by Annie Stuart
“That would quite break Richmond’s heart.”
She looked at him, for the first time honestly confused. “Is there any particular reason why his feelings should be considered in the matter? One needs to be practical about such things.”
“Indeed,” he said slowly. She didn’t ring for fresh water, and he knew there was no way he was going to be able to pour himself tea without her wresting the pot from him once more. He settled back to suffer in silence.
“I am glad we’re agreed upon that.” A trace of smugness now tinged her small mouth. Melisande hadn’t liked her, he recalled. In fact, she’d referred to the woman as “a mean-spirited piece of work.” Unfortunately apt.
“While we’re on the subject,” the mean-spirited piece of work continued, “we should come to an understanding on other matters. I would expect to run my household with no interference from you. I have been trained my entire life to run a gentleman’s estate, and the size of yours should offer no challenge at all.” Thus with a few words she dismissed his admittedly impressive estates and inheritance. “We would, of course, expect to have children, and I would scarce deny you the marriage bed, but you have a certain reputation for…lasciviousness. No gentleman would ever insult his wife by making her suffer such lewd attentions, but I wanted to make it clear from the outset that I will countenance no displays of lustfulness. We will come together in the hope of being fruitful. I rather thought three children—any more and it hints of ill manners. An heir and a spare for you, and a daughter I can raise and mold in my own image.”
Christ, he thought, aghast. Two Dorothy Penningtons in this world beggared description. Two in his own family was insupportable.
“One cannot always control the sex of one’s offspring,” he ventured.
She frowned at him. “The word gender is more genteel. You will find I am a very forward-thinking woman, my dear Rohan. Our country is headed for a correction, a move into more circumspect times, where language will be tempered and behavior will be just as it ought. The ramshackle times of our fathers is past.”
More’s the pity, he thought. He schooled his expression into one of polite interest. “And did you have any other thoughts about our future together?”
“Of course.” He half expected her to whip out a list, but apparently she’d memorized it. “This house is too small for a proper town residence. It does fine for a bachelor, but would scarcely do for entertaining, and I am not fond of the address. I thought a house in the vicinity of Grosvenor Square might be nice.”
“Indeed,” he said noncommittally. He loved his house.
“I have yet to inspect your country estates, but since we won’t be spending much time in either one of them I doubt it matters. I’m a city woman, dear Rohan. I dislike the country and all form of sports. I do hope you don’t hunt.”
“I do occasionally,” he admitted, though he had his own misgivings about the sport.
“You will cease. And another thing. I suppose I should handle this delicately, but I believe in facing things with no roundaboutation, and we may as well start out as we mean to go on.”
“Indeed,” he said politely.
“Your family.” She concealed a delicate shudder, but just barely. “I realize we must certainly continue an association with your parents, and while your father’s past is reprehensible, your mother appears to be beyond reproach, and she has provided a civilizing effect, just as I expect to do with you.”
He was a far cry from the wild young lord Adrian Rohan in his heyday, but he decided that silence was best at this juncture. He simply bowed his head in seeming acquiescence.
“However, the rest of your family is another matter. While I have no quarrel with your brother Charles and his unexceptional wife, your other siblings have proven themselves to be…shall we say, undesirable…company.”
Shall we say, take a damper, Benedick thought with a certain amount of savagery. He plastered a smile on his face. “Indeed?” he said in an encouraging tone.
“We both know your sister has proven herself beyond the pale more than once,” she continued. “She was ruined, and yet, instead of retiring to the country and living out her life in genteel obscurity she chose to stay in London, her very presence an affront to decent women. And then, to marry that awful man who is no more than a…a criminal! At least she has the sense to keep out of London. I gather she drops babies like a peasant. We shall need to cut that connection entirely. You would hardly expect me to acknowledge her socially. I have my own reputation to consider.”
“And you think it isn’t strong enough to withstand association with my sister? I wonder you even considered my suit in the first place,” he said evenly.
