deprecating comment. “In fact I need to talk to you,” Pennington said, his speech slightly slurred. “It’s important.”
Harry’s affability had vanished, a singular occurrence. Benedick didn’t remember when he’d seen Harry less than amused by life.
“’Bout my plague-y sister,” Pennington continued.
Did he imagine the lessening of tension surrounding him? But why would Harry be tense? He couldn’t imagine anyone less likely to be involved with the Heavenly Host. As far as he knew, Harry, for all his talk, didn’t particularly like women, and he was far too good-humored to be involved in such a furtive, ugly affair.
Normally he’d fob Pennington off with some excuse. The last thing he wanted to do was be pressured into making an offer for Dorothea. For someone who had seemed so promising a month ago she’d devolved into his idea of hell on earth. He’d take Melisande first.
No, he wouldn’t, he reminded himself. At least Dorothea would leave him alone. Melisande would cling to whomever she ended up with. She would hover and suggest and scream bloody murder if he strayed. She would love him, and the very thought filled him with complete horror.
He gave his version of an affable smile, and Pennington missed the cold glint in his eye. “What may I do for you, Pennington?”
“It’s m’sister, don’t you know,” Pennington said, straining to be affable. “She wanted me to chat you up, give you a little hint. She asked me to invite you to our country place this weekend, and I told her I was busy but she wouldn’t hear of it.”
“And are you busy, Mr. Pennington?”
If anything he looked even more strained. Pennington might not be very nice, but he was far from bright, either. “I am, Lord Rohan. So you see, I can’t possibly invite you. But Dorothea wouldn’t hear of it. She’s not getting any younger, of course, and she’s got the personality of a viper.” He suddenly realized how that might sound to a prospective suitor, and immediately attempted to regain lost ground. “A pet viper,” he said hastily. “A very nice tame one. And only to her brother, of course. Sisters are the very devil.”
Benedick thought back to his own younger sister, married to the monster. If Miranda insisted on staying with someone so completely unsuitable she might at least have had the grace to be miserable about it, instead of ridiculously, breathlessly happy.
No, he didn’t want his sister miserable. He just didn’t want her with the Scorpion. But that was the least of his worries right now. “They are, indeed,” he said politely.
“But you’ll come the following week, won’t you? You’re the closest she’s come to an offer in years. Men seem just about ready to come up to scratch when she frightens them off. You don’t strike me as a man who frightens easily.”
If he offered for Dorothea this would be another idiot he’d have to rescue from the machinations of the Host, he thought, annoyed. And possibly his old friend Harry, as well. Three of them, as well as Melisande’s virginal trollop. He may as well do his best to bring down the entire organization—it would be easier than picking and choosing.
“I’m afraid your sister has read too much into my attentions,” he said quite formally. “While I hold her in great esteem I was not, in fact, contemplating making her an offer.”
Pennington bowed, taking his refusal politely. “I told her that,” he drawled. “Told her you were too smart not to see through her.”
“But I’m interested in this weekend, Pennington,” he went on smoothly. “I haven’t heard of any particular social event being held. Have I somehow been deemed unworthy of an invitation? I confess I’m not sure how I could have offended.” An arrant lie. He very often offended people, and while he regretted it, he wasn’t sure there was much he could do about it. One thing he could say for Melisande Carstairs—she was remarkably difficult to offend.
“Oh, no, nothing of the sort,” Pennington said, assessing him. “It’s…well, you know, these things are all hush-hush, secret society mumbo jumbo and all that. A bunch of us have revived a…er…fraternal organization, and we’re holding a little gathering this weekend. You’re welcome to join us.” The invitation was automatic, and then memory darkened Pennington’s countenance. “Except, of course, that it is a secret society, and we don’t let anyone in who hasn’t been thoroughly vetted.”
Benedick gave him his slow, cynical smile. “Are you telling me I wouldn’t pass the standards of this secret organization?