Shameless

by Annie Stuart

  “Has someone joined us?” A smooth, oddly familiar voice carried from the chamber beyond, and Benedick cursed beneath his breath. Scratch that. The time had come. And without another word he strode into the center of the great hall, grateful at least that Melisande was safely out of the way.

  The chanting didn’t stop when he walked into the room. They didn’t even seem to notice, though their faces, hidden in the depths of their hoods, were turned upward to watch as they knelt around the perimeter. But he wasn’t interested in the mind-addled mad monks. It was the center of the room that caught his attention.

  The young girl lay spread out on what could only be an altar. She was wearing a lacy white dress and her hair was clean and flowing around her peaceful face. He could only hope that whatever drug the so-called Grand Master used on his acolytes had been given to Betsey, as well. She’d be a lot easier to deal with if she were unconscious.

  The man stood alone in the middle of the room, cowled, hidden like the coward he was, an ornamental dagger in one hand. There was something that resembled a tray surrounding the platform where the girl was placed, presumably to catch her blood, and he didn’t want to think what they planned to do with it.

  “I was expecting you,” the man said, moving around so that the altar lay between them. He was limping badly, and it took Benedick a moment to realize why. He was pretending to be Brandon, wrapped in the enveloping monk’s robe and hood, so that his drugged followers would believe in his brother’s guilt. “Though I suppose you released that tiresome woman. I would have thought you’d had your fill of her by now.”

  For an opening salvo it was a weak one. “I don’t think that’s possible,” he said evenly, determined not to let the man bait him. “But you wouldn’t understand that, would you?”

  “The sentimentality of love?” The Grand Master’s voice was mocking. “I have been spared that particular embarrassment. I would have thought you would be, too, brother. You could always take her back to the banquet hall. Feed her some wine and she’ll do anything you tell her to. By the time you come back this will be over and done with, and you won’t even be a witness.”

  He didn’t turn around. He had the sudden, unbearable suspicion that Melisande had managed to escape his makeshift bonds, but he couldn’t afford to waste his time considering it. “We found Brandon in that hellhole you left him. These idiots might think you’re my brother but I know better.”

  “Yes, but you see, they can’t hear so well. They’re in an altered state, thanks to the drugs I administered to their wine and the advanced practice of mind control. When they awake they will only remember what they think they saw. Which is your crippled brother slashing the throat of an innocent girl and splashing them all with her blood.”

  He heard a strangled noise behind him, but he kept focused. Damn the woman. “But I’m not drugged. And I know who you are.”

  He was rewarded with a familiar giggle over the maddening chant. “Of course you do, old man. I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

  “I have people coming, you know. You can’t really expect to get away with this. Let her go. If you left now you could get to the continent and no one would come after you.”

  “Why should I do that, when I’m about to have everything I want?” his old friend said smoothly. “You won’t turn me in. Too many reputations are a stake. None of these impossibly highborn people want to admit that they were part of anything so shameful, but if you’re the one to betray them then I’m sure they will all testify that your brother killed this young girl. As for your so-called reinforcements, you don’t have any. Most of the people you call friends are already here. Accept it, Rohan. I’ve won. And I’m only beginning.”

  He raised the knife high over his head, and his cowl fell back just far enough for Benedick to see Harry Merton’s smiling face.

  “No!” Benedick shouted, leaping forward and vaulting the altar, but not all the monks were as mindless as they appeared to be. Harry sidestepped him adroitly as two cowled figures came up behind Benedick, pinning his arms behind him. He didn’t bother to struggle—he kicked at the man on his left, hard behind the knee, and the man went down in a yelp of pain, leaving only the second man to face Benedick’s fury. He smashed a fist beneath the enveloping hood, directly into the man’s face, and he felt the crunch and splinter of bone, the spurt of hot blood, the skin split on his own hand as the second man let out a howl, pushing back the hood. It was Pennington, shrieking in fury as he fell back, and then it was only Harry Merton, watching him from a short distance away, calm, a cheerful light in his eyes, the ornamental knife in his hand.

