33
The day had gone from incomprehensibly bad to cataclysmic, Benedick thought with almost absent precision. What had started with worry over his brother and annoyance with his sister had flipped over into a kind of focused panic. They had Melisande, God help her.
And God help them.
He managed to keep his voice under control. “What makes you think I know anything about it?”
Emma Cadbury gave him a look of withering disdain, something he deserved. “I was hoping you would, sir. I was truly hoping she’d been fool enough to spend the night with you again and simply hadn’t bothered to let us know.”
“I could only wish,” Miranda said wryly.
“But since she’d gone out in search of young Betsey, who disappeared, and she promised she was coming to ask you for help, it seemed odd that she didn’t send any word back to us. She never would have abandoned Betsey for some shallow affaire with a hardened rake,” she said bitterly.
She certainly had the hard part right, even if the shallow affaire and rake part were far and away off. “I never saw her,” he said. “Haven’t seen her since two mornings ago.”
“When she left here in tears,” Emma Cadbury said bitterly. “You bastard.”
He blinked in astonishment. He wasn’t used to being called a bastard by anyone, much less someone so far beneath him in rank.
Miranda jumped in before he could respond. “Not precisely, but close enough. To make things worse, the damned fool’s in love with her and refuses to admit it. I am so weary of pigheaded men and their stubborn natures.”
Lucien de Malheur laughed.
“You’re not exempt, either!” she snapped.
Emma Cadbury looked at Benedick with skepticism. “I don’t see any signs of love, my lady. I see a cruel, heartless pig of a man who used her and then sent her away, and…”
“Enough!” he thundered, and all was mercifully silent. “I do not appreciate being called names in my own house. I am not a bastard, a rake, a pig or anything else you women might think of. My love life is not open for discussion, no matter how interested you two are.”
“Make that three,” the Scorpion tossed in, and Benedick sent him a bitter glare. He should have known someone like Lucien de Malheur would offer no loyalty, no male solidarity.
“And beyond that, I believe we should be more concerned about Lady Carstairs. Explain to me what happened,” he demanded in a peremptory tone.
“But first, please take a seat,” Miranda broke in.
“You don’t offer a seat to a brothel-keeper, Miranda,” Benedick said.
“But she’s retired.”
“I don’t want a seat. I want to find Melisande and make sure she’s safe. I’m afraid she’s gone after those men, and she doesn’t even have your doubtful company to protect her.”
He ground his teeth at the word doubtful but let it pass. “When did she leave?”
“Yesterday, in the late morning. She took a hired coach, and the monk’s robe we’d made for her, and she said she was bringing Betsey home. And that’s the last we’ve heard of her, or Betsey for that matter.”
“You could have come to me sooner,” he snapped, a dozen horrifying scenarios racing through his mind.
“I assumed she was with you. That’s what she told me. I should have realized that something was amiss. Particularly when you consider how distraught she was when she returned home from here the last time.”
Another stab to the heart, but he ignored it. “Yes, you should have,” he said icily. He glanced at Lucien. “I need to leave. She must be at Kersley Hall, and it’s growing late. I don’t know if they intend to use her for their nasty ritual.”
“I gather she’s…er…not a virgin,” Miranda offered.
“That’s not my fault,” Benedick snapped. “She was already a widow.”
“Your lordship.” Richmond was at the door, a pile of cloth in his hand. “I thought you might be needing this.”
“What?” he demanded irritably.
“A monk’s robe. I found it among Master Brandon’s things and removed it, hoping it might stop his current activities. Not that it did any good.”
He wanted to hug the old man, but he simply grabbed the cloth and threw it over his arm. “I have to go,” he said again.
“Then go,” Miranda said, waving an arm. “Lucien and I will be close behind as soon as our carriage is readied, and I’m certain he can summon some of his less savory acquaintances to assist.” She turned to her husband. “Do you know where Kersley Hall is, darling?”
“Generally. We’ll find it,” he said. “Do you know when this supposed ritual is going to take place?”
“Midnight. And don’t even think of bringing Miranda. She’s pregnant, for God’s sake!”
“You’ve known her all your life,” Lucien retorted. “Do you really think I have a chance in hell of keeping her home?”
“Oh, you’re a fearsome creature, indeed, Scorpion.”
