8
Melisande blinked. She’d come expecting the battle, expecting abject failure in the end, but she’d come anyway. She’d run out of options. “Next?” she said blankly then cleared her throat. “We need to come up with a plan.”
Viscount Rohan was looking at her with half-closed lids that hid the expression in his eyes. Just as well, she thought. He was much too handsome a man, but all those damned Rohans were gorgeous. Even the youngest, Brandon Rohan, had a savage beauty only emphasized by the sad ruin of half his face.
Not that she’d ever been distracted by a handsome face. Her husband had been fifty-three years older than she was, and dying when she’d married him. Her one foolish mistake of a lover had possessed only ordinary attractiveness, nothing like the bone-melting grace of Benedick Rohan’s stern profile. If she were still a green girl she could dream about a man like him. But she wasn’t. She was a grown woman, with no use for men ever again, and totally impervious to his male beauty.
“I would have thought you’d have a plan already in place,” he said, his low voice sending a momentary shiver down her spine.
She was about to reach for a cake, realized she’d eaten them all and had to make do with another cup of tepid tea. “If I had a plan I could have implemented it myself,” she said, keeping a caustic note in her voice. “I assumed this was a fool’s errand, but I always was one to fight for lost causes.”
“Tilting at windmills, Lady Carstairs? And you expect me to be your Sancho Panza. I’m not sure I care for a reenactment of Don Quixote. It ends badly.”
“Life ends badly. And you never struck me as particularly optimistic.”
“Never struck you as particularly optimistic?” he echoed. “Do we have an acquaintance that I’ve forgotten?”
“You would hardly remember every chit making her curtsey each year. I made my debut the year you were married. I remember your wife. She was very beautiful.”
“Which one?”
She’d forgotten he’d been widowed twice. And there was some ancient scandal concerning another woman, but no one would tell her the details. Not that she’d asked, of course. At least, not more than a couple of times.
Before she could answer he went on. “Never mind. It hardly matters. So you’ve come here to dump this incipient disaster in my lap, with no plan, no idea how to forestall it. My brother is my main concern. I could simply have him forcibly removed to one of the remote family estates so he wouldn’t be able to participate. That solves my problem even if it doesn’t address yours.”
“Then you believe me?” She was still astonished by that fact.
“At least partially. It’s just the sort of thing my brother would get involved with, and he’s been particularly secretive. I expect some of your concerns are simply fiction. I know a great deal about the history of the Heavenly Host—after all it was formed by my great-grandfather’s cousin, and kept alive through the offices of my grandfather and father.”
“Why am I not surprised?” Melisande muttered.
“But the Heavenly Host are far from the nightmare creatures you’re talking about. They started out as a group of bored intellectuals, curious about the relationship between God and the devil, and curious to taste all the forbidden fruit of human desire. But there were rules. No children. No unwilling innocents, though I gather they paid highly for the participation of willing virgins. And no coercion. Their motto is ‘do what thou wilt,’ and agreement is part of that. Not ‘do what is forced upon you.’”
“I appreciate the history lesson. Things have changed.”
He was already regretting his agreement to help her; she could see that. She went on. “If you could see what they did to poor Aileen…”
But she’d underestimated him. “There’s no need. I believe you. Since you haven’t got a plan I expect we’d best come up with one.” As if by magic the stiff but charming majordomo appeared with a fresh pot of tea and another plate of cakes. “If you wouldn’t mind pouring me a fresh cup I’ll consider what we need.”
She was already in the midst of doing so, for herself, as well. “We need to identify the other members of the organization, including the leader.”
She half expected him to sneer, but he merely nodded. “Finding other members should be relatively easy. There are certain likely ones, including Lord and Lady Elsmere. We find one…we can follow them to the others.”
“What about your brother? Wouldn’t he tell you about it?”
“My brother is the least likely person to answer my questions.”
“You don’t get on? But you’re so charming—I would have thought everyone loved you.”
“Sarcasm is not a becoming trait, Lady Carstairs.”
“I’m not interested in what is becoming or not.”
“Clearly,” he said dryly. “I expect Winston Elsmere would be our best line of attack. And by the greatest good luck they’re holding a party tonight. The guest list is supposed to be small—a mere thirty or so. I declined their invitation, but they should be more than happy to welcome us anyway. Supper is optional, and the dancing starts at ten. I’ll pick you up at half past nine.”
She stared at him in disbelief. “I’m not going to their party! For one thing, I wasn’t invited.”