“I did think long and hard on it,” Miss Pennington admitted frankly. “But I knew you abhorred your sister’s choices as much as I did, and would be more than happy to cut the connection.”
“And my brother Brandon?”
She made a face, as if she’d tasted something unpleasant. “Indeed, I gather he’s been in town, though thankfully he’s kept out of the public eye. It’s a very difficult situation. I know the poor boy has suffered dreadfully for his country, but we really can’t expect our guests to have to look at his disfigurements and still manage to have a pleasant evening. We can entertain him when we’re in the countryside, of course, as long as we have no houseguests and our children are kept in the nursery. But you must understand my hesitation. I prefer to be surrounded by beauty.”
He wondered what would happen if he took the teapot and dumped its contents on her head. “I understand you completely.”
“Then we’re agreed,” she said, too well-bred to sound too overtly smug. “I would like a ring to signify our betrothal. Something discreet, valuable but not too flashy. I’ve chosen one at my jewelers—I’ll give you the direction and you may pick it up tomorrow.”
“You’re very thorough, but I’m afraid I’ll be busy tomorrow. I have to go into the country.”
“Not that wretched house party that my brother is attending? I’m not sure I approve. I think in the future you should use your influence to help my brother get a post in the government. Nothing that requires real labor, more a social nicety. You can do that, can’t you?”
“I can,” he said. Where I would or not is a different matter.
“Then you may fetch the ring next week. I’ve had my secretary draw up an announcement, and she will send it to the papers as soon as I return home.”
Christ’s blood, he thought in horror. He had to move fast or he’d find himself leg-shackled to his worst nightmare. She’d give him children. She’d leave him alone. He would never care about her. Exactly what he’d been so sure he wanted. Now he wanted to drown her in the Thames.
She was already preparing to leave. She rose, casting her gimlet gaze his way. “You may kiss me, my dear Rohan.”
He’d rather kiss a charging boar. “One moment, Miss Pennington,” he said politely, heading for the door, prepared to send Richmond on a hunt. It was easier than he expected. Richmond and his sister were hovering by the door, clearly eavesdropping, and the Scorpion lounged nearby on one of the love seats in the hallway.
Miranda’s expression was a cross between amusement and doubt, and he felt a moment’s shame. She really thought it was possible that he might repudiate her for someone like Dorothea Pennington. “Well, my dear,” he said to her, “are you prepared to meet my fiancée?”
Her expression was stricken. “I gather she doesn’t wish to meet me.”
“Nothing good comes to those who eavesdrop. Usually.” He swung open the door and ushered his sister’s very pregnant form inside, leaving the door open for his brother-in-law and Richmond to observe.
Miss Pennington’s face had frozen, making her look like a startled hake. “Miss Pennington,” Benedick said smoothly. “I don’t believe you’re acquainted with my sister, Lady Rochdale. She is quite my favorite sibling, even if I haven’t always cared for her choices, and when I marry agai
n I would want her as one of the bride’s attendants. Mind you, she’ll most likely be in some stage of pregnancy, given her alarming level of fecundity, but dressmakers know how to adjust for such exigencies. Her husband, of course, will be one of my attendants, though I expect my baby brother, Brandon, will stand up with me as well. We’ve always been very close.”
Miss Pennington’s mouth opened and closed without a word issuing forth, and Benedick continued on. “Of course, Brandon is currently dealing with an unpleasant addiction to opium and alcohol, but I imagine we’ll be able to prop him up long enough to get through the ceremony. Your own brother has been keeping company with the Heavenly Host, so I doubt his behavior has been much better, but the two of them can keep each other company, can they not?”
He heard Miranda’s gurgle of laughter from beside him, and he realized how much he had missed that sound. Missed his sister. So much that he’d stomach the Scorpion to have her back in his life.
Miss Pennington was glaring. “You insult me, sir. If you think I don’t know that my brother has been disporting himself with those gentlemen then you think I’m a great deal stupider than I am. There’s a difference—their activities are held in secret, among their own class, and the only ones who are hurt are whores and peasants.”
