What an Earl Wants. Kasey Michaels

with the host’s wife—he died in the inevitable duel. Only weeks later, the second was bankrupted over gaming debts suddenly being called in by the person who’d bought up his vouchers—he shot himself rather than face ruin. And the third was actually imprisoned and barely escaped hanging after it was learned he’d been diddling a family footman, the pot boy and, rumor has it, his own nephew, with or without their agreement. But as I said, all that was years ago.”

      “God, I adore that woman, much as she terrifies me,” Max said in some admiration. “Why did she wait so long with Wickham?”

      “Probably because she was diddling him. You’ve seen her diamond choker, that ruby bib she sets such store by? They’re only a sampling. She’s been bleeding the fool dry on and off for years. Oh, close your mouth. You know Trixie. She’s a cat with a mouse, playing with it as long as it amuses her, and then, once bored, she pounces. I remember her telling me a few months ago that the man has developed what she termed a disky heart, making him of no further use to her. She’s probably already ordered the gown she’ll don as one of the chief mourners when they wall him up in the family mausoleum.”

      “And had the bill sent to Wickham?” Max added, pushing himself up from the desk. “‘Frailty, thy name is woman.’”

      “True enough. A true possessor of all the better vices, both moral and spiritual. We lesser mortals can only admire and aspire. But as she has ever pointed out, she isn’t evil. She’d never strike just for the thrill of the thing. All her targets are deserving of her attention in one way or another, at least to her mind.”

      And then Gideon frowned.

      “What? You’re suddenly back to that same puss that greeted me when I came in here. Is it something to do with Trixie?”

      Four men, dead in separate accidents in the past year. All four former members of the secret society founded by Trixie’s son. Twenty years. Some would think that too long to wait for revenge, for some perverted sense of justice. But then how did he explain Wickham?

      “No,” Gideon said firmly, not liking his thoughts and definitely unwilling to share them. “Nothing to do with Trixie. I was simply searching my mind for a way to rid myself of that primping, posturing fool I’ve inherited.”

      “Adam?” Max said unnecessarily. “Aren’t you going to toss him back to school next term?”

      Gideon fingered the letter that had arrived in the morning post. “According to the headmaster, that’s not possible. He was full of apologies, but it would seem he and a few of the instructors convened a meeting concerning young master Collier, and decided they would forego the pleasure of his company in future. I can’t say I blame them. The headmaster went on at some length about my ward’s sad lack of talent save a decided propensity for calamity. He actually set fire to his rooms when he employed a candle to burn loose threads from his waistcoat and the damn thing flamed, so that he screeched and tossed it in a cupboard, then went off to dinner. If not for a quick-thinking proctor, they could have lost the entire dormitory.”

      “I’d never say the boy doesn’t rattle when he walks, so many loose screws in his brainbox. But there’s other schools.”

      “Yes, there are. He’s been asked to vacate several of them. If I buy him a commission the tongues will wag that I’m trying to have him killed in order to gain his inheritance, and if I send him to the estate Kate will have murdered him within the week. In other words, I’ve been sitting here this past hour or more cudgeling my brain to discover what sin it was I’ve committed I’m being punished for in the form of that paper-skulled twit.”

      “Some sin? Only one? If I weren’t in such a hurry to be off, I could pen you a list. Not only that, but I don’t think I can stand watching you this way, brother. Glum. Defeated. It’s so unlike you. So much so, I find myself wondering if there’s something you’re not telling me, something much more disturbing than locating a deep well in which to deposit your latest ward.”

      Maximillien could play the fool with the best of them, but he was rarely fooled.

      Gideon looked at his brother. “Go away, Max.”

      “Ah, then I’m right. I’ll have to write Val and tell him. Where is our baby brother, by the way?”

      “I was unaware Valentine still required a keeper.”

      “Another subject open to debate. But we should at least be aware of where he is, don’t you think?”

      “Not if we don’t want to know,” Gideon suggested, smiling in real amusement. “But, to ease your mind, the last I heard he was heading for some place in Lincolnshire, to lend support to a friend whose father had, to quote our brother, taken a turn for the worse.”

      “That’s kind of him. So he’s off to be a supporting prop at some deathbed?”

      “Hardly. the bad turn was financial. his friend merely needed someone to put up the blunt for his trip home. Naturally, Valentine offered one of our coaches, and his company on the journey. And probably half his allowance for this quarter, knowing Val.”

      “He’s a good friend. Or, as Kate often says, a numbskull. She swears some day that soft heart of his will land him in the briars. Has he ever said no to an appeal? Then again, considering that ludicrous fribble we’ve got residing with us now, have you? It’s your soft heart, both you and Val are stuck with soft hearts. Thankfully, Kate and I escaped the taint.”

      Gideon directed yet another cool, dispassionate stare at his brother. “Are we done here now?”

      “Oh-ho, speaking of briars,” Max said, putting up his hands in mocking defense. “How about I leave you to your troubles and be on my way?” He turned to quit the room, but at the last moment turned back to add, “Thorndyke told me of your rather unusual visitor this morning. Showed up all unaccompanied and left in some sort of huff. Spirited, that’s the world Thorny used. Curious. But she’s not the reason for that long puss, correct?”

      “Goodbye, Max. Safe travels.”

      “I thought as much. Thorndyke said she’s quite the looker. Red hair. I’ve always been partial to red hair on a woman. I don’t even mind the freckles. She have freckles, Gideon? Even where the sun doesn’t reach?”

      When Gideon was really angry, he went quiet, the sort of quiet that could sound, to the object of his anger, much like a loud clashing of cymbals.

      “Right,” Max said, nodding. “Forgive me. Clearly the lady is not a subject open to discussion. I’m off to ease the path of true love, Val is off to be a supporting prop, Kate is steadfastly refusing to leave the estate, and you’re—well, whatever it is you’re doing, I suppose you’ll let the rest of us know in your own good time.”

      Once his brother was gone, Gideon rested his chin in his hand for a full quarter hour, thinking, and then pushed back his chair, giving in to the inevitable. There was nothing else for it, he had to confront Trixie.

      AN HOUR LATER HE WAS cooling his heels in his grandmother’s drawing room in Cavendish Square, staring down the pair of yellow pug dogs who were eying his highly polished Hessians as if they would take great pleasure in lifting their legs against them.

      She’d named the beasts Gog and Magog, after the ancient carved wooden giants that stood just outside the Guildhall, perhaps because they were no more than ten inches from ears to paws, or perhaps because she was amused by the thought the giants were reportedly the product of a coupling of wicked Roman daughters and the demons then inhabiting Albion, one day to be Britain. To Trixie, that would explain quite a bit about her fellow citizens of the realm.

      In any case, Gideon thoroughly detested the dogs and, in return, they didn’t care a whit what he thought of them. It was rather lowering… .

      “Gideon, my pet, what terrible thing have I done that brings you to my door?”

      Giving the dogs one last warning look, Gideon got to his feet to admire Lady Beatrix’s entrance, accomplished, as always,