What a Gentleman Desires Read Online Free
Redgrave wished to hear he’d been dismissed. It was a matter of pride, or something.
Perceval stepped back as a clearly confused uniformed guard opened the door for the exit of a man he hadn’t seen enter. Valentine gave him a short salute.
The prime minister followed him, to stand in the open doorway as Valentine hesitated on the marble step, to pull on his evening gloves. “You’re not going to leave this alone, you Redgraves, are you?”
Valentine debated between truth and evasion, deciding it wouldn’t be polite to lie to the prime minister directly after insulting him. “My apologies again to your lady wife for having disturbed you.”
“Just go, Redgrave,” Perceval said wearily.
“Yes, within the moment. Only one thing more. Only a trifling thing, but I must ask. The guns on the Martello Towers, my lord, they’re bolted into place, correct—strong, immovable? Which way do they face?”
“Now you’re wasting my time. You know which way they face. They face the enemy.”
“A sterling defense, although not a great help if attack were to come from inland. They’re rather defenseless in that situation.”
“That wouldn’t happen. The towers were built, are being built, to prevent the enemy from ever landing on our shores, let alone moving inland.”
Valentine leaned in closer, and spoke quietly. “Unless the enemy, helped by, oh, say a band of highly placed traitors calling themselves the Society, found a way to slowly bring over and hide trained troops to capture the towers, including those you’ve so conveniently recommenced building. More than one hundred of them, marching along the southern coast. Imagine that, my lord, if you can. Then the enemy those guns would face would be our Royal Navy, as we attempt to stop an invading army brought to our shores under the protection of those same guns.”
“That’s not how wars are fought.”
“The gentlemanly rules of warfare only work if both sides agree to them. Or have you never read of the Trojan horse?”
He then smiled, satisfied his parting shot had given the prime minister a lot to think about, bowed and quit No. 10 for the damp of a foggy London evening.
He walked to the corner and the Redgrave town coach that had been awaiting his arrival. A groom hastened to open the door and let down the step, and was therefore able to then carry the whispered direction of Valentine’s next destination up to the coachie on the box. With any luck, he should find his quarry in the card room. Lord Charles Mailer, a man whose acquaintance he’d been carefully nurturing for the past fortnight.
Because no Redgrave worth his salt was ever caught without an alternate plan.
CHAPTER TWO
A FTER A FORTNIGHT spent carefully cultivating the man’s interest and friendship, Valentine had come to the conclusion Lord Charles Mailer—crude, mean and profane—was an idiot, but he wasn’t stupid.
Although that description of the man seemed to contradict itself, Valentine meant it. If he could suspend a sign above Mailer’s head, to remind him of his conclusions, it would read: He’s a Buffoon, But Tread Carefully!
In physical appearance, Lord Mailer was...unimpressive. At least when held to Valentine’s high standards. The man dressed importantly, impeccably, but without flair, sans any real style. When it came to fashion, he followed the crowd, and if the crowd arbitrarily decided to suddenly begin rolling up its cravats and tying them about its foreheads, Lord Charles Mailer would be trotting through Mayfair resembling nothing more than a rather puffy, pale-faced, red-haired American Indian.
This second son of the Earl of Vyrnwy, and carrying one of that powerful man’s merely honorary titles, Mailer had until recently volunteered his services at the Admiralty, until leaving town quite suddenly after his friend Archie Upton had stepped (been pushed?) under the wheels of a brewery wagon. But Mailer couldn’t seem to stay away from Mayfair. He’d
Perceval stepped back as a clearly confused uniformed guard opened the door for the exit of a man he hadn’t seen enter. Valentine gave him a short salute.
The prime minister followed him, to stand in the open doorway as Valentine hesitated on the marble step, to pull on his evening gloves. “You’re not going to leave this alone, you Redgraves, are you?”
Valentine debated between truth and evasion, deciding it wouldn’t be polite to lie to the prime minister directly after insulting him. “My apologies again to your lady wife for having disturbed you.”
“Just go, Redgrave,” Perceval said wearily.
“Yes, within the moment. Only one thing more. Only a trifling thing, but I must ask. The guns on the Martello Towers, my lord, they’re bolted into place, correct—strong, immovable? Which way do they face?”
“Now you’re wasting my time. You know which way they face. They face the enemy.”
“A sterling defense, although not a great help if attack were to come from inland. They’re rather defenseless in that situation.”
“That wouldn’t happen. The towers were built, are being built, to prevent the enemy from ever landing on our shores, let alone moving inland.”
Valentine leaned in closer, and spoke quietly. “Unless the enemy, helped by, oh, say a band of highly placed traitors calling themselves the Society, found a way to slowly bring over and hide trained troops to capture the towers, including those you’ve so conveniently recommenced building. More than one hundred of them, marching along the southern coast. Imagine that, my lord, if you can. Then the enemy those guns would face would be our Royal Navy, as we attempt to stop an invading army brought to our shores under the protection of those same guns.”
“That’s not how wars are fought.”
“The gentlemanly rules of warfare only work if both sides agree to them. Or have you never read of the Trojan horse?”
He then smiled, satisfied his parting shot had given the prime minister a lot to think about, bowed and quit No. 10 for the damp of a foggy London evening.
He walked to the corner and the Redgrave town coach that had been awaiting his arrival. A groom hastened to open the door and let down the step, and was therefore able to then carry the whispered direction of Valentine’s next destination up to the coachie on the box. With any luck, he should find his quarry in the card room. Lord Charles Mailer, a man whose acquaintance he’d been carefully nurturing for the past fortnight.
Because no Redgrave worth his salt was ever caught without an alternate plan.
CHAPTER TWO
A FTER A FORTNIGHT spent carefully cultivating the man’s interest and friendship, Valentine had come to the conclusion Lord Charles Mailer—crude, mean and profane—was an idiot, but he wasn’t stupid.
Although that description of the man seemed to contradict itself, Valentine meant it. If he could suspend a sign above Mailer’s head, to remind him of his conclusions, it would read: He’s a Buffoon, But Tread Carefully!
In physical appearance, Lord Mailer was...unimpressive. At least when held to Valentine’s high standards. The man dressed importantly, impeccably, but without flair, sans any real style. When it came to fashion, he followed the crowd, and if the crowd arbitrarily decided to suddenly begin rolling up its cravats and tying them about its foreheads, Lord Charles Mailer would be trotting through Mayfair resembling nothing more than a rather puffy, pale-faced, red-haired American Indian.
This second son of the Earl of Vyrnwy, and carrying one of that powerful man’s merely honorary titles, Mailer had until recently volunteered his services at the Admiralty, until leaving town quite suddenly after his friend Archie Upton had stepped (been pushed?) under the wheels of a brewery wagon. But Mailer couldn’t seem to stay away from Mayfair. He’d
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