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