offer?”
Slowly, silently, she shook her head. “No.”
Once again, he rubbed his hand across his mouth, still looking
at her closely. “And you believe it still goes on? The Society.”
Jessica shifted uncomfortably on the cushions. “As of five
years ago, yes. I can’t say for certain about now. But you know this.”
“No, Jessica, I don’t,” he said, getting to his feet, suddenly
seeming decades older than his years. “I only know that in the past twelve
months, four of my late father’s cohorts in that damn Society of his have been murdered. Your father included. I wear the
golden rose to signal that I know the hunting accident, the accidental drowning,
the fall down the stairs, your father’s coaching accident—they all were in fact
murders.”
He had to be spouting nonsense. “I don’t understand. My father
was murdered? He and his wife both? How can you know
that?”
“Later,” Gideon said, turning toward a small commotion in the
hallway. “I believe I’m about to be gifted with the sight of a touching family
reunion. Or not,” he added, smiling, as a tall, rail-thin, ridiculously
overdressed and harassed-looking youth stomped into the room.
“Now what the bloody blue blazes do you want?” the youth
demanded, clutching a large white linen serviette in one hand even as he took a
healthy and quite rude bite out of the apple he carried with him. Speaking
around the mouthful of fruit, he continued, “First you order me out of bed
without a whisper of a reason, then you say I leave the house on penalty of
death—as if that signifies, as I might already be dead for all the life you
allow me. Then you send me off to stuff my face when Brummell himself swears no
sane man breaks his fast before noon, and now you want me in here to— Well,
hullo, ain’t you the pretty one.”
“Ad— Adam? ” Jessica was on her feet,
but none too steadily. This ridiculous popinjay couldn’t be her brother. Adam
was sweet and shy, and sat by her side as she read to him, and cried when their
father insisted he learn to shoot, and sang with the voice of an angel.
The youth turned to her and gifted her with an elegant leg,
marred only when he nearly toppled over as he swept his arm with a mite too much
enthusiasm.
“Bacon-brained puppy,” Gideon muttered quietly. “Your brother,
Jessica. Behold.”
She beheld. Adam Collier was clad
very much in the style of many of the youths who, from time to time, were
hastily escorted out of the gaming room as being too raw and young to be out on
their own with more than a groat in their pocket, so eager were they to be
separated from their purses. Unpowdered hair too long, curled over the iron so
that it fell just so onto his forehead, darkened and stiff with pomade. Buckram
padding in the shoulders of his wasp-waisted blue coat, a patterned waistcoat
that was a jangle of lurid red-and-yellow stripes, no less than a half-dozen
fobs hanging from gold chains, clocked stockings hugging his too-thin shanks.
And was that a, dear Lord, it was—he had a star-shaped patch at the corner of
his mouth.
“Adam?” she repeated, as if, having said the name often enough,
she’d believe what her horrified eyes were telling her. She didn’t want to
believe it. Her brother hadn’t grown up, he’d simply gotten taller, slathered
his face with paint to hide his spots and turned into an idiot. His only
submission to the formalities was the black satin mourning band pinned to his
upper arm. And that was edged with black lace. He wasn’t oppressed, he certainly
wasn’t heartbroken. He was his brainless twit of a mother, in breeches.
“I fear you have the advantage of me, madam,” Adam drawled with
a truly irritating and affected lisp as he approached, clearly intent on kissing
her hand. His red heels made his progress somewhat risky, but he managed it,
nearly coming to grief only when Brutus ran up to him, intent on sniffing his
crotch. “Stupid cur. Do I look like a bitch in
Slowly, silently, she shook her head. “No.”
Once again, he rubbed his hand across his mouth, still looking
at her closely. “And you believe it still goes on? The Society.”
Jessica shifted uncomfortably on the cushions. “As of five
years ago, yes. I can’t say for certain about now. But you know this.”
“No, Jessica, I don’t,” he said, getting to his feet, suddenly
seeming decades older than his years. “I only know that in the past twelve
months, four of my late father’s cohorts in that damn Society of his have been murdered. Your father included. I wear the
golden rose to signal that I know the hunting accident, the accidental drowning,
the fall down the stairs, your father’s coaching accident—they all were in fact
murders.”
He had to be spouting nonsense. “I don’t understand. My father
was murdered? He and his wife both? How can you know
that?”
“Later,” Gideon said, turning toward a small commotion in the
hallway. “I believe I’m about to be gifted with the sight of a touching family
reunion. Or not,” he added, smiling, as a tall, rail-thin, ridiculously
overdressed and harassed-looking youth stomped into the room.
“Now what the bloody blue blazes do you want?” the youth
demanded, clutching a large white linen serviette in one hand even as he took a
healthy and quite rude bite out of the apple he carried with him. Speaking
around the mouthful of fruit, he continued, “First you order me out of bed
without a whisper of a reason, then you say I leave the house on penalty of
death—as if that signifies, as I might already be dead for all the life you
allow me. Then you send me off to stuff my face when Brummell himself swears no
sane man breaks his fast before noon, and now you want me in here to— Well,
hullo, ain’t you the pretty one.”
“Ad— Adam? ” Jessica was on her feet,
but none too steadily. This ridiculous popinjay couldn’t be her brother. Adam
was sweet and shy, and sat by her side as she read to him, and cried when their
father insisted he learn to shoot, and sang with the voice of an angel.
The youth turned to her and gifted her with an elegant leg,
marred only when he nearly toppled over as he swept his arm with a mite too much
enthusiasm.
“Bacon-brained puppy,” Gideon muttered quietly. “Your brother,
Jessica. Behold.”
She beheld. Adam Collier was clad
very much in the style of many of the youths who, from time to time, were
hastily escorted out of the gaming room as being too raw and young to be out on
their own with more than a groat in their pocket, so eager were they to be
separated from their purses. Unpowdered hair too long, curled over the iron so
that it fell just so onto his forehead, darkened and stiff with pomade. Buckram
padding in the shoulders of his wasp-waisted blue coat, a patterned waistcoat
that was a jangle of lurid red-and-yellow stripes, no less than a half-dozen
fobs hanging from gold chains, clocked stockings hugging his too-thin shanks.
And was that a, dear Lord, it was—he had a star-shaped patch at the corner of
his mouth.
“Adam?” she repeated, as if, having said the name often enough,
she’d believe what her horrified eyes were telling her. She didn’t want to
believe it. Her brother hadn’t grown up, he’d simply gotten taller, slathered
his face with paint to hide his spots and turned into an idiot. His only
submission to the formalities was the black satin mourning band pinned to his
upper arm. And that was edged with black lace. He wasn’t oppressed, he certainly
wasn’t heartbroken. He was his brainless twit of a mother, in breeches.
“I fear you have the advantage of me, madam,” Adam drawled with
a truly irritating and affected lisp as he approached, clearly intent on kissing
her hand. His red heels made his progress somewhat risky, but he managed it,
nearly coming to grief only when Brutus ran up to him, intent on sniffing his
crotch. “Stupid cur. Do I look like a bitch in
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