Shameless (27 page)

It was no matter. He would never know the difference. He’d had his servants cart Brandon Rohan’s unconscious body to an opium den in the worst section of the east end rookeries—he wouldn’t be found for days, if he was even found alive at all. His men had instructions to smear blood all over Rohan’s cassock and tuck the blood-stained knife beneath him. As always he’d been prescient enough to have two made. Rohan would awake and be convinced he’d committed the murder he’d refused to do. The Grand Master’s only regret was that he wouldn’t be there to witness the man’s horror.

But he had his own job to do. The cassocks decreed by the Heavenly Host were indistinguishable, and the hoods and cowls assured complete anonym
ity. All he needed to do was copy Brandon Rohan’s dragging gait and everyone would recognize the crippled war hero committing the crime.

Truly, he’d planned it so well he astonished even himself. A quiet giggle escaped, and he slapped his hand over his mouth lest someone hear him. But the only noise was from the trussed form of Lady Carstairs, and he had plans for her.

Very specific plans.

N
ever let it be said, thought Benedick Rohan, that sitting around waiting was any less heroic than charging into battle. It was a damned sight harder. He was trapped in his house, with his meddlesome, far too acute younger sister and her blackguard of a husband, and he didn’t dare leave. Eating alone in his room was too childish to be contemplated, so he had no choice but to sit at table with the Scorpion and the woman he’d abducted and forced into marriage, and while nothing could induce him to be pleasant, there was simply a limit to how much boredom he could withstand.

One way to alleviate that boredom was to fleece his brother-in-law out of every penny he had on him. Not that Lucien de Malheur wasn’t a practiced gambler, but when it came to faro there were few who could beat a Rohan. Miranda reluctantly served as banker, more as a means to keep them from killing each other than an interest in the game, but the play
was alarmingly even, probably because Miranda’s husband cheated. The winnings went back and forth, well into the early hours of the morning when once more Benedick consumed far more brandy than was good for him, but this time when he retired to bed he was too drunk and too weary to want to kill the Scorpion.

He woke late, suddenly alert. He dressed hastily, even shaving himself rather than waiting for Richmond to make his appearance, and by the time he was downstairs he’d decided that, wise or not, he couldn’t wait in the house any longer. He was going out looking, and be damned to the consequences.

But Lucien sat at his dining room table, drinking coffee and looking perturbed, and Miranda paced the floor. Her face, when she saw him, was far from reassuring, but at least there was news.

“They’ve found him!” she cried. “In some wretched hovel, and if it hadn’t been for Lucien’s connections, he probably wouldn’t have been found until the middle of next week. If he’d even been found alive.”

Benedick felt his heart sink. “Where is he now?”

“They’re bringing him,” Lucien said, sounding equally grave. “He’s not in the best of shape, and my men have orders to be discreet, so it’s taking a bit of time…”

“Not in the best of shape?” his wife interrupted him. “He was in an
opium den,
Lucien! Unconscious, and no one could rouse him. Wearing a monk’s robe and covered in blood.” She started pacing again.

Not good,
Benedick thought, but he gave Miranda a reassuring nod. “At least he’s found. That’s the first step. As for the blood, granted, that’s not a good sign. But the actual ritual is set for tonight, so at least we know he’s not going to be any part of that particular foulness. We may need to call a doctor to attend him…”

“I’ve already sent word,” the Scorpion interrupted, looking grim. “If my information is reliable, and I have no doubt that it is, he’s in very bad shape, indeed. With luck the doctor will be here before Brandon arrives home.”

“Dr. Tunbridge seldom comes out that promptly…”

“I summoned my doctor, not yours, Rohan,” the Scorpion said coolly. “He’s more capable of dealing with this kind of situation. I doubt old Tunbridge has ever seen a case of opium poisoning.”

It would have made things so much better if he could have simply slammed his fist into Lucien de Malheur’s face, Benedick thought fondly, keeping his hands clenched at his sides. Except for what it would do to Miranda, who was already looking far more distressed than a woman in her condition ought to.

She must have picked up on his hostility, for she shot him a quelling glance. “Don’t you dare.”

He opened his fists and held them up in a sign of surrender. “I’ll behave. Things are bad enough already.”

It seemed to take forever. The Scorpion was right, the doctor did arrive before Brandon, but at least he didn’t look like the shady quack Benedick was an
ticipating. Miranda kept herself busy by ordering the preparation of a sick room, sending servants running up and down the stairs, while Benedick took a chair as far away as he could from his brother-in-law, drumming his fingers silently and waiting.