“That hardly matters. If you come as my guest you’ll be welcomed. There’s an excellent chance that at least two or three members of the Host will be in attendance. Once we identify them we can go from there.”
“I don’t want to attend a party!” she protested. “I keep out of society.”
“You don’t have a choice. Not if you want to stop the Host.”
“I want more than that,” she said, trying to keep her passion in check. “I want to smash their entire wicked organization. I want to expose them to such shame they don’t dare meet ever again.”
“Then we’re agreed,” he said, ignoring the fact that she hadn’t agreed to anything.
She reached for another cake. “Some women might like masterful males. Personally I find them tedious in the extreme.”
But he didn’t rise to the bait. “Then you’ll simply have to be bored. Do you have anything more—” he waved an elegant hand “—more festive? That gown looks like it belongs to a Quaker.”
She didn’t blush. “I might have something older. From my season, perhaps.”
“Lovely,” he said wearily. “I have a choice between a hopeless dowd and someone ten years out of date. I’m not sure my consequence will survive such a blow.”
“You’ll manage.” She reached for another cake. “So first step is to identify the members. What next?”
“Let’s see how far we get with step one,” he said and passed the plate to her.
She eyed it suspiciously for a moment, then took it with an air of defiance. He raised an eyebrow, though she wasn’t sure if it was for her defiance or the fact that she took another cake, but she didn’t care. He was the one who ordered extra cakes.
A moment later the majordomo reappeared. “Richmond, have my carriage brought out. Lady Carstairs needs to be returned to her house.”
“I can walk,” she protested, swallowing the last bit of cake.
“From my house? Alone? I do realize you don’t care about your reputation, but I have mine to think of. Either take my carriage or I’ll walk you home, but since there’s a cold rain I prefer the carriage.”
She had little choice. And besides, it did look awful outside, the rain running down the windows in icy sheets. “There’s no need for you to accompany me,” she said haughtily.
“I had no intention of doing so, though my mother would be appalled. Since I now have to change my previous, far more convivial plans for tonight, I shall have to come up with an alternative.” He gave her a slow, assessing look. “I’ll simply have to look elsewhere for feminine companionship.”
She wanted to arch a brow and say, not with me, just to prove how little she cared, but he’d already given her a major set-down, and she didn’t want to give him another chance. “I’m certain you’ll manage,” she said. “If we accomplish our goal early in the evening, then you can take me home and go on to whatever institution has replaced the White Pearl to slake your…your…”
“My thirst?” he offered in an innocent tone. “I’m afraid their cellar is of indifferent quality. Or were you perhaps talking about some other desire I need taken care of?”
Two could play at that game. She smiled back at him, her gaze limpid. “I’m certain you’ll manage to take care of whatever needs you might have. You are, after all, a wealthy man.” She rose. “As delightful as this has been, I’d best return home and see if we can find something presentable for me to wear.”
He rose as well, punctilious as ever. “I am in a positive terror of anticipation.” His eyes slid over her, slowly, assessingly, and she had the odd notion that it felt like a physical touch. She wanted to shake it off. “One more thing, Lady Carstairs,” he said, and his voice had lost that taunting edge. “You are not to come here unaccompanied again. In fact, you are not to come here at all. I refuse to be trapped into compromising you—I have far more convivial plans for my future.”
“As do I, Lord Rohan,” she said in an even voice. “Point well taken. I’ll be ready by half past nine.”
“If you’re punctual you’ll be the first woman in my acquaintance to manage it.”
“That’s simply because women put off having to be with you for as long as possible,” she said in her sweetest voice. “Good afternoon, my lord.”
“My lady.” She left, but, before the butler could close the door behind her, she heard his soft chuckle. Benedick sank back down in his chair, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. He must be very bored, indeed, if he found he was looking forward to an evening in Charity Carstairs’s company. He didn’t believe the faradiddle she was coming up with, not for a moment, but it was clear she thought it was gospel truth. And he hadn’t anything better to do tonight. The Elsmeres were bores, but he knew others among his friends would be there, and if his recent visitor wanted to play at being a detective then he had no problem encouraging her. She tried so very hard to be calm and matter-of-fact, and it was so very easy to trip her up. He would take her to the Elsmeres, make the proper inquiries and see how wicked he could be before she cried off. Her concerns about the Heavenly Host and its nefarious activities were just one more fairy tale. The group had disbanded shortly after a horrendous gathering at the edge of the Lake District, where his sodding son of a bitch brother-in-law had dared to bring his sister. The repercussions had been so scandalous that no one had even dared to suggest resurrecting the group of tiresome little sybarites.
