Shameless

by Annie Stuart

  She talked to him as she worked, her low voice keeping up a steady stream of inconsequential pleasantries. The dying often retreated so far that they never heard a human voice or felt the touch of their caretakers, but on rare occasions that voice or touch could call someone back. She covered him again, then sat back in the spindly chair beside his bed, rubbing the small of her back absently. “Are you going to die, young man?” she said softly, thinking that he was older than she was, feeling like his grandmother. “There’s no need. You can fight this—you’re young and strong. You’re far better off than half the men in this hospital—you have all your limbs, and even if half of your pretty face is ruined you still have the other half to charm the girls with. If you can cultivate the right brooding, Gothic air, the young women will find you vastly heroic and romantic, and you’ll have to beat them off with a stick.”

  He didn’t move, and she could almost feel the life force draining from his body. “You don’t have to die,” she said again with some asperity. “But if you’re determined to then I’m damned if I’ll waste my time with you when there are other men who are fighting to stay alive.”

  Not even a twitch suggested there was anyone left inside the spare frame of the young soldier, and she decided to try one last time. “Have you got a sweet-heart, perhaps a wife somewhere? A mother who’s worried about you? You can’t just give up, child. Fight, damn you!”

  Nothing. She rose slowly, her shoulders bowed in weariness and defeat, and she was turning to go when a small movement caught her attention. She turned back to see that his eyes were open, bright blue staring up at her. “Is that supposed to convince me to live?” he asked, his voice a weak croak. “Aren’t you supposed to hold my hand?”

  “I already tried that,” she said matter-of-factly, hiding her burgeoning hope. “It didn’t seem to work.”

  He might almost have smiled. It was difficult to tell with the scarring, but suddenly she released her pent-up breath. It was as if there’d been a third entity in the cubicle with them. Death had been there, waiting.

  And now it was gone.

  She sat back down, taking his thin, clawlike hand in hers. “What is your name? You were brought in without papers, and if you’d been selfish enough to die we would have had to bury you in an unmarked grave.”

  He looked at her steadily. “I don’t remember,” he said finally, and she knew it for a lie. Even with the weak, thready quality of his voice she could tell he was a far cry for an ordinary soldier.

  “You’re being difficult,” she said lightly. “But I’ll have the truth from you sooner or later. Mother Mary Clement gives me the difficult cases. Of which you are one. But at least you’ve decided to live.”

  “Why do you say that?” he whispered, looking at her.

  She smiled, squeezing his thin hand lightly. “I just know.” She rose, releasing him. “I’ll be back tomorrow. Don’t give the night sister too hard a time, all right? And don’t die while I’m gone—I’ll be very cross with you.”

  It was definitely a smile. “I’ll endeavor not to. What’s your name?”

  She shook her head. “I’ll tell you when you’re ready to give me a present of yours. At least tell me your rank, so I can address you as lieutenant or something.”

  “Call me Janus,” he said.

  She didn’t miss the allusion; Janus was the god of two faces in Roman mythology. “Don’t be tiresome, child,” she said in her best governess-y tones. “You’re way too pretty as it is—too much loveliness for one face. You needed to do something to tone down that handsome profile.”

  He laughed then, a choking sound that nevertheless made her feel warm inside. “And I think I’ll call you Harpy, if we’re going with classical allusions. I’ll endeavor to survive until tomorrow, if only to spite you.”

  “Do that,” she said, pushing the curtain aside and preparing to depart.

  “Oh, and Miss Harpy,” he called after her.

  She glanced back, eyebrows raised in question.

  “I’m most definitely not a child.”

  He hadn’t told her his name. In the week he stayed at the hospital under Mother Mary Clement’s watchful eye he stubbornly insisted his memory was gone, even as his body grew stronger. When she came in she would go straight to him, to reassure herself that he was getting better, and then she would do her rounds, leaving him for last. He was her reward for the onerous work she did. He looked at her as if she were a mixture of the Madonna and the harpy he’d likened her to, and she chivvied him like he was her younger brother. No, that wasn’t true, because she’d been uncomfortably aware of the niggling pinch of longing he brought out in her.