  He was closer to the body than Benedick was, and he doubted he could move quickly enough to stop him. “Come on, Rohan, old friend,” Harry crooned. “You’ve taken out my two best men. Surely you aren’t going to give up now. Or do you realize I’ll have this child gutted before you even move, and that will signal a bacchanalia that not even you can stop. You’ll be pulled down beneath my followers, washed in her blood, and I can promise you, someone will slip a knife between your ribs before you have any idea what’s happened.”

  “I’ll take you with me, you bastard,” he said, leaping for him, ready to rip his throat out. He heard her scream from a distance—Melisande—but he didn’t stop, simply kept moving when the world exploded.

  36

  Melisande screamed, unable to keep still any longer. It sounded like the wrath of God or the end of the world, and she buried her head as the ceiling disintegrated, dirt and stones and rubble pouring down around them. Something hit her hard between the shoulder blades, knocking the breath from her, and she coughed, struggling, trying to get to her feet once more, trying to reach Benedick.

  Slowly the tumbling rocks and sliding dirt halted. And so, thank God, did the ghastly chanting, though the garbed monks didn’t move, still kneeling around the tableau. She finally lifted her head, her eyes searching for Benedick, but there was no sign of him, just a huge pile of rocks and dirt, and she felt hysteria rise in her throat. If he was dead…if he was hurt…

  And then a movement caught her eye, and she turned her head to see him at the altar, covered in dust as he rose to his full height, brushing the debris from Betsey’s body. He’d covered her, Melisande realized in shock. In the last minute he’d leaped forward to try to save the innocent girl he insisted didn’t matter, and it made her want to cry.

  She looked around for Harry Merton, but there was no sign of him. And then she saw the legs sticking out from beneath the pile of rubble, and she breathed a sigh of relief. It was over.

  She started toward the altar and began to unfasten the leather straps, then stopped, looking overhead to the night sky above. A very pregnant young woman was looking down at them. “Is everyone all right down there?”

  Benedick looked at Melisande for a long, silent moment, and then he moved away from the altar, peering upward. “That was a bit more effective than I expected, sister mine,” he drawled, sounding only slightly rattled. “Deus ex machina, indeed.”

  “We didn’t know this was directly over you, Neddie,” the woman said in an apologetic tone. “Is anyone hurt?”

  “Only the right people. Harry Merton is dead.”

  Miranda let out a shriek. “God, no!”

  “Thank God, yes. He’s the Grand Master.” He moved to the sloping side, refusing to look at Melisande. “Find Lucien. I want to get the women out of here, and the cave leading to the stairs has collapsed in the explosion.”

  His sister disappeared, and Benedick came over to the altar, moving Melisande aside with gentle hands, before he finished unfastening Betsey’s bonds. Ignoring Melisande, he scooped Betsey up in his arms and carried her to the side of the cave-in. Someone had found an old ladder, and it was lowered down. Benedick climbed the first few rungs with Betsey over his shoulder, passed her on to waiting hands and then turned back to Melisande, finally looking at her.

  She raised her chin. “What are you going to do about the Heavenly
Host?”

  “Leave it to us. You don’t have to be responsible for everything.” He held out an impatient hand to her. “Are you coming?”

  “No, I thought I’d stay here with the degenerates and the dead body,” she said, angry once more. She slid off the altar, ignoring his hand and headed for the ladder. She was halfway up, with him directly behind her, when she remembered she was wearing nothing beneath the enveloping monk’s robe, and he could see directly beneath it.

  Tant pis, she thought. It would give him something to remember her by.

  The hands that caught her were strong and rough, and in the bright full moonlight she found herself surrounded by what appeared to be a gang of criminals. The pregnant woman had her arms around Betsey, wrapped in a blanket, and she was talking to her gently, soothing her, and for a moment Melisande stood still, feeling useless.

  “Lady Carstairs?” A rich voice came from beside her, and she turned to look into the scarred face of an otherwise handsome man. He clutched a cane, and she knew who he was.

  “Mr. Brandon Rohan?” she inquired.

