the details out for him last night—he hadn’t wanted to tip his hand too soon. There should have been no problem. Young Rohan had killed before; he was a soldier, after all, and there were rumors of a distressing incident with some of the locals that had been hastily covered up. The Grand Master had been unable to find the details but he hadn’t given up hope. Sooner or later nothing would be closed to him.
But Brandon Rohan, sodden with drink and dazed with drugs, sat in his chair, staring dully at the ornate blade the Grand Master had had forged for just this occasion, and said, “No. Absolutely not. Not ever,” in tones so clear he might not have recently imbibed impressive amounts.
The Grand Master wasn’t one easily dissuaded, though, and he simply kept feeding the stuff into his unwilling proxy. All to no avail. He eventually passed out, the flat, monosyllabic word still on his lips. “No.”
It was no matter. He would never know the difference. He’d had his servants cart Brandon Rohan’s unconscious body to an opium den in the worst section of the east end rookeries—he wouldn’t be found for days, if he was even found alive at all. His men had instructions to smear blood all over Rohan’s cassock and tuck the blood-stained knife beneath him. As always he’d been prescient enough to have two made. Rohan would awake and be convinced he’d committed the murder he’d refused to do. The Grand Master’s only regret was that he wouldn’t be there to witness the man’s horror.
But he had his own job to do. The cassocks decreed by the Heavenly Host were indistinguishable, and the hoods and cowls assured complete anonymity. All he needed to do was copy Brandon Rohan’s dragging gait and everyone would recognize the crippled war hero committing the crime.
Truly, he’d planned it so well he astonished even himself. A quiet giggle escaped, and he slapped his hand over his mouth lest someone hear him. But the only noise was from the trussed form of Lady Carstairs, and he had plans for her.
Very specific plans.
32
Never let it be said, thought Benedick Rohan, that sitting around waiting was any less heroic than charging into battle. It was a damned sight harder. He was trapped in his house, with his meddlesome, far too acute younger sister and her blackguard of a husband, and he didn’t dare leave. Eating alone in his room was too childish to be contemplated, so he had no choice but to sit at table with the Scorpion and the woman he’d abducted and forced into marriage, and while nothing could induce him to be pleasant, there was simply a limit to how much boredom he could withstand.
One way to alleviate that boredom was to fleece his brother-in-law out of every penny he had on him. Not that Lucien de Malheur wasn’t a practiced gambler, but when it came to faro there were few who could beat a Rohan. Miranda reluctantly served as banker, more as a means to keep them from killing each other than an interest in the game, but the play was alarmingly even, probably because Miranda’s husband cheated. The winnings went back and forth, well into the early hours of the morning when once more Benedick consumed far more brandy than was good for him, but this time when he retired to bed he was too drunk and too weary to want to kill the Scorpion.
He woke late, suddenly alert. He dressed hastily, even shaving himself rather than waiting for Richmond to make his appearance, and by the time he was downstairs he’d decided that, wise or not, he couldn’t wait in the house any longer. He was going out looking, and be damned to the consequences.
But Lucien sat at his dining room table, drinking coffee and looking perturbed, and Miranda paced the floor. Her face, when she saw him, was far from reassuring, but at least there was news.
“They’ve found him!” she cried. “In some wretched hovel, and if it hadn’t been for Lucien’s connections, he probably wouldn’t have been found until the middle of next week. If he’d even been found alive.”
Benedick felt his heart sink. “Where is he now?”
“They’re bringing him,” Lucien said, sounding equally grave. “He’s not in the best of shape, and my men have orders to be discreet, so it’s taking a bit of time…”
“Not in the best of shape?” his wife interrupted him. “He was in an opium den, Lucien! Unconscious,