At least, he was relatively sure he would have heard if they did. Except that he hadn’t been in town for years, not since Barbara had taken to bedding every one of his acquaintance, and not, of course, for the following year of mourning. And if they had re-formed, wouldn’t Brandon be more than likely to have been one of them?
No, he refused to consider the possibility. But in the meantime, Charity Carstairs, with her sweetly curved body, her soft mouth, her stern blue eyes would provide quite a delightful diversion.
He heard Richmond clear his throat, and he glanced up at him. “Did you put the box of cakes in the carriage?”
“I did, my lord. Shall I ask Cook to bake more?”
He considered it for a moment. He’d never had much of a sweet tooth. Except when it came to a certain crusading female. “It might be wise to keep a supply on hand, Richmond. We’ll be seeing more of Lady Carstairs, I suspect.”
“Very good, my lord,” Richmond murmured.
And oddly enough, Benedick was quite sure he meant it.
Rohan’s coach was the epitome of elegance, and Melisande sat back against the leather squabs with a sigh. She could more than afford such an equipage, but luxury always seemed a bit obscene when contrasted with the life the gaggle had led. Still, that didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy it when it was forced upon her.
He really was the most annoying man.
She’d tried to come up with any other alternative—going to one of the Wicked Rohans was the last thing she’d wanted to do. In fact, she’d set out this afternoon without the proper companions because she was afraid she’d lose her nerve. She hadn’t really expected him to agree, but she could think of nothing else and she simply couldn’t give up.
The ride to King Street was short, and she didn’t notice the box on the seat opposite her until they’d almost arrived. She reached out for it, looking at the card on the top. Written in a heavy scrawl, it was addressed to her. No note, no signature, but she knew it was from Rohan. She untied the string and opened it, and an unbidden laugh came from the back of her throat.
It was a box of the tiny cakes she’d eaten as she’d drank his tea. Curse his black soul, he’d noticed her inability to resist them, and if she had any sense, she’d leave them in the carriage as a message.
That was the last thing she was going to do. There were gestures and there were gestures, and Mollie Biscuits, while an excellent cook, had yet to achieve the perfection of these little masterpieces. She was going to take the box inside and she was going to eat every single one and be damned to the consequences.
Emma was waiting for her, a troubled expression on her face. “Melisande, where were you?”
Melisande handed her the box, pulled off her bonnet and gloves and tossed them on the table. The girls who were learning to be housemaids were newcomers and not adept at showing up promptly when someone arrived, though Betsey, the youngest, was the most eager to please. The last batch had already secured positions and were well on their way to new lives, and sooner or later the new batch would prove ready, but right then Melisande had more important things to worry about. “At Rohan’s,” she said. “He’ll help.”
Emma said nothing for a moment, and Melisande paused to look at her more carefully, a sudden, dreadful suspicion coming to her. “You didn’t want me to go… Was there a reason?”
“I just think the Rohans are not the best choice to help disband the Heavenly Host,” Emma said carefully. “Particularly since rumor has it that they helped found it.”
“And I think that makes Viscount Rohan a particularly good choice. He knows the workings of the organization, knows most of the members, even if he himself is not a current participant.” She brushed an errant crumb off her dull gray skirt.
“And how do you know that?”
“Because he told me so. Shouldn’t I have believed him?”
“I’ve seldom known you to trust a man’s word,” Emma said carefully.
Melisande looked at her. Emma was a lovely woman, though a far cry from the painted and perfumed abbess that Melisande had first met two years ago outside her London establishment. Her speech and her manners were not mere affectation, though she seldom spoke of her past, and Melisande was wise enough not to ask. Emma would tell her if she needed to. In the end it hardly mattered.
“I know as well as you how trustworthy men are,” she replied. “But in this case I believe him. He was genuinely shocked when I told him what they intended.” She thought about it for a moment. “Well, perhaps not shocked. Perhaps grimly surprised might be a better description. And he wasn’t going to do anything about it, even so, until I told him his younger brother was part of their foul organization.”
“He believed you?”
“He has doubts. But he’s willing to help. Which means I have an engagement this evening.”
Emma’s eyebrows rose. “With Viscount Rohan?”
“Among others. He’s taking me to a party held by Lord and Lady Elsmere. He says if anyone is involved in the organization, they are, and it’s as good a starting place as any. Maybe they’ll let something drop about their plans for the solstice. Maybe we’ll discover other members of their foul group. At least it’s a start.”