“Peasants, Miss Pennington? That seems an oddly archaic term. Do you still keep serfs on your estates in Cumberland? Oh, but I forgot. Your father lost all the family estates years ago, leaving you forced to marry for money. Though why in heaven’s name you thought I’d be a suitable choice astounds me.”
“I assumed you were a man who shared my values and opinions,” she said tightly. “Apparently I was quite deluded in my opinion.”
“Quite, thank God,” Miranda broke in.
Dorothea Pennington refused to even acknowledge her. “I’m afraid, sir, that the engagement is off.”
“I’m afraid, my dear Miss Pennington, that the engagement was never on. You are the very last woman I would consider marrying.”
He could almost imagine smoke coming out of those perfect, shell-like ears.
“No decent woman would have you,” she hissed.
“Now that’s where you’re wrong. You may expect a happy announcement from me quite soon.” He wasn’t quite sure why he said it—it seemed to spring into his mouth from nowhere.
“Do not bother to send me an invitation.” Her voice was frosty.
“He won’t,” his cursed interfering sister volunteered. “I don’t believe Lady Carstairs would want you anywhere near her.”
He jerked to look down at her in astonishment when Miss Pennington let out an outraged shriek. “Lady Carstairs?” she cried. “Charity Carstairs? You’re marrying her? Why, she must be thirty years old.”
Damn his sister—he should drown her in the Thames as well. “I have yet to ask her,” he temporized.
“But she’ll say yes,” Miranda jumped in. “Because they’re in love. You don’t know the meaning of the word, Dorothea Pennington, and you never will. Now go away, do. We have a wedding to arrange.”
If the exquisitely well-behaved Dorothea Pennington had something near at hand she would have thrown it, Benedick decided, horror and amusement warring for control. He watched her stalk from the room, and he could tell from her horrified shriek when she clapped eyes on his scarred brother-in-law, lazily stretched out in the hall. They waited until they heard the front door slam, and then he turned to Miranda.
“What the hell did you mean, I’m marrying Melisande?” he demanded in a choked voice. “I most certainly am not.”
Her smile broadened. “I know you better than you think, Neddie. Stop fighting it. You want her, whether it’s practical or not. You should have her.”
“We don’t suit,” he said stiffly. “Besides, she despises me.”
“Well, that’s always a good sign. But we can deal with your love life later, once we’ve found Brandon. Any idea where he might have gone?”
He gave up then. His head ached too much to deal with all of this, and Dorothea Pennington would hardly be likely to spread rumors of her former suitor’s engagement—it would reflect too badly on her. He would have a few days to sort things out.
“Brandon,” he agreed, heading toward the open door. Lucien de Malheur was still there, an ironic expression on his face. He tensed when he saw Benedick, as if expecting another assault.
“I’m not going to kill you now,” Benedick said. “We need to fetch Brandon.”
“You’re not going to kill me ever,” Lucien said lazily, getting to his feet, his gold-headed cane in one strong hand. “Lead on, MacDuff.”
30
It started as a soft scratching on her bedroom door, the one Melisande had locked before she’d collapsed into bed. That much she could ignore. It was morning, and she’d just gone to bed, and it simply wasn’t fair to try to wake her. She put the pillow over her head as the scratching went to a soft knock.
“Open the door, Melisande.” Emma’s soft voice came from the other side. “I need to talk to you.”
She didn’t need to talk with anyone. Emma would know full well that she hadn’t returned home last night, and she would know where she’d been and what she’d been doing. And that was absolutely the last thing Melisande had any intention of discussing.
The knocking grew louder, penetrating the layers of feathers and laudanum-induced fog, and Melisande rolled over, cursing. From the angle of the sun she could tell it was early morning, not much past six. She hadn’t closed her curtain, but the overcast sun was still an annoyance. Why should anyone expect her to wake up at such an ungodly hour when she’d been out all night and…
And not returned home until after nine in the morning. She’d slept the day and night away, wrapped in misery and laudanum, and they were one day closer to the solstice. Bloody hell.