  All would have been well if he hadn’t developed another fever, this one stronger and more virulent than the first. She’d seen it happen in other patients, seemingly strong and recovering. The hospital was a dangerous place, full of illness and disease, and the patients were already in a weakened condition from whatever had brought them there in the first place. It came over him swiftly, and by nightfall, when she was scheduled to leave, he was delirious.

  Mother Mary Clement had looked in, clucking beneath her breath. “It’s a sad case, Emma,” the old woman said. “I had hoped he would make it.”

  Emma hadn’t looked away from him. “I’ll stay here for a bit if you don’t mind,” she said in a quiet voice. “Do what I can for him.”

  “Wake him up if possible. I assign the dying to you, simply so they can see what’s worth living for. Remind him of why he wants to be alive.”

  She did look up at her then. The nun knew everything she needed to know about Emma’s history, and she didn’t judge her. Mother Mary Clement nodded briskly. “I’ll leave him to you. Call me if you need anything. Otherwise there’s naught we can do. Either he’ll make it through or he won’t.”

  And she’d left them there, together in the gathering darkness, the moans of the sick and dying around them, her young soldier still and silent in his narrow bed.

  It was around midnight when she crawled onto the cot with him. He’d begun to shiver, and she put her arms around him, cradling him against her breast like the baby she knew she would never have. He clung to her like a drowning man, and she closed her eyes and slept, knowing that when she awoke he’d be dead, but that at least he would die in her arms, loved, when she never thought she would love any man.

  And indeed he was gone the next morning. But not to his heavenly reward, Mother Mary Clement informed her. His family had been putting out inquiries, and they’d finally managed to track him down. They’d only just removed him to his family home while she’d slept on, blissfully unaware. She’d been so exhausted she hadn’t even felt him being taken from her arms, and Mother Mary Clement had let her sleep on.

  There was always the chance that he was the scion of an industrialist, or perhaps a highborn bastard. Someone not completely beyond her touch, who looked at her and understood what she had been and hadn’t cared.

  But no, life couldn’t be that generous. He was Captain Brandon Rohan. Lord Brandon Rohan, no less, brother to a viscount, son to a marquess. Someone so far out of reach that it would have been better for her if he’d died that night. Then, at least, he would have stayed hers.

  And now the vagaries of fate had brought this family back into her life. Her darling boy was no longer a wounded soldier, but from what Melisande had discovered it appeared that his sickness had gone far deeper, burrowing into his soul. It broke her heart, when she thought she was invulnerable.

  22

  Benedick couldn’t rid himself of a strange feeling of melancholy as he dressed that evening for the Worthingham’s ball, one he ascribed simply to the unsettling effect of having such a whirlwind as Melisande Carstairs thrust herself into his life. He was rid of her now, well rid of her, and her twisted ankle had been a blessing. He had been growing closer and closer to seducing her, and that would have been a very bad idea, indeed, for both of them.

  He pondered that as Richmond helped hi
m into his perfectly tailored coat. A widow was considered fair game, and sooner or later someone would break through the wall of cheerful unconcern she’d built around herself. He’d done a great deal to shatter the foundations of that fortress—all it needed was an enterprising man to breach it.

  He frowned. Not, for God’s sake, a useless fribble like Wilfred Hunnicut. She ought to have better taste than that. He cast his mind through his acquaintances, trying to envision the perfect man for her. She was someone who needed marriage, and a firm hand to control her more extravagant starts. Someone who understood and sympathized with her charitable work, not someone who’d take advantage of the more willing members of the gaggle behind her back.

  “Your lordship?” Richmond’s voice was anxious. “Is there something wrong?”

  Benedick stepped away from him, picking up his neckcloth. “Why should something be wrong?” he said irritably, turning toward the mirror to tie it. And then he caught sight of his face. He looked positively thunderous.

