Shameless (23 page)

“Yes, miss.”
Your ladyship
had been forgotten once again, but Melisande simply nodded. If Mollie Biscuits was taking Betsey under her wing then the child would be well looked after and well trained. One less soul she had to worry about.

She waited until Betsey had vanished, then struggled to her feet. She needed her bed; she needed a bath to wash away the taste and the touch and scent of him on her skin. It was time to put that part of her life behind her. She had no choice but to trust his word. He would stop the Heavenly Host.

In the meantime, she had to move ahead with her own life. The wicked temptation of Benedick Rohan
belonged in the past. The future lay bright and bold in front of her. All she had to do was get through the next twenty-four hours and she’d be fine, perfectly fine.

She locked her bedroom door. She cried as she washed herself, cried as she took her clothes and shoved them into a hamper. Cried as she took a clean shift and drawers, new stockings and garters and then climbed into her narrow bed. It wasn’t until she closed her eyes that she remembered he’d lain with her in that bed, his body covering hers as his deft fingers pinched out the candlelight, leaving them alone in the darkness.

And it was then that the foolish tears finally stopped, as the pain wrapped around inside her, crushing her into silence. She rolled over on her stomach, burying her face in the soft feather pillow, wondering if it was humanly possible to smother oneself.

It didn’t matter. It was over. Time to move on.

There was still laudanum in the bottle beside the bed. This time she didn’t hesitate. She took her dose, swallowed it and closed her eyes, waiting for oblivion to come, for the waves of pain in her ankle to cease.

It took far too long. In the distance she could hear Emma’s voice, calling someone, but it wasn’t her. And it didn’t matter. They could wait. Just for this one day she wasn’t going to take care of anyone but herself.

Just this one day.

B
enedick was a man who could hold his liquor. At times in his life he’d been a three-bottle man and still been able to hold an intelligent conversation and make his way home without stumbling. The ability to drink and not show it was almost more important to being a gentleman than paying one’s gambling debts, and when he was seventeen years old his father, a re-formed rake and ne’er-do-well, had taught him those salient social graces, much to his mother’s annoyance. Then again, Charlotte Rohan had always been alarmingly strong-minded. She’d had to be, to deal with his charming father’s ways, and Adrian Rohan had ended up being that most original of creatures, a devoted husband, much to his secret embarrassment.

Like father like son. It didn’t matter that the world considered the Rohans to be profligates and degenerates—the moment they found their soul mates they became, if not the epitome of righteous behavior, at least excellent husbands. Even his distant cousin
Alistair, one of the founding members of the Heavenly Host, had retired to Ireland with his English bride and lived out an exemplary life breeding horses and children and worshipping his wife.

His own grandfather, Francis Rohan, had been the stuff of legend, which had been difficult to imagine when he thought of the charming and devoted old man he’d adored. He’d been unable to keep his eyes or his hands off his plump grandmother, much to his father’s embarrassment, but in truth, his father was just the same.

Benedick had had every intention of following in the family tradition. He’d sown his wild oats, even attended a few of the waning gatherings of the Heavenly Host before falling in love with Annis Duncan. They should have lived happily ever after, with that same comfortable devotion that had been a shining example.

But apparently his generation was cursed. His darling Annis had died, and he could no longer remember what she looked like. His second attempt had been disastrous, confirming the suspicion that the luck of the wicked Rohans had run out. His brother Charles had married a prig, his brother Brandon was courting ruin and an early death, and his sister Miranda had married her kidnapper, a master of thieves, for God’s sake! And had the effrontery to be happy about it.

Benedick leaned back in his chair, eyeing the brandy bottle with a jaundiced eye. He’d been drinking steadily, pacing himself, in order to blot out these
very thoughts that were plaguing him. Better to think about his family than that other, horrific memory that was eating at his stomach and heart and soul. Assuming he even had a heart and soul—he took leave to doubt it. He reached for the brandy bottle, missing, and then clasped it. He spilled more than he managed to get in the glass, and he decided it might be wise to forgo the glass altogether for the next round. Less trouble for the servants.

Why he should care about the servants was beyond his comprehension, but that was his mother’s influence again. Why couldn’t he have had some distant mother who never saw her children and left their upbringing to capable nannies? Then he wouldn’t be plagued with such ridiculous concerns like fair treatment for the servants, responsibility for his siblings, general decency.

