28
Miranda 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.”