  He shuddered. “God, no. Though I suppose we might as well be bookends, given our similar injuries. No, I can thankfully say that I have none of the wild Rohan blood in me. Only in my children. I’m Rochdale, and that very pregnant woman is my wife, the only female Rohan. Allow me to escort you to our carriage….”

  “Take your hands off her, Scorpion!” Benedick’s voice was deadly as he emerged from the collapsed tunnel.

  The man’s smile was angelic. “I didn’t touch her, old man. But I thought you didn’t want her.”

  “I…” His voice trailed off, and Melisande felt the last of her elation vanish.

  She turned to Rochdale, or the Scorpion, or whoever he was. “I would appreciate the kindness of a ride home, Lord Rochdale. I find I’m quite exhausted.”

  The woman had brought the dazed Betsey over to her. “She’s all right,” she told Melisande. “She doesn’t remember much, but she was worried about you.”

  “Oh, Betsey,” Melisande murmured, pulling her into her arms. “And I promised you’d be safe.”

  “Not your fault,” the Scorpion’s lady-wife said cheerfully. “And she won’t remember much of it anyway.” The woman looked her up and down, assessing. “So you’re the woman my brother has fallen in love with. So much for the best-laid plans.” She peered at her more closely. “You poor thing, you look done in. Let’s get them back to town, Lucien. Benedick can follow after he’s made arrangements for the cleanup.”

  Her husband nodded. “What do you suggest we do with the Heavenly Host?”

  “My thought would be to fill in the hole and leave them to rot,” Benedick said, coming up behind them. “But I don’t suppose that would go over too well. And if it weren’t for our parents’ unwise involvement with the Heavenly Host we might not be here.” He looked at Melisande. “I need to talk to you.”

  “Not now, Neddie,” Miranda said firmly, taking Melisande’s arm in one hand and Betsey’s in the other. “It can wait until you get back to London.”

  She wasn’t going to see him when he returned to London, Melisande thought fiercely. She wasn’t ever going to talk to him again. He could jump in the hole with the rest of those degenerates and stay there, he could…

  She found herself handed up into a luxurious carriage, with Betsey coming after her and the ungainly Lady Rochdale following. “You might stay and keep an eye on Benedick, my dear,” she said to her husband. “See that he doesn’t tarry too long. I suspect Lady Carstairs’s patience is running thin.”

  The man looked resigned. “Is there a horse for me to ride?”

  “I’m sure Jacob’s men would have come prepared. We’ll be waiting for you when you get back.”

  The carriage started with a jerk, throwing Melisande back against the squabs. Betsey immediately curled up on the seat beside her and fell back into a sound, drugged sleep, and Benedick’s sister looked at her across the darkened carriage. Neither of the lamps had been lit, but the fitful moonlight danced by her face, bringing it in and out of the shadows, doubtless doing the same to her own, Melisande thought. It was a strange way to hold a conversation she didn’t want to have.

  And Lady Rochdale didn’t appear to be interested in sparing her. “I gather my brother has made a hash of things.”

  She tried to stop her. “Lady Rochdale, I’ve just been through an exceedingly trying few days. I’ve been hit on the head, abducted, abused and watched a man die. Perhaps we could continue this conversation another time.”

  “You aren’t going to want to hold this conversation another time, Melisande. I imagine I’ll get nowhere near you. Might as well have it out now, while the wounds are still raw. I’m Miranda, by the way. Much easier than Lady this and Lady that, particularly since we’re going be sisters-in-law.”

  That was enough to jerk Melisande out of her determined torpor. “Don’t be ridiculous!” she snapped, all her customary good humor and good manners vanished in the extremity of the moment. “He’s done nothing that would force him into marrying me.”

  “What an odd way to put it,” Miranda replied. “And I’m afraid you’re wrong. He certainly has done something that would force him to marry you. He’s fallen in love with you.”

  Melisande mentally counted to ten in a vain effort to regain her shattered self-control. “I must warn you, Lady Rochdale, that I am very close to screaming, and I wouldn’t want to disturb Betsey.”

