.

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ here are the two I can add to our list of deceased members. The Right Honorable Noddy Selkirk, another second generation member, has to be Church. He fell afoul of a rock slide while hiking in the Lake District this past autumn, and Cecil Appleby would have to be Pear. Lord knows he was shaped like one. He supposedly succumbed to some sudden stomach ailment a few months past, although I now have it on the highest authority his tongue had turned black.”

      “Who is this highest authority?” Gideon asked.

      Trixie rolled her eyes. “You’re questioning me? Cecil’s valet is brother to my glover’s assistant, if you must know. It can take positively hours to fit a new glove properly, and there’s plenty of time for gossip. It took an entire afternoon last Thursday, and an order for six new pairs of gloves, but I’m assured my information is correct. I had the bill sent to you.”

      “I suppose I can’t quibble with that,” he said, smiling.

      “As well you shouldn’t. And now poor Guy has cocked up his toes. Here he is. Cot, which of course stands for Bedworth.” She ran her finger down the list of names. “Strange. I don’t recognize any of these. If they were still passing father to eldest son, I should know these names. Perhaps one of you should be writing them down?”

      Jessica got to her feet and walked over to the writing desk, where paper and pen were already assembled for just such a purpose. She only hoped her hands wouldn’t shake so much her words wouldn’t be legible. She felt as if she was trapped in some sort of nightmare. How else could they be speaking so calmly about murder and other atrocities?

      She had soon assembled a list, as dictated by Trixie. Hammer. Weaver. City. Bird. Post. Burn.

      By now, Gideon was standing behind her, leaning over her shoulder to look at the list of words. “You’re right, Trixie. Simple words, but if you don’t already know the answers, all I see here are questions.”

      Jessica looked at Trixie, who was still paging through the journal. “But you said you had more information for us. Did Cot give you any other names?”

      “A question you should have asked, Gideon. I may have had them all, if Guy hadn’t gotten so belatedly suspicious and then so inconveniently dead. Why women don’t rule the world has always been a conundrum to me. Greater physical strength has led you all to believe your minds are stronger, as well, which is poppycock. At any rate, we women couldn’t do worse—you men just keep bollixing it all up. But yes, two others, although I can’t say I know them personally, although I know their families. Lord Charles Mailer, and Archie Urban.”

      “Post and City,” Gideon said quickly, almost triumphantly, as if they were solving puzzles in some game. Perhaps that was the only way to deal with any of it without going mad?

      “Leaving us with Hammer, Weaver, Bird and Burn. Four more members.”

      It was wrong. So wrong. Jessica felt so ashamed of herself, even as she opened her mouth and heard the words come tumbling out: “Three French hens, two turtledoves and a partridge in a…”

      And then Gideon was catching at her as she felt herself slipping sideways on the chair, darkness closing all around her… .

      THE KING IS DEAD, long live the king.

      Those words kept repeating themselves inside Gideon’s head as he sat in his study, trying to make sense of all they’d learned.

      With the Marquis of Mellis sticking his spoon in the wall at the same time he was sticking his—no, he wouldn’t go there—the last of the members active during Barry Redgrave’s time had died.

      Gideon realized he might now never know what had happened to his father’s body, why it had been taken.

      But there was still the matter of the tunnels at Redgrave Manor, the lights seen moving through the trees, both easily explained when set apart from everything else, but damned unnerving when put together with everything else. He’d already discarded the idea of some sort of treasure; whatever was going on was much more malignant than a mere treasure hunt.

      After returning Jessica to Portman Square with orders she lie down for a nap, he’d gone back to his grandmother with more questions. Trixie had completed his education in the ways of the Society as it had been in his father’s time. But she wouldn’t speak about his mother or what had happened that last morning, only to say her son’s death had been for the best, for the sake of the country he would betray, for the sake of the family his growing madness could destroy.

      Gideon hadn’t pushed her for more. He could readily see the toll these past days had taken on her. He left her with her damn pug dogs, a glass of wine and Soames, who had actually sat down on the one-armed lounge just as if this familiarity was nothing out of the ordinary. He’d drawn Trixie’s legs up onto his lap and had begun massaging her lady’s bare feet and slim calves with fragrant oil. This didn’t shock Gideon. He’d passed beyond being shocked, he’d supposed, and his grandmother was entitled to anything that pleased her, damn it!

      But now he had to concentrate, using the information Trixie had given him. In the past year, six men had been murdered. The Marquis of Mellis probably would have been the seventh, just as Trixie had supposed. The Society had killed off its remaining original members or their descendants from Barry Redgrave’s time, but the Society itself was not dead. No, what his grandfather had begun, what his father had resurrected and enlarged, had fallen victim to some sort of coup. That was the only sensible answer.

      But for what reason, to what purpose? To be rid of old, dead wood more interested in brandy, a comfortable chair by the fire, a dog napping nearby, than they were in the debauchery the Society had been formed for in the first place? To remove those who disagreed, silence dissent? To make room for members who could be of more use?

      There was one thing about the deaths of those members to cheer Gideon: they were the last to know of Trixie’s intimate knowledge of the Society. Otherwise, he couldn’t feel certain of her safety, her immunity to becoming another “sad accident.”

      His grandfather had been a strong leader. With his death, the Society had fragmented. His father had been a strong leader. With his death the Society had lost its purpose over and above its base obsessions. The rites had continued, however, including the induction of a new member five years ago, when Jessica was nearly made a part of the ceremony.

      But Trixie had seemed certain Turner Collier would not have voluntarily offered his daughter. Had he been intimidated in some way, threatened?

      James Linden had seen or heard something on the day of the proposed ceremony that had frightened him enough to take Jessica and run.

      The king is dead, long live the king.

      That was the answer, the only logical answer.

      There was a new leader of the Society. Perhaps it was that leader who had demanded a well-born vestal virgin be brought to him five years ago, just to demonstrate his power. A strong leader, someone like Barry Redgrave, someone who looked at the Society and saw an opportunity for personal greatness, just as Barry had done.

      Gideon was back to the same question: opportunity for what? What in bloody hell had he stumbled onto?

      At least he had two names.

      Lord Charles Mailer, second son of the Earl of Vyrnwy.

      Archie Urban, no title, but a family name that stretched СКАЧАТЬ