He lifted his head when he heard Miranda come back into the room with tears streaming down her face, and his panic erupted. “What’s happened? Have you heard something?”

His wretched brother-in-law stood at the same time. “Is he back, my love?”

She nodded. “The doctor is examining him right now. But it’s bad, Lucien. Very, very bad. He’s covered with blood, and he was found with a bloody knife, and he won’t wake up.”

“I didn’t even hear them bring him in!” Benedick protested, irrationally furious.

“Because they brought him in the back way,” Lucien said in the tones reserved for an idiot. “If he’s involved in murder we’re going to have to be very discreet. Unless you prefer to have your brother hauled off to jail?”

Benedick didn’t dignify that with an answer. “When this is over, you bastard, you and I are going to have a serious reckoning.”

Lucien’s scarred face curved in a malicious grin. “I’ll be looking forward to it. But in the meantime do you suppose we might pay attention to what’s important?”

Miranda hadn’t exaggerated. Brandon lay on the narrow bed, his color dead white. The doctor had
already removed the stained clothes, and Brandon’s thin, scarred chest rose up and down, imperceptibly. His skinny, clawlike hands were stained with blood, though Miranda was busy washing them clean.

“You shouldn’t be doing that!” Benedick said abruptly. “We should call a servant or something…”

“No!” Miranda snapped. “The fewer people who know about this the better. Besides, I need to be able to do something.” She reached out and brushed a shock of his dark hair away from his face. “Poor little baby brother,” she whispered, tears in her eyes.

“He’s in rough shape, but he should make it,” the doctor, a thin man with sad eyes far older than his years, murmured. “The amount of opium he ingested has a depressive effect on the heart, slowing it down, and I feared it might stop beating completely, but it’s already coming back, and his breathing is better. Even his color is improving.”

Benedick looked at the sickly yellow and white of Brandon’s skin. “His color is improving?” he said doubtfully.

“You should have seen him when he first arrived,” Miranda said. She glanced up at the doctor. “What can we do?”

“Watch him. As long as he cannot add more opium or anything similar, such as laudanum syrup, then he should continue to come back. Keep any sort of spirits away from him, as well. Tie him to the bed if you must, but don’t let him ingest anything more for at least two days. If you can, a full week would be better.”

“Two days?” Miranda echoed, incensed. “He’s never going to touch that filthy stuff again.”

The doctor looked at her sadly. “In my experience, my lady, that’s seldom the case. He’s a habitual user, and while I imagine he started as a response to the pain of his injuries, he now uses it to shut out the world, and it’s hard to bring someone back from that. Apart from his addiction, he’s in one piece. No injuries, broken bones or the like.”

“And the blood?” Lucien spoke then, and the man lifted his head.

“I saw no blood, my lord,” he said calmly.

Lucien nodded. “You’ll be taken care of as per usual.”

Benedick’s annoyance grew. “He’s my brother. I’ll take care of any remuneration. If you’ll tell me where to have it sent, Doctor…?” He waited for the man to supply his name, but the doctor looked from the Scorpion back to him, and shrugged.

“We’re better off without names,” he said gently. “And the Scorpion knows how to get in touch with me. I leave it to you two gentlemen to sort out who pays.” There was a cynical twist to his mouth, before he turned to Miranda and put a gentle hand on her head as she sat beside Brandon, clutching his thin hand in hers. “Don’t worry, dear lady. He’ll be better soon. And then you may begin the hard work of convincing him to stay away from the opium. I wish you luck.”

She smiled up at him, but the man had already vanished, like the ghost he was.

At that point Brandon’s eyes fluttered open, just for a moment, and then closed again. Not before Benedick saw the expression of clear panic in his bloodshot eyes.

“He’s waking up!” Miranda said, her voice brimming with excitement.

Benedick had to wonder if his brother-in-law had seen that same look of horrified pleading. “You need to come downstairs with me, my love, and have something to eat. You’ve been pacing and hovering for too long.”

“But Brandon needs me!” she cried, mutinous.

“Brandon has Benedick, who is more than capable of providing nursing duties, and most likely better at holding a chamber pot. And you, my dear, need to consider the baby, and eat properly.”

“You’re not fighting fairly,” she shot back.

“Of course not, my love.” He held out his arm, and after a moment she rose and took it.

“But I’m coming right back. Do you understand?” she said stubbornly.

“You could do with a short nap. Then you may come back, and by then your baby brother will probably feel better able to withstand so much family and your dauntless enthusiasm.” He put his hand over hers, leading her away. “Leave this to Neddie.”