And he wouldn’t be doing his best to blot out the memory of his evil, vicious tongue. He was capable of being a nasty son of a bitch, and he knew it. He’d proved that early this morning, letting his evil inner demon free to slash and hack like a medieval warrior, leaving his victim broken and bleeding on the ground.

Except that he wasn’t a medieval warrior, and his weapons had been words, not maces and broad-swords. Words that were lies, slashing at the woman he’d just made love to, destroying her until there was nothing left.

He could still see her face, calm, unmoving, the utter bleakness in her dark blue eyes. He’d managed
to smash Charity Carstairs’s infernal amour propre, gotten through to the heart of her, the soul of her, and crushed her.

He’d drained the glass, he realized, and he could still see her. He reached for the bottle and took a deep drink, letting the fiery taste of it slide down his throat. He should see if he could get some good Scots whiskey. That would work even better than French brandy. Too bad the British weren’t as adept at creating something to knock a man on his arse.

He could ask his brother the direction of the opium den he habituated if he got desperate enough. Anything to forget what he’d done. But Brandon had disappeared, and wouldn’t return, at least, not until the infernal fraternity lost its hold over him. The opium would still lay claim to his soul, but Benedick would help him deal with that when the time came.

He cursed, with long, inventive, impossibly obscene phrases. He had the unbearable suspicion that he wouldn’t be able to save Brandon. That no matter what he did, he couldn’t stop the spiral of self-destruction that was driving him, any more than he was able to save his sister from her disastrous marriage.

He took another swallow, letting the blissful veil of confusion float down over him. There was something else he was trying not to think of, something that kept pushing through to torment him. It had something to do with Charity Carstairs. Melisande. A beautiful name for a beautiful woman. Creamy skin. Magnificent breasts. Sweet little sounds when
he took her, delicious shudders when she climaxed, shock in her eyes each time she reached her peak. He’d shown her, hadn’t he, he thought dismally. Taught her just what she was missing. And then made sure she’d never seek it out again, if cruelty was the price she had to pay.

Why had he done it? He was adept at ridding himself of females he’d lost interest in, all without offending them. But maybe that was the problem. He hadn’t lost interest in her. He’d become so wretchedly obsessed and entangled with her, after one night of sweaty, wicked delight, that he’d panicked.

He was supposed to hold his liquor, treat women with civility and never show fear. He’d cocked that up to a fare-thee-well. His mother would be horrified. His father would thrash him. No he wouldn’t. Too big to thrash. B’sides, his father always hated to punish him. His mother’s disappointment would be reward enough.

Melisande’s face swam in front of him, the softness of her mouth, so vulnerable, so sweet, so innocent. The Saint of King Street, and here he was, debauching her. He shouldn’t feel guilty, but he was. It didn’t matter. He still wanted that mouth. He wanted so much more—there’d barely been time to do more than touch the possibilities of the flesh. He wanted to do things to her that had never interested him before. He wanted to cover every inch of her creamy skin with his mouth. He wanted to see if he could make her scream in pleasure. He wanted…he wanted…

The brandy bottle slipped from his hand, hitting the Aubusson carpet and rolling toward the fire. He reached out for it, and his balance faltered. The chair went over, and his head smashed against something hard. Might knock some sense into him, he thought dazedly.

But maybe he could sleep just a little bit, since he was already lying down. The floor was as good a place as any. He hadn’t taken Melisande on the floor, had he? He’d wanted to.

Bloody hell. She was still haunting him. He reached out for the brandy bottle, but it had rolled out of his reach, and there was something wet and warm on his head. He reached up a hand to touch it, then brought it down to look at it.

Blood. He didn’t like blood. In fact, among his other, un-gentleman-like transgressions, he couldn’t stand the sight of it.

And he finally, happily, passed out on the library floor.

M
iranda Rohan de Malheur, Countess of Rochdale, let out a shriek of dismay, raced into the room and sank down next to the unconscious figure of her oldest brother. There was blood everywhere, and she threw her arms around him, terrified that he was dead.

He rewarded her with a loud snore, and she caught the reek of brandy. She sat back on her heels with annoyance, turning to look up at her husband. “He’s dead drunk, and I think he hit his head. He’s bleeding like a pig, the carpet is ruined, and I thought we were here to save Brandon, not Benedick.”