  He could remember his father looking just that way, when confronted with some injustice or wrong. He’d looked that way when they’d all travelled to the Lake District to see Miranda’s firstborn and to prove they could tolerate the villain she’d fallen in love with and chosen to marry.

  He was feeling the same way toward any of the men he pictured marrying Charity Carstairs, which was absurd. She could hardly match his sister’s wretched choice in the Scorpion. Lucien de Malheur wasn’t your ordinary scoundrel, and there was no one imaginable who could reach his depths of depravity.

  Except, of course, the mysterious members of the Heavenly Host, and whoever among them was guiding them into such treacherous waters.

  He composed his face into his usual saturnine calm, tying his neckcloth deftly. At least the interfering, disturbing Lady Carstairs was out of the way for the next fortnight, and he could concentrate on the Host without worrying about her. Without being forced to endure her proximity. Without being tempted.

  Worthingham House took up a good half a block on Grosvenor Square, a massive edifice built at the end of the last century to demonstrate the Worthinghams’ consequence in society and political power, a consequence that was still in order. He doubted the duke or duchess had anything to do with the Host, but the guest list for their annual ball was massive, and no one dared ignore it, lest they be considered disrespectful and find themselves on a decidedly lower rung of the social order as punishment. Which meant most or all members of the Host would be in attendance, and perhaps growing giddy, and reckless with the night of the full moon fast approaching. He’d even done a bit of research that afternoon in the massive library his parents had acquired. In the Old Religion they were nearing the festival of Imbolc, festival of the maiden, though he was relatively certain his pagan ancestors hadn’t performed rape and blood sacrifice as part of their celebration. He knew from his years at Oxford that men could twist anything to their own meaning, and he’d even remembered a class studying myth and folklore, including the Old Religion. There’d been several of his acquaintance taking that class, though for the life of him he couldn’t remember which ones. It had been more than twenty years ago and while it had fascinated him at the time, he hadn’t thought of it since. Was the leader of the Heavenly Host one of his erstwhile classmates?

  Maybe seeing his schoolmates tonight would jog his memory. Though in fact that same class would have been held other years, and younger students, older students would have learned of the same ritual, been able to take and pervert them to their own use.

  He glanced at Richmond. “You can send the other servants to bed, Richmond, and retire yourself. I won’t be back till late, and I can certainly put myself to bed.”

  “And what of Lord Brandon, my lord?”

  He thought back to their short but vicious fight early that day. “He won’t be returning.”

  “Very well, my lord.” Richmond’s perfect expression showed nothing of what he was feeling. Only his old eyes reflected the same pain and resignation that filled Benedick.

  He’d been in his library, waiting for Brandon to drag himself out of bed. He had no idea whether last night’s debauch was singular or not, and he didn’t care. He could turn a blind eye to his brother’s self-destruction no longer, and he’d been determined to have it out.

  In the end he’d almost missed him. Brandon was never the most furtive of people, his long, loose-limbed body casual and noisy. Now, with the limp, he made more noise than ever, and Benedick had been sure he would hear him. But Brandon knew him just as well, and he’d waited until Benedick had been deeply involved in his books, almost making it past the door before he looked up.

  “I want to talk to you.” He’d sounded like his good-natured father when he was on a tear, he thought ruefully. He softened his voice. “Brandon, please.”

  “Sorry, old boy,” Brandon mumbled, not meeting his gaze. “I’ve got an appointment. Can’t stand up my friends.”

  “It won’t take but a minute. Come in, please.”

  Brandon’s haunted face was torn, and Benedick suspected that if he hadn’t had a bad leg he would have simply gone on. But in the end he moved, coming into the room and taking a seat, staring at his older brother defiantly.

  He looked like bloody hell, Benedick thought distantly. While his ravaged face was slowly healing, the unmarred side looked pale and deathly. The hollows beneath his cheekbones were unmistakable, his mouth was thin and hard, and there was a faint tremor in his hand. His eyes were the worst of all, Benedick thought. They were the eyes of a man already dead.

