What a Hero Dares - Kasey Michaels

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she tell him everything she knew. Consulting with his siblings, they then decided they were left with no other choice than to secretly, quietly ferret out the members and this time bury the Society too deep for it ever to be raised again.

      First and foremost, of course, the Redgraves were all loyal to the Crown. But they were also loyal to the Redgrave name, and to the incredibly brave woman who had raised and protected them. They knew neither could survive the possibility of being connected to this or any earlier incarnation of the Society.

      Plus, even with some early quick successes, they knew they were running out of time, having been forced to bring Prime Minister Spencer Perceval in on what they’d learned about Society efforts to sabotage troops and supplies heading to Wellington on the Peninsula.

      Gideon’s sister, Lady Katherine, had scoured Redgrave Manor, locating the journals from both her grandfather’s and father’s time but not, alas, the all-important bible, the tome having been reduced to ashes by the Keeper. His brother Valentine, following clues found in those journals, had dared to infiltrate a portion of the Society, nearly losing his life in the process, but adding to their knowledge.

      They were getting ever closer to the core of the Society and these new, unknown leaders who hid behind masks and code names while going about their dirty business.

      Unfortunately, these successes also alerted the Society that the Redgraves were onto them, most certainly fueled by information given to them by the dowager countess.

      Only a few short days ago, following a nearly successful arson in the mansion in Cavendish Square with a bold attempt on Trixie’s life on the streets of London, the hunters had suddenly become the hunted.

      There couldn’t be a better time for Maximillien Redgrave, currently doing his own investigating from the other side of the Channel, to return to the estate where, unbeknownst to him, his family was all already gathered, and under siege.

      Max also didn’t know his own past was sailing to Redgrave Manor with him.

      But he was about to find out.

      CHAPTER ONE

      MAXIMILLIEN REDGRAVE had last seen his birthplace from the seat of his curricle as he set off to London and a quiet meeting in a small office tucked away in the bowels of the Royal Admiralty. He felt he’d been traveling ever since, going about the king’s business, with only a few, flying visits to London. It was during one of those visits that he’d learned about the Society, so that his work on the Continent now included searching out anyone who might be affiliated with the treasonous hellfire group.

      This very night he was returning to Redgrave Manor, the magnificent estate that sprawled nearly to the size of a small English county. Sneaking home, as it were, via the back door.

      Not that he’d expected to ride through the front gates heralded by fanfares of trumpets in any case, a roasted boar turning on the spit in the massive kitchen fireplace. A few hearty claps on the back from his brothers, an excited hug from his sister, a half-dozen dogs slobbering on his boots. That would be more than sufficient.

      Except for the necessary addition of his irascible grandmother reclining at her ease on her favorite chaise longue, hoisting a wineglass as she sent him a knowing wink. It wouldn’t be a proper homecoming without her.

      After all, who else but Trixie Redgrave would have thought setting her grandson up as an agent for the Crown held less pitfalls than allowing him to roam Mayfair, wealthy, bored and hot for adventure? To either her credit or as the result of grandmotherly niggles of guilt, she’d then commissioned her own agents to watch over him, report his every move, his every mission to her. According to Gideon, they all had discreet keepers following them about, guardian angels who happened to be wide as barn doors and carry small arsenals with them. Poor Kate, still living on the estate, had everyone from the potboy to the butler to the tenants sworn to keeping her safe.

      Not that Trixie would admit to any such thing.

      Not that Max would so accuse her, either, or tell her the number of times he’d escaped those same keepers from the first day they’d set off to Eton with him, employing both fair means and foul. Oh, no, he would simply continue as he’d begun all those years ago, and thus wouldn’t tease Trixie later tonight about how their new friend Richard Borders had crossed the Channel and somehow located that one tavern out of dozens lining the water in Gravelines, France, probably to inform him he’d just been whistled to heel by his true master.

      Not now, Trixie, he’d whispered inside his head, pulling his hat down far enough to cover his distinctive low, winglike brows and long-lashed, sherry-brown eyes as he sidled out the side door and into an alley smelling of everything foul the human body could produce.

      There were occasions his almost startling handsomeness was a boon, but not at times like this; right now Max craved anonymity, and having Richard calling out his name or asking the barmaid if she’d seen him could get both the seeker and the sought filleted. Besides, I’ve got fish of my own to fry, thank you. I’ll be kissing the dear lady’s powdered cheek soon enough.

      Max didn’t applaud himself as he melted into the darkness, as it had been easy enough avoiding Richard. The man would be looking for someone who appeared very different from the Max Redgrave who had been slouching in a dark corner of the taproom, his hair and beard unkempt, his clothes not much more than several layers of rags beneath a long, greasy cloak, his wide-brimmed hat filthy and sagging over his face. He did have a gold earring, but any bit of sweepings found roaming Gravelines could use his sticker to slit a drunken seaman’s ear and help himself to a bit of gold. It was almost expected of them.

      “And who was that fine, fair, fat gentleman you just left behind, mon ami?”

      Max answered Anton Boucher without bothering to turn his head. “Who? You didn’t have to follow me. I only came out here to relieve myself,” and turned to the wall and unbuttoned his homespun trousers. “You’ve been at this too long, Anton. You’ve turned into an old woman, seeing trouble everywhere. It may be prudent of you to step back. The wind, you know.”

      “It is picking up, isn’t it,” the man said, retreating a few paces. “And the rain, as well. As long as we’re out here and already drenched, we may as well get on with it. Perhaps they won’t sail, as a full moon does no one any good when it’s hidden behind clouds.”

      “Admit it, Anton, you’re a timid sailor. There’s no need for you to travel with me tonight. I won’t be returning with you in any case.”

      “Nonsense, as if I’d leave you with no one to guard your back. Besides, I’ve gained their trust. Only the one ship tonight, and they won’t let you board without me.”

      Max deliberately kept his tone light. “Braggart. But I suppose you’re right. And you’re confident they’ll have the same destination as last time?”

      “Same godforsaken destination every time, just as I told you.” Anton smiled, his pale blue eyes seeming to twinkle in the reflection from a streak of lightning overhead. “Missed all the fun then, didn’t we, sailing in the trailing boat? Pirates, the captain swore as we turned and raced back here, as if he’d know a pirate from a pickle. Probably just other smugglers, thinking to make an easy profit without the trouble of having to cross the Channel. Can’t trust the English, Max, you know that, being one of them.”

      “The same stands for you, concerning your fellow Frenchmen,” Max returned, and Anton’s smile vanished.

      “Touché. But we don’t speak of such things. The past is the past, and the guilty one punished does not bring back the dead, does it?”

      Max wished he hadn’t spoken. This was no night for unpleasant memories. “No, it doesn’t.”

      They made their way along the docks to the rather questionable-looking vessel their so-called employers had chosen for the run across the Channel. Borrowed from a band of English owlers their French hosts were currently entertaining at one of the inns expressly built for their comfort by none other than the emperor himself. Like so many others,

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