Kasey Michaels - What a Gentleman Desires

“Bah,” said the prime minister, clearly immune to both Valentine’s physical presence and his nonsense. “Sit down, Redgrave. I’m not to be taken in like some raw schoolboy. You’re as cooperative as a room full of cats. What have you and our unexpected Romeo discovered?”

“Not me. Oh, no, not me, just as you so cleverly surmised. I’m afraid I was busy elsewhere, on a mission having much more to do with the simpler pleasures in life.”

“A woman. Perhaps several—an entire clutch of fair females. Your reputation precedes you, carefully constructed as it is, to cover your occasional work for some high-ranking government idiot who actually trusts you. But friend to that someone or not, a dank cell awaits you if you don’t soon drop this charade and come to the point.”

Ah. Spencer Perceval wasn’t stupid, and he knew about Val’s occasional service, even if he didn’t know the man or the department. Hell’s bells, he probably didn’t know the department even existed. Such was the amount of secrecy these days, what with spies everywhere from the low to the high, working for either political belief or pay, it didn’t much matter. But a too-interested Perceval was a dangerous Perceval, and to be avoided at all costs.

“A thousand apologies, I’m sure, but I find myself totally at sea. Me, working? I hardly think so. That was the answer you expected, wasn’t it?” When the prime minister smiled at last, Val neatly split his coattails and seated himself once more, this time leaning his forearms on his strong thighs and clasping his hands together between his knees, his posture all business. “All right, then, now that we’re through dancing about, fruitlessly hoping for ripe plums of information to drop out of each other’s mouths, let’s get to it. Thankfully, I do have some progress to report.”

“Spencer, darling, I thought you’d be— Oh. I didn’t realize...”

Valentine rose immediately and took his handsome, ingratiating self across the width of the intimate room, to bow over the lady’s nervously offered hand. “How very good to see you again, dear lady. I vow, it has been an age. Too long...yes, yes, indeed. Wherever has this brute been hiding you?”

“The... That is, our two youngest were ill with the measles, and I didn’t wish to— Mr. Redgrave, you can release my hand now, for I’ve been married to this good gentleman long enough to know not to quiz you on why you’re here. However, Spencer, if I might see you for a moment?”

Perceval was already beside her, and glaring at Valentine. “I’ll return directly. In the meantime, Redgrave, sit yourself down again—and for God’s sake, don’t touch anything.”

Valentine managed to look crestfallen, abashed and wickedly amused, all at one and the same time. It was also an art, this ability of his to play many roles at once for his audience, and if his brilliance didn’t impress the crusty prime minister, it still worked wonders with his lady wife, who scolded, “Spencer, that was rude.”

“Yet, alas, dear lady, a verbal spanking well deserved,” Val said, bowing once more.

He waited until the pair had adjourned to the hallway before helping himself to the wine he’d first offered the prime minister and re-taking his seat as ordered, planning to use this unexpected interlude to align his thoughts. There were things Perceval knew, things he could never know and things he needed to be told. It was all a matter of carefully—keeping to the fowl theme of the evening thus far—lining up his ducks in their proper rows.

Valentine began with a mental listing of things the prime minister knew: The Redgraves had “stumbled over,” as Gideon had so obliquely put it, the existence of a group within the government plotting to assist Bonaparte and help overthrow the Crown. As proof of his words, Gideon had handed over evidence supposedly found near Redgrave Manor that supplies meant for the king’s troops massing on the Peninsula were about to be diverted elsewhere. Gideon also had given the man two names: Archie Upton and Lord Charles Mailer, both employed by the government. Upton was dead now, Mailer was being watched. Perceval was also gifted with an entire bag of moonshine about both men being part of a “secret society” possibly operating in the area, and the prime minister had assigned Simon Ravenbill to go to the estate to investigate.

Perceval knew there was more to it than that, must be wondering about the depth of the Redgrave involvement, but had prudently not asked. Yet.

Then there was what the prime minister could not be privy to: this particular secret society could be traced back to the time of Valentine’s father and grandfather. A hellfire club with a carefully concealed history of attempted treason mixed in among the seemly mandatory satanic rites and naughty sexual antics so in vogue with such groups of powerful and ambitious men. Men who believed themselves both entitled to such pleasures and immune to discovery and scandal (until they were proven wrong, on both counts). The Redgraves wanted to help, not be thrown into prison as likely suspects!

Then there was the news Simon and Kate had sent to him, which had to be told: information, gold coin, spies and quite a bit of opium made the crossing between the beach at Redgrave Manor and France...or at least it had done until Simon and a band of unnamed local smugglers had put a stop to this traffic a scant two weeks ago.

Unfortunately, the prime minister would also have to be told the Redgraves had learned nothing more about the identities of the current members. No names, no other locations had been found. The Society had definitely used the estate, its caves and handy beach, but they hadn’t left their mark there.

There was one name, that much was true: one Society member who had acted as leader of the smugglers. But as the captured man had chosen suicide over confession, his body quietly disposed of at sea, Valentine had decided Perceval didn’t need to know of that small failure, or of Simon’s dire warning: “A leader who can convince others to kill themselves in order to protect him is a deadly dangerous man surrounded by worshipful fanatics. Be alert at all times, strike first and, for God’s sake, don’t bother attempting to capture any of them alive. If you hesitate, you’ll die, and Kate will be exceedingly out of humor with you.”

An unlovely thought all-around, Valentine believed, excluding the leavening remark about his sister, and advice he’d committed to memory. Perceval would scoff at such dramatics, being the coolheaded logical Englishman to his core, but the fiery Spanish blood in Val’s veins believed nothing impossible when it came to his fellow man.

As to the Redgraves themselves, their own family history? Ah, much had been learned there thanks to Val’s brother Gideon, their sister, Kate, and Simon Ravenbill, and even the dowager countess, who’d had the misfortune to witness the first two incarnations of the Society.

But none of that more sordid history would ever be shared with the prime minister. It was certainly true that, because of that family history, the Redgraves were better armed to defeat the Society...but they were also more vulnerable to having that salacious history made public knowledge. That would never do!

And so, with the Crown’s help—and, truthfully, preferably without it—the Redgraves would put a stop to the Society, for reasons both patriotic and personal.

Gideon had done his part, uncovering the existence of the Society in the first place, and Kate and Simon had put an end to the smuggling. Now, with their brother Maximillien on the Continent, tracking clues on that end, it was up to Valentine to take up the trail that, once followed, could destroy the Society forever, protect the Crown from the greedy Bonaparte, and tuck the scandalous Redgrave history away once and for all.