What a Gentleman Desires (12 page)

And the world would go on, wouldn’t it? The world always went on.

“Come on,” Valentine said at last, breaking the kiss, taking her hand once more. “Let’s get you safely back inside before any of the servants stir in the kitchens.”

When they got to the servant entrance, he pulled her spectacles from his pocket and put them on her, carefully wrapping the flimsy wires behind her ears. “You know, I’m almost beginning to like these,” he told her, and then kissed her one more time. “I’ll find you tomorrow, I promise.”

She took hold of his sleeve. “Valentine? What about the boy? You can’t let them...you know what I mean.”

“They’re sending Charfield, so I’ll follow him. I’ll see to it he fails. Just don’t ask me how, because you may not want to know.”

“I don’t care what you do, not to any of them,” she said quietly, wishing he’d kiss her again, but knowing they couldn’t risk being seen together. “You’re going upstairs, as well?”

“Either that, or for a dip in the pond, hoping the water is cold.” He smiled at her look of confusion, shook his head. “You really have no idea what I’m saying, do you? I can’t tell you how wonderful I find it that you are, for all your varied and sometimes astonishing knowledge, still less than proficient in some areas. Good night, my brave Daisy.”

“Good night,” she said, lifting her hand to rather weakly wave at him. She watched his shadowy figure in the moonlight until he was gone, her fingers to her lips, and then turned and headed for her bed. For the first time in a long time, she was eager to say her evening prayers, at last remembering what her father had taught her long ago:
you don’t blame God, Daisy, for the sins and shortcomings of mankind.

And life did, eventually, move on....

CHAPTER EIGHT

“M
ASTER
V
ALENTINE
, it’s time you were dressed.”

“Not yet, Piffkin,” Valentine said as he sat in his banyan, still damp from his bath, turning yet another page in Daisy’s journal.

“You’re reading the parts you promised not to read, sir. I feel it necessary to point that out. You undoubtedly swore on your honor as a gentleman.”

“Daisy says I did. I don’t recall. Piffkin, listen to this. ‘I know Rose is the elder of us two, but I have always felt myself to be of a more practical mind. Papa’s last words to me were to take care of Rose, and I have always striven to do so. Her marriage relieved me of that responsibility for some time, but with Walter now gone these last months, may he rest in everlasting peace, Rose most naturally turns to me, and I am delighted we are so close once more. She will one day find love again, smile again, how could she not? I suppose some may envy her immense beauty, her thick blond curls, her sweet and gentle nature, but I cannot. We are who we are, and I have always loved her dearly. I can only worry about her choice to continue to reside in London while she is in such straitened circumstances, most especially while I am forced to remain in this position with the Beckwiths, so far away from her. I have moved in an older lady fallen on difficult times, Miss Hopkins, to bear Rose company, and will send funds whenever I can. I will only hope to find a position closer to London as soon as possible, perhaps even in London itself.’”

Valentine closed the journal. “That entry was over six months ago.”

“Poor duckie, she has to feel responsible for the rest of it, what you read to me from the pages she allowed. It’s a terrible thing when a parent charges a child with such heavy responsibility, and not at all fair, to my way of thinking.”

“True. It was bad enough I was charged with keeping Kate out of trees,” Valentine said, trying to shake the dark mood that threatened to envelop him once more, that had been pressing heavily on his shoulders ever since he’d read the journal last night.

“As I recall, you failed. Abysmally.” Piffkin began busying himself choosing his master’s outfit for the day. “But do go on. What are you thinking, sir?”

“I’m sure you know. Daisy is the most calm, clear-headed, single-minded and resolute person you could ever imagine, and that’s taking into consideration her long overdue, I’m sure, bout of tears last night. Witness those journal entries we read, Piffkin. She set herself off with barely any information, yet managed to both track down Mailer
and
get herself installed in the household.”

“Much to admire in the young miss, yes, I agree. Unless one chooses to call her pig-headed, and impervious to considering her own welfare. Sir.”

“Well, yes, I’ll concede you that one. But there’s no denying we have to admire her courage. Imagining kidnapping, enforced servitude—as close as I imagine Daisy could come to saying
kept mistress.
She’d remained hopeful the woman was still alive, awaiting rescue. She’s now convinced her sister is dead—how ironic that her name was Rose—and wishes only to find out what happened, and the location of the body so she can return her sister to their parents in some church graveyard. Now, no thanks to me, she’s also got a head full of nightmares concerning
how
Rose died, and if I’m right, a belly full of determination to make those who killed her suffer. You know what this means, Piffkin.”

“It means you’re even more in charity with the brave Miss Marchant than you were, and with good reason. Perhaps even bordering on enchanted.”

