Wicked Surrender

by Jade Lee

  Pushing aside his morose thoughts, he stood with ease. His wound was almost completely healed, only twinging every now and then. And his stamina, thank God, was back to healthy levels. But he still moved warily, more to keep from startling Channa than hurting himself. He was halfway down the stairs when Mrs. Wiggins opened the front door.

  “Good afternoon—” the woman began, but was summarily pushed aside.

  “Is he here? Is Brandon here?”

  Brandon frowned, recognizing his brother’s deep voice. And if he didn’t, the man was already in his front hallway, looking tired and dirty as never before. Good God, the man looked ten years older!

  “Michael? What has happened?” His mind immediately jumped to Scheherazade, but then as quickly dismissed the thought. Michael would certainly not appear in such a state for Scher’s benefit. Which probably meant . . . “Mother?”

  Michael’s eyes leaped up the stairs and relief flashed through his expression, only to be quickly replaced with annoyance. “Good God, Brandon, next time you decide to hurry off to the country, you should leave word with your man so we all don’t go mad with worry over you.”

  “I have no man,” Brandon responded as he made the bottom floor and clasped his brother. Could this distress be caused by worry? Surely not.

  “All the more reason to get one,” Michael snapped. Then he looked around the place, noting the housemaid, footman, and Mrs. Wiggins all standing within earshot. “Do you have a library in this place? Somewhere we could talk?”

  “Of course,” he said as he led the way down the hall. “I thought you were the doctor come to help Channa.”

  Michael paused, obviously searching his memory. “Your Indian mistress. Is she no better?”

  “My Indian wife,” Brandon stressed. “And no. No better.”

  Michael waved the niceties of religious law aside. He didn’t believe that a Hindu wedding ceremony was recognized by British law, ergo his brother wasn’t married to that woman. He preferred to refer to her as a mistress, which was almost laughable. Brandon wouldn’t be in his current fix if Channa wasn’t his moral, legal, and ethical responsibility.

  But this was old territory between them, and obviously not relevant to today’s matter, whatever that was. So both men crossed into the library without further discussion. Michael didn’t appear to notice anything beyond the sideboard with a decanter of brandy. Brandon pulled his chair from his desk and arranged it facing the only other one in the room. He generally didn’t like facing the fireplace, so he angled his furniture to the window to enjoy the view. Meanwhile, Michael poured himself a very large glass.

  Brandon raised his eyes in surprise. Michael must truly be upset if he was drinking at noon without even asking if it were all right. But then, his brother was an earl and used to taking whatever he wanted without asking.

  “What has put you in such a state?” pressed Brandon. “Surely not my absence.”

  Michael shook his head, then swallowed half his glass. It was a few breaths longer before he could speak. “I sent a missive here two weeks ago, but the housekeeper said you weren’t here.”

  Brandon didn’t respond. He was not going to explain his whereabouts to his brother.

  “Then I put a footman inside your front door, waiting for news of you. Never would have known you were here if you hadn’t sent that coachman for your papers.”

  Brandon’s concern ratcheted up another notch. The coachman had only left this morning and wasn’t due back until this evening. That meant that Michael rushed here within minutes of learning his whereabouts. “Michael, out with it! What has happened?”

  His brother set down his glass, visibly pulling himself together as he spoke. “Kit’s dead. Sorry to put it so baldly, but there’s really no other way to say it. He’s dead.”

  “Dead? From a drunken fall? That can’t be.”

  “What? No! A sickness. Probably from that actress.” He practically spat the last word.

  “Is Scher ill?” It wasn’t what he should have said. It wasn’t even all he was thinking, though it was certainly at the top. But the words were out before he could think further.

  Michael’s brow creased with an ugly frown. “I have no idea, though she was in the peak of health last time I saw her. Didn’t you hear me? Kit is dead! Kit was ill!”

  “I heard you!” Brandon snapped back. But how was it possible? Scher said he was sleeping off a fall. Had she said something about a fever? He didn’t remember. “What happened?”