Lucien de Malheur, the lady’s husband, lately referred to as the Scorpion for his less than honorable habits, limped into the room, staring down at his brother-in-law. “How the mighty have fallen,” he murmured softly. “My heart, you’re getting blood all over that lovely frock. Leave him to me. The Rohans are blessed with very hard heads, and I don’t doubt
he’s suffered worse. He’s going to be more troubled by his hangover than a little scalp wound.”

Miranda looked back at her brother, the stalwart she’d always depended on, fear and annoyance fighting for dominance. “Are you quite certain?”

“Absolutely. Go find that elderly manservant and see if he can round up a few strong footmen to remove your brother to his bed. I doubt we’ll need to call a doctor—even from here the wound looks superficial, but he’ll need a cleanup. Do your brothers tend to cast up their accounts when they’ve drunk too much?”

“They don’t usually drink too much. Something must be very wrong. Benedick usually fixes things. He doesn’t give up and drink himself into a stupor. Things must be very bad, indeed.”

“Things are never as bad as they seem. And that’s why we’re here, my love. I received word that the Heavenly Host are holding a gathering in Kent this Saturday, and according to Salfield, the newly re-formed organization is a far cry from the harmless activities I remember.”

“Harmless?” Miranda said with a screech, her flashing green eyes promising retribution. “I seem to remember a very unpleasant evening…”

“Pray, don’t!” Lucien said with a shudder. “Haven’t I paid for my transgressions sufficiently?”

“No.” She blew him a kiss before turning back to her brother. His color was good, his breathing even, and the blood, while horrific in appearance, seemed to have stopped flowing. Her husband was
right: Benedick was foxed but perfectly fine. She rose, taking the handkerchief her husband offered and wiping the blood off her hands. “You take care of him, and I’ll go in search of Brandon.”

“I thought the old man said he had moved out.”

“Richmond,” she corrected. “And he knows more than that. He always does. You clean up this mess—” she cast a withering glance at her favorite big brother “—and I’ll start working on the other.”

The brandy had betrayed him completely this time, Benedick thought, in between being violently ill. Not only was Melisande Carstairs still haunting him, but now he had the infernal vision of his despised brother-in-law holding the basin for him. He could think of no worse punishment than imagining the Scorpion at hand, but at least, in his still-drunken state, he knew perfectly well that his sister and her husband almost never left the Lake District and the bastard would never dare show his scarred, ugly face at Benedick’s house.

He slept, awoke to cast up his accounts once more, demanded brandy, received none, imagined his brother-in-law conversing with Richmond, the traitor, and then slept again.

When he awoke it was the full light of day, though which day was anybody’s guess. His head hurt like the very devil, his stomach was tender, and he felt both raw and sticky. He sat up, slowly, to see that he was in one of the guest rooms. He vaguely remembered the footmen trying to get him upstairs, and
then having a battle when he refused to be put in his own bed. The servants would have changed the sheets. But they couldn’t change his memories. Nothing could, sod it. Not bottles of brandy, not smashing his head. Nothing.

He reached up and felt the matted strands of his hair above the tender lump. Served him right, he thought. And the visions were nothing more than he deserved. Seeing his mortal enemy in his drunken dreams wasn’t much better than Melisande’s face, but at least it engendered rage, not despair.

The door opened, and he stiffened, expecting a disapproving Richmond, come to clean him up and lecture him simply by looking at him, and then he froze. He was no longer drunk. And Lucien de Malheur was standing inside his bedroom door.

He didn’t think, didn’t hesitate. He launched himself across the room, flattening his brother-in-law, and began pummeling him with enthusiasm.

But the Scorpion was a strong man, despite his bad leg, and Benedick had the hangover of the century, so it was over quickly. Benedick lay curled up, breathless in pain, as the Earl rose to his feet, brushing himself off.

“You dirty bastard,” Benedick gasped. “You fight like a street rat.”

“Of course I do,” Lucien said calmly.

Benedick said nothing, trying to catch his breath and wondering if his plan for an heir was now moot, when he was vaguely aware of someone else in the room.

“What did you do to him?” came his sister’s caustic voice.

“No less than he deserved. He decided it was time to avenge your honor.”

“Too late,” Miranda said cheerfully, leaning down beside him. She smelled of lemon and spice, her familiar scent, and beneath all the misery, fury and pain he felt a surge of remembered affection. “You shouldn’t try to hit Lucien, Benedick. He has no scruples.”

Benedick coughed. “I remember.” He was beginning to breathe again, and he decided ignoring Malheur was the best thing he could do. For now. “What are you doing here, Miranda? Are you well?”