“I see.” Emma took a step back, surveying her. “So you’re going into society on Rohan’s arm tonight. What will you wear?”
“I hadn’t thought about it,” she lied, pushing her loose hair away from her face. “I must have something left from my season.”
“Jesus God,” Emma muttered. “We’ve got our work cut out for us.” And suddenly she raised her voice. “Girls! We have a project!”
The gaggle appeared, as if they’d been eavesdropping just out of sight, which Melisande suspected they had been. That was another thing she could blame on Benedick Rohan. The term “gaggle” had been so accurate for her recalcitrant, squabbling brood that no matter how she tried she couldn’t think of them in any other terms. Not that a gaggle should live in a dovecote—she knew perfectly well her house had received that sobriquet, just as she was called Charity Carstairs behind her back. She had no idea where geese tended to reside, but she hoped Rohan didn’t share his fitting term for her soiled doves. She had trouble enough being taken seriously.
The next few hours passed in a whirlwind of activity. She found herself drawn into the small salon where the girls practiced deportment, surrounded by a bevy of chattering females. Trunks appeared from storage, gowns tossed here and there.
“No, that yellow is atrocious.” Emma dismissed one outmoded ball gown that Violet held up. “It would make her too sallow. She needs something of a soft rose.”
“Rose wasn’t in fashion the year I made my debut,” Melisande protested, but she was ignored as Emma took charge.
“Betsey, order a bath for Lady Carstairs. She’ll need a good soak, an application of Cowper’s Milk to try to make her skin more fashionably pale. You should have known better than to have gone out in the bright sunlight without a parasol. Even the best bonnet cannot shield one entirely from the sun.”
“I’m sorry,” Melisande said meekly.
“Never mind. We’ll work with what we have.”
“I’m good at arranging hair,” Agnes, a bright redhead by way of Ireland and the streets of White-chapel, offered. “She’ll need something better than that awful lace cap she wears.”
“I’m a widow!” Melisande protested.
“She will, indeed,” Emma overrode her. “You’re on, Agnes. Jane, I know you’re good at using paint. Not the usual stuff you used to shovel on your own face, but something more subtle. Just enough to brighten her eyes and give her a becoming blush.”
“I don’t blush!” Which was immediately proven a lie, as eager hands began pulling off her unfashionable gown, and nothing she did could keep them from stripping her down to her undergarments.
“Lady Carstairs, you have a figure!” Sukey, former mistress to a Catholic bishop, breathed. “One would never know with those clothes you wear. Quite a nice bosom.”
Melisande slammed her arms over her chest, only to have a swathe of silk tossed over her head. She had no choice but to put her arms through the sleeves, looking down at the pale green gown she’d never worn, her aunt insisting it was too risqué.
“The neckline’s too high,” Emma said judiciously. “And we’ll need to lace her in tighter. Take off the train—they’re dreadfully out of style right now, and perhaps some lace tucked in the bodice.”
“I’ve got some lace,” Thin Polly called out.
“That chemise has got to go,” Violet announced. “Who’s got something skimpier?”
The room was filled with laughter. Hetty spoke up. “Who doesn’t? We’ll see who’s the closest fit. And don’t you worry none, your ladyship. They’ve all been properly washed—you made us wash everything, including ourselves, when we got here. Besides, the chemises were simply for show. They came off in a matter of moments.”
“I can’t wear something like that!” Melisande protested, scandalized.
“You can and you will. It will give you courage, and make you feel deliciously naughty.” Emma pulled at the dress. “Good God, did you have everything made three sizes too large for you?”
“My aunt was convinced that if I kept eating sweets I was going to be enormous and she wanted to ensure that the clothes would continue to fit me,” Melisande admitted with some shame.
Emma eyed her sternly. “Nonsense! Have you continued to eat sweets?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“And you’ve got a lovely little figure. Just the right side of plump, and men adore curves.”
“You could have made right good money, Lady Carstairs,” Violet announced ingenuously. “The skinny girls were always the last to be chosen.”
Melisande choked.
“Time for her bath,” Emma announced, pulling the gown back over her head and waving her away. “Violet, I’m putting you and Agnes in charge. You know what to do.”
“Right you are, Mrs. Cadbury! Me and Agnes will get her trussed up good enough for a royal duke.”
“I’m not going to be doing what…what you would have been doing,” Melisande said faintly.
“And get her a glass of claret,” Emma said, dismissing her. “We’ve got work to do!”