Benedick waited until they were out of earshot, stifling his irritation at the Scorpion’s mocking use of the pet name only his siblings were allowed to utter. When he turned back, Brandon’s eyes were open and full of blinding despair.

“I killed her, Neddie,” he whispered, his voice a painful rasp. “I told him I wouldn’t. I told him there wasn’t anything that would make me do it, but I killed her anyway.”

“Hush, now,” Benedick said, taking the seat beside him and holding the hand Miranda had abandoned. There was still blood beneath the fingernails, and he hoped Brandon couldn’t see it. “Who told you to kill her? And who is she?”

“The Grand Master,” he choked out. “No one knows who he is, but we’re all sworn to obey. But I told him I couldn’t. Not ever. But I must have. There was blood all over me, blood on my hands, the knife…”

“But you don’t remember actually killing anyone?” It was faint hope, but worth nurturing. For both their sakes.

There was an almost imperceptible shake from Brandon’s head. “Not for sure. But I remember seeing her. Some poor serving girl, barely more than a child. And the things he ordered me to do to her. I couldn’t, Neddie. But I must have.”

“You were right the first time,” he said soothingly. “You couldn’t. You don’t have it in you. You’re not a killer. You don’t abuse women.”

His laugh had a ghostly quality. “There’s where you’re wrong, Neddie. You have no idea the things I’ve done, the horrors I’ve seen. I lost count of how many men I’ve killed. As for women…you don’t want to know. It’s been…I can’t live with it. Even the opium won’t drive the memory away, not com
pletely. You don’t need the memory as your burden, too. I’m a monster, and my face only shows what I really am.”

Benedick kept his expression blank. Brandon was right; he didn’t want to know, but if his brother needed to confess then he’d hear him. He reached out and smoothed the hair away from Brandon’s pale, sweating face, much as Miranda had done. “It’ll be all right, old man,” he said gently. “Things are never as dark as they seem.”

Brandon’s ghostly laugh was eerie. “No. They’re often a lot worse.” He sank back on the pillow, closing his eyes. “Forgive me, Neddie.”

For the first time in years he wanted to cry. “Nothing to forgive, baby brother. Trust me. Big brother is going to fix everything.”

But Brandon had already drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep. At least, Benedick hoped so.

The housemaid who’d assisted the doctor appeared in the doorway. “You want me to sit with him, my lord?” she whispered.

“Yes, thank you, Trudy.” He blessed himself for remembering her name. He wasn’t as good as he should be with servants but he was better than most. “Call me if there’s any change.”

“Doctor says he’ll sleep twenty-four hours or more, until that poison gets out of his system. I’ll watch him and make sure he rests easy.”

Benedick nodded. A deep pall had settled over him, which made no sense. Brandon was back, safe. It didn’t make sense that he’d killed the girl—it was
too soon for the sacrifice. They would wait until the full moon, which wasn’t until sometime tonight.

Which meant some poor child was imprisoned, waiting, and by tomorrow would be dead. And he could sit and do nothing about it, or he could do what he knew he must do. Go to Kersley Hall and stop them.

He heard the commotion as he started toward the first floor, a flurry of voices, and he stopped on the landing, frozen, as he looked into the pale, desperate face of Emma Cadbury.

One of the footmen was arguing with her. “His lordship is not at home to women of your sort, my girl. Go along with you.”

Richmond would have known better. “Wait,” Benedick said, coming down the rest of the stairs.

The older footman turned. “Your lordship, this woman was found sneaking around the house. She must have got in the servants’ entrance, and she says she’s looking for you, but Cook says she’s one of those scarlet women, and she’s got no right visiting a decent gentleman’s establishment, less’n he’s asked for her, which I figger you didn’t, as you were worried about your brother, and…”

“Your brother?”
Emma Cadbury broke through. “What’s happened to your brother?”

“I don’t think that’s any of your concern,” Benedick said stiffly. “Did you sneak in here to see me?”

“I couldn’t think of any other way. I knew I’d
scarcely be allowed in by the front door.” Her voice was defiant.

He considered her for a moment, then made up his mind. “Come into the library,” he said abruptly. “That will be all,” he added to the footman, whose name he didn’t know. “Keep my sister and her damnable husband away from us.”

“But my lord…” the man began, but it was too late. Benedick had already pushed past him and pushed open the door, revealing Lucien de Malheur with his very pregnant wife sitting on his lap, kissing him.

“Shit.” It wasn’t a word Benedick had ever used in the presence of a woman, but the circumstances more than called for it, and he said it again. “Shit. What are you two doing in my library? Don’t answer that. Don’t I provide you with a bedroom, albeit against my will? Go there.”