wife if that day ever dawns. Which I highly doubt. I’ve no need of an heir, for one, and much as I enjoy indulging myself in their anatomy, as a species I find females to be uniformly loathsome and inferior.”
“Enjoy their anatomy. Ha! If you ain’t a card, Redgrave. Believe me, you’ll have plenty to choose from, just as I promised. I knew I liked you, from that first night, even if you took Madame La Rue’s three best dollys up with you, and kept them busy for, what was it—three hours? I heard none of them were fit for service for days afterward.”
“Rumor only, Charles. Only two weren’t fit for service. The third damn near killed me with enthusiasm.” Gad, this is nauseating, especially since the man’s breeches are showing a decided bulge.
In truth, Valentine had treated the three ladies of the evening to several hands of whist and a supper he’d ordered up from the kitchens, and then paid the madam generously so that she’d keep the ladies out of service for a few days, claiming they were too worn for work. Two had napped on the bed until he’d left, but the third had offered herself, an invitation Valentine had turned down as gently as possible, his dedication to Crown and family not extending to a possible bout of the pox.
“As for the other, no insult taken,” Mailer said with a dismissing wave of his hand. The one with a gold ring on the index finger, fashioned in the shape of a fully opened rose.
Valentine couldn’t resist; he would let out a little more line, even while setting the hook deeper. “You know, Charles, I’ve been longing to ask. Barry, my late father, had just such a rose depicted in his portrait at the Long Gallery at Redgrave Manor, only his was in the form of a stickpin. Although the diamond may have been larger.”
“You don’t say?” Mailer held up his hand to inspect the ring, fingers spread, frowning at the diamond at its center. His hand trembled slightly, and he quickly lowered it again. “Gift from my maternal grandfather, actually. M’brother Geoffrey wanted nothing to do with it, said it was gaudy.”
“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