She placed a hand over her swelling stomach. “Perfectly.”

He stared at her. “Good God, are you increasing again? How many children is this, twenty-seven?” Another hideous thought struck him. “They aren’t here, are they? Because while I adore your children this is hardly the time for a social visit, and there are things going on…”

“This will be my sixth baby, and the other five are back at home with their nanny. This isn’t a social visit, darling. Lucien and I are here for a reason, and you’re just going to have to swallow your outrage for the time being and put up with us.”

At that moment he was incapable of moving, but he grunted unencouragingly. The moment he could get to his feet he was heading straight for the Scorpion again.

“
What
reason?” A sudden fear struck him. “Father and Mother…are they all right?”

“Perfectly fine, as far as I know, and it’s a good thing they’re still in Egypt and not here to watch you make such an utter cake of yourself.”

“And that’s why you’re here?” The wheeze had almost gone out of his voice. “To make me behave?”

“Hardly. We’re come to stop Brandon from destroying his life. You seem to have forgotten his very existence, but Lucien had it from good authority that the Heavenly Host has…”

“Regathered, yes I know,” Benedick said, managing to sit up. “You didn’t need to come all the way down here and subject me to your husband’s presence in order to tell me that. I have the matter well in hand.”

“Yes. It really seems like it.” She sounded skeptical, as only a sister could. “And exactly where is Brandon now? Richmond said he moved out a couple of days ago and hasn’t been seen since.”

“I’ll find him,” Benedick snarled, his eyes narrowing as he saw Lucien looking at him.

“The question is, will you find him in time?” the Scorpion asked in a deliberately civil tone. “Or not until he’s slaughtered some innocent female and gone beyond any hope of a future.”

“Why should he slaughter an innocent female?” Benedick snapped. “I’m still presuming those rumors about a virgin sacrifice are highly embroidered, even though I’ve promised to check them out. I never
thought you so gullible that you’d come haring down all the way from the Lake District.”

“They aren’t rumors, Neddie,” Miranda said in a quiet voice. “Lucien knows people—his sources are unimpeachable. They’re planning some hideous ritual on the night of the full moon, involving an innocent girl, and our brother has been chosen to wield the knife. And apparently he’s so far lost to drink and opium that there’s no common sense left to stop him.”

“Why would he be chosen?” Benedick demanded.

“No one has any idea who’s in charge, who chose him, or why,” Lucien said. “But my sources are never wrong. If we don’t find Brandon before tomorrow night, it will be too late. We haven’t the faintest idea where they’re planning to meet, and…”

“That’s where you’re wrong. I know exactly where they’re meeting, and if we haven’t found Brandon before then I suppose I can go and stop them myself.” He got to his feet, albeit a little shakily; his hangover and the recent sucker punch still left him reeling. He glanced at Malheur, wondering if he dared go for him again, but Miranda was in the way, and he expected she’d make certain to keep between them from now on. He’d have to wait to wipe the smirk off that toad-sucking son of a bitch.

“And if we do find Brandon? Are you going to stand by and let some poor innocent be murdered?” his sister demanded, for all like the woman he’d just sent from his life. Why did they all have to be so damned emotional?

“All sorts of poor innocents get murdered every day, Miranda. I can hardly be responsible for them,” he drawled.

“You can if you know about them.” Her fine eye narrowed. “What’s happened to you, Neddie?”

Fallen in love, he thought morosely, and then froze. Where had those words come from? At least he hadn’t said them out loud; he only had himself to chastise. “I’m a practical man,” he said instead. He looked away. For some reason the disappointment in Miranda’s eyes was too painful.

He was becoming adept at disappointing women, he thought sourly. Perhaps he deserved a cold-blooded bitch like Dorothea Pennington after all.

“Miss Dorothea Pennington has arrived to see you,” Richmond announced from the doorway, like a voice from the grave. It had to be some bloody sign.

He shoved his hair away from his face, wincing as his hand bounced against his head wound. “Tell her I’ll join her directly.”

“Dorothea Pennington?” Miranda said, aghast. “What in the world has that mean-hearted piece of work got to do with anything? I thought you were…were involved with Lady Carstairs.”

He wanted to whirl around and snap like an angry cur, but he kept his temper in check, saying the one thing he knew would horrify her. “Your sources are nowhere near as reliable as you seem to think. I intend to marry Miss Pennington, of course.”