“Well, yes, I suppose it does, you old romantic you. I don’t often kiss a woman and then walk away and leave it at that, but my only thoughts last night were for her, and not frightening her after she’d heard what she’d heard. Piffkin, if you also keep a journal you may want to make a special entry today. Your lifelong charge may be growing up—astonishing, isn’t it?”

“I agree. And at only the tender age of five and twenty. Mind-boggling.”

Valentine grinned at him. “But to get back to what last night and this journal has taught us, mostly this means I couldn’t budge Daisy out of here with a battalion of soldiers at my back. She wants answers, she’s looking for some sort of justice if not revenge, and she won’t stop until she gets them both.”

“She also wants the whereabouts of the corporeal remains of the body, as you pointed out earlier. Some people put quite a bit of store by things like that. Knowing where your deceased lie, visiting, bringing posies and the like. Not the dowager countess, though.”

Valentine had no answer to that statement, at least not one he wished to share. There were too many reasons Trixie had always told him and his siblings that the dead should rest with the dead. Not only did the Redgraves never visit the mausoleum holding their ancestors unless a new one was to be shelved there, but they were warned Trixie would haunt them from the grave if anyone dared to bring her flowers and weep over her.
Strange how none of us ever questioned her; we were children, we simply accepted.

“What time is it, Piffkin? I’m not even dressed, yet alone fed. Where’s the tray I asked you to have sent up to me? I can’t allow you to keep me captive here any longer, listening to you expound.”

Piffkin bowed. “Forgive me, sir.” Then he tossed Valentine’s small clothes at his head.

Valentine was dressed in ten minutes, fed in another five and heading for the stables, a piece of buttered toast jammed between his teeth, before the clocks struck the half hour, Daisy’s journal in his pocket.

Less than an hour after that, he stood at his ease, negligently propped against a stable wall, one leg bent, the sole of his riding boot pressed against the boards, his curly brimmed beaver set front over his eyes, a lit cheroot dangling from one corner of his mouth. Just another of those apparently indolent, charmingly incorrigible, damnably attractive Redgraves. Dangerous as a dandelion.

At the sound of approaching footsteps, he peeked out from beneath his hat brim to be sure he knew who was coming. He then inhaled deeply on the cheroot, and spoke around his exhaled breath, the blue smoke carried toward the newcomers on the slight breeze. “Well, hullo there, gentlemen.”

He waited until the two men saw him lounging in the shade before pushing away from the boards, holding out his hand as he approached a tall, rather lean man on what seemed to be the wrong side of forty who was eyeing him owlishly. “Frappton, you’ll not introduce me? Very well. Redgrave, my good sir. Valentine Redgrave, currently a guest, as are you, of Lord Charles Mailer. Frappton and I met at dinner last night, didn’t we, Cecil, had us a lovely chat, but I was devastated to learn Charles’s other guest was indisposed. You look hale and hearty this morning, and isn’t that good news.”

Frappton was looking at Valentine with eyes bulged out like a terrified fish, as if to say
You meant it? You really meant what you said to me when you snuck into my room late last night? Please don’t let this be happening. Please
.

“Lovely-
hee-ee-ee.
...
A-hem,
” he managed in a strangled voice, then sank into a silence that probably felt as dark and lonely as the tomb to the man...and he was as yet to know the half of it!

“Charfield,” the man said as he glared at his assistant, pulling his hand free of Valentine’s. “Harold Charfield, and I was hardly indisposed last evening, but most happily occupied. Chas didn’t offer you the same? How rude of him. There’s nothing more refreshing after hours spent planted on your rump in a coach than to take an invigorating ride, I say. I like my fillies young and snug, if you take my meaning. How about you?”

Now Frappton looked ready to turn and run, or swoon where he stood.

“Charles knows I prefer to choose my own bedmates, and certainly never from the servant class. But, then, to each his own, I suppose. There’s no accounting for tastes, is there?” Valentine responded brightly, suddenly not feeling at all conflicted about what he had planned for this fool. “Have you come to inspect the mounts? I’ve already chosen the best for the length of my stay.”

Charfield’s long, lean face had gone nearly purple at the insult, but then he smiled. “If there is a
best
among Chas’s nags, I’ve yet to see it. I’ve brought my own, and am only helping Frappton here in choosing the best of the worst. Are you riding out this morning, Redgrave?”

“Already been, actually. But don’t let me keep you two from your pleasure. There’s a fairly impressive ring of standing stones you might enjoy seeing, clearly a tepid copy of Stonehenge or some such site. But mind the cliff, which rather sneaks up on one, as its edge is obscured by trees.”

