There was, Gideon had decided long ago, a true dearth of sane men in England.
The Dowager Countess of Saltwood had been married to her late husband at sixteen, had borne her only child at seventeen, buried her husband at twenty-one and been terrorizing society ever since. First it was her son’s guardian who had learned Beatrix Redgrave may not have been in control of her life for those twenty-one years, but she was in control of it now, even if she’d had to bed and then blackmail her son’s guardian to do it until the underage earl reached his majority.
Marriage, to the widowed countess, was little more than a way for men to control women, beget heirs and have someone to satisfy their base desires when they were too lazy or cheese-paring to seek out a whore. Beatrix would not willingly put her head in the marital noose again, although she had rather elevated the discreet taking of lovers to a sort of art form. Reportedly, thanks either to her late husband’s prowess or her own appetites, she was very good at what she did, but whether she truly enjoyed what she did was her secret. Her grandchildren rather thought she did, or she wouldn’t indulge herself quite so much, although they were secretly appalled that she continued to indulge now and then as she drew ever closer to her seventieth birthday.
Mostly, with the marked exception of her grandsons, Trixie, Gideon believed, loathed men as a clearly inferior species.
Now, wafted along on dainty slippers and a soft cloud of the intoxicating scent that was her own special mix, she held out her arms to her oldest grandson, allowing him to capture and kiss her hands. He did take her hands in his, but only so that he could pull her closer, lean in and kiss both her artfully powdered cheeks.
She tilted her head and smiled archly. “Oh, so very vaillant. You must cut a wide swatch through the ladies with that little trick.”
“I can only do my best.”
“Yes, and I hear you do your best quite a lot, you naughty scamp. I can excuse Lady Malvern, I suppose, as she’s passably attractive, save for those unfortunate ears. They’re not her fault, and she usually has the good sense to keep them covered. But the widow Orford? Honestly, pet, that woman’s so tight in her ways, I fear for your eventual progeny. She could take you in and snap you right—”
“Trixie,” he interrupted quickly before his own grandmother could put him to the blush, “what the hell are you up to this time?”
He had to give her credit; she didn’t attempt to dissemble, bat her kohl-darkened lashes and trill, “But whatever do you mean?” No. She simply smiled that smile that had her clear blue eyes sparkling.
“You mean Reggie, don’t you? Max never could keep a secret. I gave the duke a good run, more than he deserved. But I can’t simply let him die peacefully in his bed, now can I? Lilyann Smithers, late of Bath, Tunbridge Wells and the beds of whomever, soon to be the next Wickham duchess? Delicious! Just think, pet. Reggie condemned us Redgraves as not being fit for a peerage, and now his heirs will henceforth descend from a whore who’s been sat in more than any village barber chair, if you take my meaning.”
“I do. I’d go so far as to ask you to tell me where you heard that description, but then you’d tell me.”
“Most probably. In any case, she’s been instructed to tell Reggie of her great and most helpful friendship with me when her husband first introduces her on their return from Gretna. That’s part of our bargain, and I paid dearly for it. Modistes, tutors. Why, I myself taught her the intricacies of proper behavior at table. Comely girl, biddable and really quite fetching, but shocking table manners. In any case, she’s turned into a tolerable silk purse, thanks to my attention, but the sow’s ear of her former, shall we say, occupation? That will soon come to light. I’ll enjoy knowing Reggie will take that realization to hell with him.”
“I can see you’ve put considerable planning into the duke’s downfall. Who was it said it’s women who most delight in revenge?”
“I have no idea, but I should have, because it’s true. You men haven’t the proper appreciation for a well thought-out revenge. I do know the source of my most favorite quote, if that helps you in any way. The dear Pierre Laclos, in his marvelously naughty Les Liaisons dangereuses, warned, ‘Old ladies must never be crossed: in their hands lie the reputations of the young ones.’ Something to keep in mind, pet, although I would protest I’m not yet old. I suppose I will be, someday, but in my mind and heart, I’m only a girl.”
“You were as ancient as sin in your cradle,” Gideon told her, earning himself a playful tap on the forearm as they sat down beside each other. “And if I recall correctly, it ended badly for the conspirators in that immoral tale.”
“Ah, but they were all French. Give me credit for being smarter than any Frenchman, if you please. They chop off heads. How gauche! I’m much more subtle. Now, if you aren’t going to cut up stiff with me about a paltry thing like the soon-to-be late duke—and trust me, his is a paltry thing indeed and sadly lacking in talent—why are you here?”
Gideon smiled sadly. “I’m not certain I remember. Perhaps it’s been too long since I’ve felt dizzy, turned around and around by a crafty old woman who should be minding her knitting.”
“Or her grandson’s children, whom I’ve little hope of at the moment, sadly. Don’t think the widow Orford will give you sons. Her womb has to have shriveled to nothing by now, as she’s at least fifteen years your senior. Really, Gideon, what could you possibly have been thinking, to bed her?”
“Lucile and I aren’t lovers, Trixie. You shouldn’t put credence in every rumor.”
“You’re not tipping her? You greatly relieve my mind. But then, for God’s sake, why are you seeing her? You’ve squired her around the Park at least twice in the past week, and you’ve stood up with her at balls three times. No, four, I nearly forgot Suffolk’s flat affair this past Thursday. It can’t be for her conversation, her wit. She possesses neither.”
“Her late husband was one of my father’s cronies. I was interested in the manner of the man’s death last year. She’s just out of mourning, remember? Cultivating her friendship and confidence seemed the easier way of learning the particulars that might not have become public knowledge.”
“Particulars concerning the manner of his—How perfectly morbid of you. Gideon, why would you even care about a thing like that?”
She was so good at playacting. Nibbling around the corner of the subject would get him nowhere; she was too proficient in deception to be caught out so easily. Which left the direct approach. “My father’s fellow members of that damn Society of his have been dying with alarming frequency of late, Trixie, all of them in a variety of accidents or other misfortunes. Orford, for one. Lady Malvern’s uncle, Sir George Dunmore, for another. I know they were members because they all wore the rose. Are you killing them?”
Her response was swift. She slapped him hard across the face.
He lifted a hand to his burning cheek. “I believe I should be remiss if I didn’t point out that’s not an answer, madam,” he told her coldly.
“Perhaps not, but it was most deserved. What’s going on, Gideon? I’d decided not to ask about the stickpin, waiting for you to tell me, which you would have done eventually. Thank God you’ve stopped. I was not, however, expecting you to come to me today with an absurd inquiry more suited to a man possessing less of the strong intelligence for which I’ve always given you credit.”
“Forgive me. I only learned of your plans for Wickham this morning and probably acted hastily. But twenty years, Trixie? It all happened so long ago. Why bring