  What had happened to the obstreperous boy who’d bounded through life like an overgrown puppy? But he knew what had happened. The full-blown horrors of war, the ceaseless pain of cruel injuries, and the search for oblivion that had followed. The old Brandon was probably gone forever. He still wasn’t ready to give up on the new one.

  “I suppose you want me to apologize for casting up my accounts all over you,” Brandon said. “No, I don’t remember, but Richmond chided me quite thoroughly. It’s amazing how that old man can make me feel worse than you and our father combined. Only Mama can make me squirm as badly.”

  “Unfortunately she’s in Egypt with Father, or else you might stop this horrific behavior.”

  Brandon’s mouth turned in an ugly smile. “Brother mine, you have no idea of the meaning of horrific, and I see no point in educating you. And in fact I have no regrets about spewing all over you. You doubtless deserved it.”

  “I appreciate the token of your esteem,” Benedick said dryly. “Are you involved in the Heavenly Host?” The question came out more abruptly than he’d wanted.

  Brandon didn’t even blink. “If you’re interested in joining, I would advise against it. You’re far too judgmental.”

  He almost laughed at that, having spent years being chided for not being judgmental enough. But that was the least of his concerns. “Then you are a member?”

  Brandon shrugged negligently. “I gather the Heavenly Host goes by a strict rule of anonymity, which I think is rather wise. You don’t want to play cards with someone you’ve seen servicing another man the night before. Not that I have, of course.”

  “Played cards or serviced men?”

  Brandon smiled unpleasantly. “I prefer not to answer.”

  “Are you saying you’re not a member?”

  “I’m saying mind your own damned business.”

  He’d controlled his temper with an effort. “I can’t sit back and watch you destroy your life. Not to mention our family name, disgraced as it already is. I had hoped there might be room for improvement, but given your behavior I think it unlikely. The Heavenly Host is going too far, and it’s all going to explode in your face. Do you want to bring that kind of shame on your family?”

  “Oh, I think Father would survive. After all, he spent time among their unhallowed ranks himself. As for Mother, I know everyone will keep the truth from her.” His voice was offhand.

  �
��And how will you look her in the eye, knowing the company you’ve kept, the crimes you’ve committed?”

  “Dear brother, I have no intention of surviving long enough to worry about it.” He rose, oddly graceful despite the limp. “And I will now take myself out of your presence. I’ve already arranged for my bags to be sent on to lodgings, and you won’t have to…how did you put it…sit by and watch me destroy myself. I’ll do it quietly and discreetly.”

  “Not if you’re a member of the Heavenly Host.”

  “You underestimate me. Goodbye, Neddie.” It was the old childhood name, and for a moment it stabbed Benedick to the heart.

  He was gone before Benedick could react, too late for him to have the footmen restrain him, disappearing into the gloomy afternoon. And Benedick knew that if Brandon had his way, that goodbye would be final.

  Richmond appeared in the open door. “I gather Master Brandon won’t be here for dinner.”

  Benedick sighed. “No.” He looked at Richmond’s impassive face and sorrowful eyes, and he felt the same pain in his own heart. “Don’t worry,” he said softly. “I won’t let him go forever.”

  “Yes, my lord.” There were tears swimming in Richmond’s old eyes. “I have faith.”

  Benedick wasn’t much in the mood for dancing, but staying home and brooding would be even worse, he thought as he strolled into the brightly lit vestibule of Worthingham House, surrendering his greatcoat to a waiting servant. Another crush, another night of heat and noise and boredom. He glanced around at the other late arrivals, nodding at one couple, exchanging a few words with another as he mounted the massive staircase. He could hear the music drifting down, and he grimaced. The Duchess of Worthington preferred the music of her youth, all from the past century, requiring stiff, practiced moves and very little pleasure. He had every intention of going straight for the card room when Lady Marbury, a plump young matron he’d once shared a few pleasurable nights with, came sidling up to him, a sly expression on her face.