“Yes, yes, I’ve seen it on previous visits,” Charfield answered shortly, clearly anxious to be gone. “And now good day to you, sir. Come along, Frappton. And don’t whine to me again that you don’t ride. Never heard such nonsense. We’ll fix that, make a man of you before the day is out, I swear it.”

Frappton looked desperately to Valentine (who only winked), before his thin shoulders drooped and he dutifully followed after his employer. A casual glance at the man’s nearly nonexistent rump that was about to meet a saddle for the first time, and Valentine came to the conclusion Frappton wouldn’t enjoy the evening’s antics even if laid back on a dozen soft pillows. Not that he’d be there at all—even Robin Hood couldn’t be expected to rescue so many in one fell swoop. The pack needed thinning, beginning with dear-
hee-ee
Cecil.

Valentine waited until the two men had entered the stables, and then headed toward the front of the house, neatly cutting into the trees where they ran near the gravel drive. A five-minute walk took him to the tree where he’d tied his mount. A person didn’t always need a full battalion at his back, Valentine knew, a person oftentimes merely required a brain.

He’d already taken Mailer’s borrowed horse and ridden to the small wayside inn where his coach and men waited. He’d given his coachie, Twitchill, some short instructions—thank God the Redgrave servants were loyal, and didn’t ask too many questions. Then he had borrowed a mount from one of the outriders, leading it to this exact spot and tying its reins to a branch, before then returning Mailer’s gelding to the stables in time to say his good mornings to Charfield and Cecil.

He couldn’t be certain where the pair were headed—life was always a gamble when formulating a plan—but felt fairly comfortable in his earlier assumption labeling the former too lazy to distance himself too much from the estate and the latter too unused to horseback to last more than a mile or two in any direction.

That left the closest village to the west, so that’s the direction Valentine turned his horse to, and set off.

* * *

K
EEPING
THE
CHILDREN
inside when the weather outside remained so pleasant was not an easy task, and gave Daisy yet another reason to loathe Charles Mailer.
Post.

Lydia had finally settled in with her dolls, serving them “tea” from a set of exquisitely small china she’d informed Daisy had once belonged to her
real
mama.

William, however, was quite another matter. After a solid ten minutes spent banging one of his toys against a windowpane, screeching his displeasure at being locked indoors, he had disappeared when Lydia dropped one of the teacups and it shattered on the floor.

Soothing the hysterical Lydia, followed by the necessary careful clearing of the small sharp pieces had taken Daisy’s full attention, what with Agnes gone downstairs to fetch the children’s lunch.

Daisy had checked every room and cabinet in the nursery before giving in to the realization that the boy had somehow escaped and could be...well, most anywhere. She couldn’t leave Lydia, who was still sniffling, and had to cool her heels until Agnes returned.

“Agnes, did you see Master William?” she got to ask at last, as the woman carried a heavy tray into the room. “Well, no, of course you haven’t, else he’d be with you, wouldn’t he? Please do take charge here, while I go locate the naughty scamp.”

Naughty scamp. Indeed! Boys were a menace, and they only got worse as they grew. Valentine Redgrave was surely proof of that!

Daisy stepped out into the hallway, rested her hands on her hips and considered her options. She could call out William’s name as she walked the hallways, but that would only call attention to the fact she’d mislaid her charge. She could open every door, search every room, go floor to floor to floor, but that could take hours. He was a very small boy in a house with dozens, if not hundreds, of places for a very small boy to hide.

Lady Caroline was closeted in her own rooms, hadn’t even called for Daisy let alone her stepchildren. Frankly, Daisy couldn’t see William wishing to see his stepmama. Even very small children are seldom hoodwinked by patronizing women who feign an interest and affection they can’t feel. Her husband must have ripped all the
caring
out of her, poor thing.

“He wanted to go to the greenhouse to make more mud pies,” she reminded herself, feeling struck with inspiration. But how does one small boy get out of the house unseen? Not via the front stairs and the foyer, always inhabited by at least one footman. Not the servant door, only accessed by crossing the kitchens, always busy this time of day.

What did that leave? Daisy closed her eyes and concentrated, recalling which rooms had French doors.
The library. The drawing room, the morning room.

“The library,” she concluded, attempting to bolster her hope. “There could be people in the other rooms, but not the library. Nobody in this house has the least interest in the library. But is William that clever? The library
is
located closest to the greenhouse, and the children and I have visited the room on the pretext of Lydia learning about globes when I was searching hopefully for maps of the area. It is possible...?”

With nothing to lose but more precious time, Daisy set out down the servant stairs and put on her sternest I-will-brook-no-nonsense governess face as she squared her shoulders and all but marched her way toward the library.