  Michael snorted, draining his glass. The man hadn’t even bothered to sit down. “I told you. Illness. In her bed.”

  Michael ran a distracted hand through his hair. “Aunt Adelia is beside herself with grief, and Grandmama hasn’t left her room in days. The funeral is tomorrow. Small thing. Private. Just family.” He shot his brother an irritated look. “Assuming the family can be found.”

  Brandon jerked on the bellpull before even realizing he’d crossed the room. Then, ignoring the pull, he hauled open the door and spied the footman. “Saddle my horse immediately.”

  “Good,” grunted Michael from behind him. “But let’s wait long enough for luncheon. I just arrived and need a rest. Besides, the funeral isn’t until tomorrow.”

  Brandon barely spared him a glance. “Take as long as you like.” Then he turned and left. He was on the road, riding toward Scheherazade, within three minutes.

  She was in the Green Room when he found her. As pale and composed as ever, she was calmly wiping out glasses and setting them on the sideboard in preparation for the evening’s show. So intent was she on her task that she didn’t even look up when he entered, which gave him a moment to study her.

  She wore a simple dress of light brown with a fichu covering her chest and stains on the skirt where men had tugged on her with greasy hands. She moved with precision and grace, as usual, but he could see the emptiness in every line of her body. She had always been composed, but now she was bleak. Where there had been energy in whatever she did, now there was a slowness as if every breath were an effort.

  He saw all this in a moment. It took another for him to cross around to her side. And then she was in his arms, enfolded there and gripping him first lightly and then with increasing strength. Or perhaps it was his own desperation. He didn’t know. He was too busy holding her slight body against his, smelling her scent, and pressing a long kiss into her hair.

  They didn’t speak. There was no need to. He understood her anguish, just as she must know how desperately he wished he could comfort her. He felt her body shudder against his and knew she was struggling against her tears. Reluctantly, he released her enough so that he could whisper into her ear.

  “Come with me.”

  She shook her head. “I have responsibilities here.” Her breath was a moist heat against his neck. He hadn’t bothered with a neck cloth and in the heat of his pell-mell ride to London, he had allowed his shirt to open to the breeze.

  “Do you really think you’re good to anyone right now?”

  She didn’t answer, though he knew she wanted to. He didn’t give her the chance as Seth pushed into the room, looking burly and protective. Brandon flashed the man a grim look.

  “I am taking her with me tonight. And then tomorrow to the funeral.”

  Scher spoke to his chest. “They won’t let me in—”

  He squeezed her slightly to show that he heard her, but he continued to speak to Seth. “Can you have someone gather what she needs?”

  Seth frowned a moment, his eyes darting back and forth between Brandon and Scheherazade. And in that second of indecision, Scher repeated her words. “They won’t let me in the church. The earl made that quite clear.”

  “I don’t give a good goddamned what Michael wants. You will be allowed in.”

  Apparently the ruthlessness in his voice was all that Seth needed to make his decision. He nodded smartly—to Brandon—then turned on his heel. Meanwhile, Scheherazade seemed to shrink against him.

  “
I won’t cause a scene at Kit’s fu—” Her voice broke on a choke, but when he would have pulled her into another embrace, she pushed him away. “I won’t cause a scene. It’s disrespectful. They’ve lost a son.”

  He touched her face, amazed that she could think of his family. “You’ve lost your fiancé.” She released a snort of disbelief, and he was pleased to see that tiny show of spirit.

  “It will be all right, Scheherazade. You deserve to be there, and I will see that you go.”

  She nodded, her eyes bright with tears. She tried to say something, but her words were choked off.

  “I would walk through hell and back to help you, Scher. Surely you know that.”

  She stilled, her gaze meeting and holding on his. He couldn’t read her expression, nor did he have the chance to ask as Annette and her little dog came rushing into the room. The animal was clearly excited, rushing around and yapping at everything in the way of nervous dogs. Annette was no less agitated, though she covered by speaking nonstop as she hauled in a large satchel.