  “Miranda,” Benedick’s sister corrected, undeterred. “As I said, he made a hash of it. Perhaps I might explain. It’s tedious of him and very male. Men don’t admit weakness, nor examine their feelings. They simply blunder, or in my oldest brother’s case, snarl their way through life, pretending that nothing touches them, when it’s hardly the case. It’s his wives, you see.”

  She didn’t want to hear this. But short of putting her hands over her ears and singing loudly like a stubborn schoolchild, there was nothing she could do to stop her. “He’s still mourning his dead wives. Yes, I can imagine.”

  “That’s not it. Annis’s death took the joy from him, Barbara’s death finished it. But he mourned them and released them. He’s simply terrified that it will happen again. That he’ll fall in love and marry and his wife would die in childbed once more.”

  Melisande laughed mirthlessly, on the edge of hysteria. “I don’t believe it! He was all set to propose to Dorothea Pennington, for the sole purpose of creating an heir. He seemed perfectly willing to do that.”

  “Because he didn’t love Miss Pennington.”

  Melisande was struck dumb. “That’s rather awful,” she said finally.

  “Yes, it is. I never said my brother was a kind man, though compared to my husband he’s an innocent lamb. However, to be frank, I don’t think I could bring myself to mourn Dorothea Pennington overmuch myself.”

  The countess’s frank words startled a laugh from Melisande. It was rusty, odd, but it was definitely a laugh, when an hour ago she would have wagered she’d never laugh again.

  “That’s better,” said the countess. “You, on the other hand, he couldn’t bear to lose. So he drove you away. I won’t ask how, but I expect it was with his nasty tongue. As I said, stupid of him, but at times all men are stupid. Particularly when they are in love.”

  “Would you stop saying that!” Melisande begged. “He’s not in love with me.”

  “Allow me to know my brother better than you do. He’s most pathetically, desperately in love, even if he refuses to admit it. And I expect you love him, too, or you wouldn’t be so hurt and angry.”

  “I’m annoyed,” Melisande said stoutly. “Apart from that I simply don’t care.”

  “Liar,” said the countess. She peered at her closely. “Or perhaps I’m wrong. I love Benedick so much, know his strengths and his frailties so well that I assume anyone with discernment would love him, too.”

  “I have no discernment whatsoever.”

  Miranda smi
led then, the doubt in her face vanishing. “You need to punish him, not yourself, Melisande. The only way you’re going to get a chance to do that is to marry him.”

  37

  Melisande slept. She awoke when the carriage pulled to a stop. Dazed, she realized the door was being opened from the outside and the steps let down. Betsey was handed out into liveried arms, and she knew they were in Bury Street. She stayed where she was. “I would prefer to be returned home.”

  “I don’t think Betsey can handle much more at this point. She needs a bed and a period of sleep.” Indeed, Betsey was making fretful, sleepy noises like a fractious child. Which indeed, right now, she was. “And your friend is waiting for you here.”

  “My friend?”

  “Mrs. Cadbury,” Miranda clarified.

  “Emma would never come here.”

  “She did when she knew you were in danger. I prevailed upon her to wait for you, and to keep an eye on Brandon. He’s in bad shape, poor lad, from the opium and whatever else that beastly Harry Merton pumped into him. If you insist, I’ll summon the carriage to take you all home again. But first, please come inside for a bit. Benedick is still in Kent—you don’t need to worry about running into him.”

  That, at least, was true. And she had already discovered that it was almost impossible to fight the countess of Rochdale. To her shame her legs felt weak as she climbed the front steps, and it was the very pregnant countess who supported her, not the other way around.

  Once inside, the countess immediately became efficient. “Richmond, would you have a nice warm bath poured for Lady Carstairs? She’s covered with soot and she’s had a trying night. And is there any chance some of my old gowns might still be here? I’m afraid her ladyship has lost her clothes.”

  The elderly butler bowed, his seamed face impassive, but she remembered him, and his kindness. “It will be the work of a moment, your ladyship. And I believe I might interest you in good hot tea and sugar cakes, might I not? His lordship has required that Cook keep a supply of them on hand since your first visit.”