“Stuff it. Your sister is enough to terrify anyone.”
Benedick ignored him, turning to his sister. “Someone needs to look out for Brandon. I don’t know that Trudy will be fully up to it.”
“Mrs. Cadbury can do it. You don’t mind, do you, Mrs. Cadbury? The doctor assures us he’ll simply sleep the next twenty-four hours, but we’d feel better if someone was keeping an eye on him.”
Emma Cadbury looked like a cornered doe. “I shouldn’t even be here… Really, I must go. They’ll be worried…”
“You can send word home. And really, don’t you think Lady Carstairs will want to see you first thing when Benedick brings her safely home? And he will. Won’t you, Neddie?”
He had no choice. “Yes, please stay, Mrs. Cadbury. It would be a kindness.”
She nodded, giving in.
“What are you waiting for?” Miranda demanded, in full warrior mode. “We’ll be there before midnight. How will we find you?”
There was no way to stop her, any more than he could stop the incoming tide. “Make a commotion. Some kind of distraction that will draw the attention away from whatever this so-called master has planned. I suppose your sources didn’t figure out yet who’s running the Heavenly Host?” he asked his brother-in-law.
The Scorpion shook his head. “I’ll keep my wife safe. Mrs. Cadbury will look after Brandon. The rest is up to you.”
“God help us,” Benedick muttered.
The house was silent. Emma Cadbury sat alone in the Viscount’s library, a tea tray by her side. She’d managed to drink a cup, but the sight of the tea cakes, so beloved by Melisande, had her on the verge of weeping with fear, and she had never been a woman to give in to tears. She’d simply covered the plate with a serviette.
He was above stairs, sleeping. Lady Rochdale had assured her that he would be fine—a servant would fetch her if he awoke, but that was very unlikely. She had the direction of a doctor, if he should suddenly get worse, but in truth, all she had to do was wait.
As if things weren’t bad enough, she thought, trying for a wry smile and failing. On top of everything else temptation was thrown in her face. She’d wanted to see him so many times in the past few months, ever since they’d whisked him away from the hospital, but there’d been no chance. She’d told herself it was for the best. And now here he was, sick, wretched. Unconscious.
He wouldn’t know that she’d looked in on him. He was a boy, despite all the horrors he’d been through, despite the determination with which he was trying to destroy himself. She could pray over him, but she never prayed anymore. She was frightened, more frightened than she’d been since the night she’d run away, terrified that Melisande would have finally walked into a danger she couldn’t escape, terrified that poor little Betsey would be slaughtered.
Surely she deserved the one sweet respite of a look at Brandon Rohan’s sleeping face? Just to reassure herself.
She moved quietly up the stairs. It was growing dark outside, the late-spring evening coming on quickly. The servants were out of sight, as good servants were supposed to be, even the kindly old man who’d brought her the tea had told her he was going down for his own supper but all she had to do was pull the bell if she needed assistance.
It was as good a time as any.
She moved up the stairs quite slowly, half hoping she’d think better of it, but the closer she came the more she knew she couldn’t turn back. His room was at the end of the hallway, and while the door to the hallway was closed, she could see dim light coming from under the door. Lady Rochdale had told her a maid would be stationed outside, but the chair was empty.
She moved up and pressed her ear against the door, only to hear absolute silence. And then a hideous thump.
She slammed the door open in time to see Brandon Rohan hanging from his neck in the center of the room, the chair he’d been standing on kicked over.
She rushed to him, holding him up so the strain on his neck was eased. “You stupid, stupid fool!” she cried. “Damn you to hell! Stop this immediately.”
He’d fought her for a moment, kicking at her imprisoning arms, and then he stopped moving, and she had the horrifying thought that his neck had already been broken. She looked up, tears streaming down her face, to find he was looking down at her, his dark eyes puzzled, the noose loose around his neck.
She reached out with her foot, blindly, catching the edge of the chair and pulling it over. It took her three tries to get it upright, and she set his feet on it, relinquishing her hold as she pulled out the knife she always carried with her. She climbed onto the chair with him, reaching high over his head to cut the rope, and suddenly realized his arms had come around her, and he was looking at her as if he’d seen a ghost. “My harpy,” he whispered.
And then he collapsed.