  “I put in clean underthings and your paste and rogue pot. The only black dress we got was the costume for last year’s Lady Mountback. You remember the play? It won’t fit you perfect, but there’s pins in the skirt to tighten it up. Mind you don’t put it on without pulling out the pins first, else you’ll be bloody and black. Your shoes are already black, so there’s no worry there, though you’d be better with slippers so as not to clunk down the aisle of St. James.”

  “Thank you,” Brandon said, disentangling the heavy bag from Annette’s grip. He began to steer Scheherazade from the room, but the woman trailed after, still talking and still followed by her yapping dog.

  “We’re all real sorry, Scher. And don’t you worry none about us. Delilah and me can handle things. And Seth can handle the money. You know he can. So don’t you worry ’bout us. We’re all real sorry. He was such the nicest man. Polly always liked him. He never hurt her even when she peed on him.”

  They had made it through the hallway and into the main stage area. Brandon was occupied with maneuvering both Scheherazade and the large bag so he didn’t at first realize who had lined up in the room. The entire troupe was there, even the stage boys. And as they moved through the room, the men doffed their hats and the woman curtsied, all of them murmuring their condolences for Scher.

  It was an odd sight to see. Brandon was used to such displays from liveried servants as they greeted the earl and his countess. Never had he thought to see such a thing from a motley crew of actors and hands, and giving such reverence to Scher. It bore home exactly how treasured she was to these people.

  He looked down, wondering if she realized the magnitude of the love they offered her as she passed. She did. Her eyes were wide, her face open in a stunned kind of gratitude. She didn’t cry, but she acknowledged every man or woman’s words like a lady born. Brandon was forced to release his hold on her as she accepted a handkerchief from one man, a black bow for her hair from a girl, even a copper from Joey. “For the poor b-box. In his honor,” stammered the boy.

  Scheherazade accepted it all, but Brandon could see the toll on her. Though she carried herself well, her shoulders were beginning to stoop and her movements had become jerky with emotion. He had to get her someplace private fast.

  He tossed one of the younger boys a coin. “Find us a hansom cab.” The boy nodded and was gone in a flash. Then Brandon turned to Seth. “Can you get my horse to my stable? I’m going to ride with her.”

  Seth nodded smartly and disappeared after the boy. Then all Brandon could do was wait as Scheherazade stopped at the threshold, turning back to face everyone.

  “Thank you,” she said, her voice thick with unshed tears. “You all mean so much to me.” She started to say something else, but clearly the words deserted her or her throat closed down. In the end, Brandon stepped up beside her, finishing with what he guessed she wanted to say.

  “Whatever the future holds for Lady Scher, this is where she comes from. You are her family. She could not face tomorrow without your love today. Thank you.” Then he bowed as deeply as he knew how.

  The cab pulled to a stop in front of the playhouse. Brandon passed her bag up, then gave directions to the cabbie. Lastly, he assisted Scher into the carriage, followed her in, and shut the door.

  She didn’t turn to him until they felt the horses start. And only then, in the darkness of the carriage, did she bury her face in his coat and begin to sob.

  Chapter 20

  Scher was accustomed to death. Her sister had gone first. Her mother went next. Then Pappy, plus a score of others—young and old. Death was not common so much as an ever present specter lurking in the back of her mind. She had cried before at funerals. She had held her friends as someone precious was laid to rest.

  But Scher had never known the racking despair that she experienced now. It seemed as if her soul had crawled inside the deathbed with Kit. Her body was the only part that existed in the outside world. The rest of her remained stubbornly with Kit.

  She took a breath, belatedly realizing the carriage had stopped. Her tears had dried, but her face was still pressed tight to Brandon’s chest. When had it stopped?

  She straightened away from him and felt the heat of his hand on her shoulder slide to her back. The rest of her remained warm, still flushed from her tears and his body. The handkerchief she clutched in her hand was already a mess, so Brandon used his own as he wiped her face clean.