Emma was pounding by now, and the wood door was shaking in its frame. Melisande sat up, groaning, and climbed out of bed. She was vaguely aware that her ankle wasn’t bothering her as she limped toward the door. Vaguely aware that muscles she hadn’t known she had were protesting. And she wasn’t going to examine that thought too closely.
By the time she opened the door, Emma was using both fists, and one look at her expression and Melisande’s bruised heart sank. Something was very wrong, indeed.
She looked past Emma to the gaggle, all in various states of undress, watching them. “When did you last see Betsey?” Emma demanded breathlessly.
“This morning,” Melisande replied immediately, confused.
“Oh, thank God.”
“At least, I think so,” she added. “What day is it? Friday?”
Emma’s relief vanished. “It’s Saturday. You’ve slept the clock around. Do you mean you haven’t seen Betsey since yesterday morning? Where was she?”
“In the library. We talked for a bit. She was missing Aileen, and worried about the future. I told her she could stay here as long as she wanted, and then she went down to visit Cook. Did you ask Mollie Biscuits?”
“Of course I did!” Panic was shredding Emma’s usual calm. “She said Betsey came in, helped her with the bread, then took some pasties and said she was going to eat them out in the sun. Mollie thinks she was heading for St. James Park, but we can’t be certain. She might have walked farther ahead to Green Park or even all the way to Hyde Park. And she never came back. No tea, no supper, and her bed hasn’t been slept in.”
“She wouldn’t have run away,” Melisande said flatly, trying to force her brain into full working mode despite the lingering effect of the damned laudanum.
“Of course not. Which means only one thing.”
The gaggle were listening avidly, but they were all women of the world, and knew the answer as well as she did. “It means she was taken.”
“No!” Mollie Biscuits let out a cry, tears running down her plump cheeks. “Not that poor wee child!”
“It’s the Heavenly Host,” Violet piped up helpfully, causing the rest of the gag
gle to start talking, so loudly that Melisande could barely think.
“Enough!” Emma cried, temporarily shutting them up while doing absolutely nothing for Melisande’s headache. “If they’ve taken her, and there’s no guarantee that they did, then Lady Carstairs can get her back. She’s been working very hard this week, and Viscount Rohan has been assisting her. Cook, bring us up a pot of strong tea and some of those little cakes you’ve been experimenting with. Violet, you take the others and go out looking. It’s always possible that Betsey simply got lost and found an alley to sleep in. She had to do it often enough when she was younger, poor thing.”
“Yes, Mrs. Cadbury,” Violet said importantly. “And lord knows she’s at a good age. Too old for the gents who like the young ones, yet not old enough for those who like a bit of meat with their brisket.” She plumped her full breast with one hand.
“What does that even mean?” Long Jane, beside her, demanded.
“It means she’s got a good chance at being safe enough,” Sukey said. “God willing.” Sukey’s tenure with the bishop had left some of his piety intact.
There were a few added “God willings” from the more religious of the gaggle, as they slowly started to disperse, and Emma took Melisande’s arm, hurrying her back into her bedroom.
“I’ll help you dress,” she said briskly. “We haven’t any time to waste.” She paused enough to look at her. “I wish we had time to talk about your night with Rohan, but Betsey’s been gone for far too long, and we can’t afford to waste any more time.”
“Nothing happened,” Melisande said stoutly.
“God give me strength,” Emma muttered, pulling the robe off her shoulders. “Of course it did. You just don’t want to talk about it, which I assume means he either botched the job or you didn’t like it. Whichever it was, we can deal with it later.”
“There’s nothing to be dealt with. I told you, nothing happened.” She let Emma hand her into one of her narrow walking dresses, then began fastening the long row of buttons up the front.