  “Can you walk?” he finally asked.

  She nodded. Of course she could walk. Except that her legs felt leaden, and the air seemed thick and resistant. Still, her pride made her move when he pushed open the carriage door. How long had she been lying against him with the cab just sitting in the yard?

  With his help, she disembarked from the hansom only to frown at their location: the Barking Dog Inn on the edge of London. She had never stayed here, but she knew of the place. It was clean, catered to merchants and the like, and was not frequented by the aristocratic elite.

  Though she didn’t ask, Brandon answered her unspoken question. “I cannot take you to my bachelor apartments. I have no servants to tend you. But you can have good food here, a hot bath, and a warm bed. Whatever you need, and no one to bother you. I will get a room next door so you can call me, but you don’t need to fear.”

  He was guiding her inside with a hand on her back. At his words, she tucked tighter to his side. It wasn’t a conscious movement so much as an instinctive one. A part of her recognized that she was suddenly pressed along his hip. A part of her knew that she could not stand to be alone tonight. But the rest of her existed in a silent cocoon where she couldn’t speak and could barely move.

  Fortunately, Brandon didn’t need words. He glanced sharply at her, searching her face, then his features tightened into a frown.

  “I will be right next door, Scher. Only a cad would—” He broke off as the innkeeper bustled forward. Scher didn’t listen as Brandon began issuing orders. She didn’t even blink as she saw a golden guinea pass into the man’s hand. She simply moved as Brandon directed, the push of his hand the only real thing in her life. His warmth, his presence, his direction as he helped her climb the stairs to a large and spacious chamber.

  Brandon guided her to a seat by the window. He settled her in it, then whispered into her ear. “Just a few moments, Scher. Let me get everything settled.”

  She didn’t respond. He had removed his hand from her back, so his warmth no longer heated her and his presence no longer motivated her. She sat and stared out the window.

  What had happened to her? she wondered in that distant part of her thoughts. She had been working just a few moments ago, doing something at the playhouse. She had found the ability to work, to handle the accounts, to clean glasses. Why now was she abruptly too exhausted to move? Why was she lost now? It made no sense.

  But as bizarre as it seemed to her, she could not break through her lethargy. Brandon had shown up and taken control. S
he had no will to resist him. And having now given over to Brandon, she found herself with no strength of her own. So she sat. She stared out the window as the leaves of a nearby maple fluttered in the late afternoon light. They were young still, as this was spring, but the green looked ever so pretty in the light.

  “Have some bread, Scher. It’s excellent fare.”

  She took the piece he handed her. It was dipped in a stew, so it was sticky on her fingers. She ate it as he directed. His face was nicer to look at than the trees, so she turned her attention to him. He smiled at her, though his expression was still serious with worry. She wanted to say she was fine. She wanted to tell him so many things, but the more she sat, the more lethargic she became.

  “You should try this stew,” he said, as he offered her the bowl. “It’s simple, but hearty. I like it.”

  He pressed the bowl into her left hand and the spoon into her right. She lifted it and began to eat because he directed her to.

  “Do you like it?” he asked.

  “It’s very nice,” she said, though she couldn’t taste it at all.

  He gave her a warm smile that didn’t reach his eyes. His eyes were dark brown, she noted. Almost black. And his breath still smelled of mint. She breathed in. She loved the smell of mint.

  “Don’t stop now,” he said as he gestured to the bowl. “You should finish it before your bath.”

  She ate the entire bowl, not because she was hungry, but because he continued to chide her until it was gone. Then he pointed to the side.

  “Your bath is ready now. This is Marie. She’s going to help you while I take this bowl back downstairs.”

  He stood, pulling her up as he moved. She was a doll, she thought, moving when he directed, stopping when he disappeared. He hadn’t disappeared, of course. He had merely stepped to the side, but the effect was still the same. She simply stood there.