doubt we’ll need to call a doctor—even from here the wound looks superficial, but he’ll need a cleanup. Do your brothers tend to cast up their accounts when they’ve drunk too much?”
“They don’t usually drink too much. Something must be very wrong. Benedick usually fixes things. He doesn’t give up and drink himself into a stupor. Things must be very bad, indeed.”
“Things are never as bad as they seem. And that’s why we’re here, my love. I received word that the Heavenly Host are holding a gathering in Kent this Saturday, and according to Salfield, the newly re-formed organization is a far cry from the harmless activities I remember.”
“Harmless?” Miranda said with a screech, her flashing green eyes promising retribution. “I seem to remember a very unpleasant evening…”
“Pray, don’t!” Lucien said with a shudder. “Haven’t I paid for my transgressions sufficiently?”
“No.” She blew him a kiss before turning back to her brother. His color was good, his breathing even, and the blood, while horrific in appearance, seemed to have stopped flowing. Her husband was right: Benedick was foxed but perfectly fine. She rose, taking the handkerchief her husband offered and wiping the blood off her hands. “You take care of him, and I’ll go in search of Brandon.”
“I thought the old man said he had moved out.”
“Richmond,” she corrected. “And he knows more than that. He always does. You clean up this mess—” she cast a withering glance at her favorite big brother “—and I’ll start working on the other.”
The brandy had betrayed him completely this time, Benedick thought, in between being violently ill. Not only was Melisande Carstairs still haunting him, but now he had the infernal vision of his despised brother-in-law holding the basin for him. He could think of no worse punishment than imagining the Scorpion at hand, but at least, in his still-drunken state, he knew perfectly well that his sister and her husband almost never left the Lake District and the bastard would never dare show his scarred, ugly face at Benedick’s house.
He slept, awoke to cast up his accounts once more, demanded brandy, received none, imagined his brother-in-law conversing with Richmond, the traitor, and then slept again.
When he awoke it was the full light of day, though which day was anybody’s guess. His head hurt like the very devil, his stomach was tender, and he felt both raw and sticky. He sat up, slowly, to see that he was in one of the guest rooms. He vaguely remembered the footmen trying to get him upstairs, and then having a battle when he refused to be put in his own bed. The servants would have changed the sheets. But they couldn’t change his memories. Nothing could, sod it. Not bottles of brandy, not smashing his head. Nothing.
He reached up and felt the matted strands of his hair above the tender lump. Served him right, he thought. And the visions were nothing more than he deserved. Seeing his mortal enemy in his drunken dreams wasn’t much better than Melisande’s face, but at least it engendered rage, not despair.
The door opened, and he stiffened, expecting a disapproving Richmond, come to clean him up and lecture him simply by looking at him, and then he froze. He was no longer drunk. And Lucien de Malheur was standing inside his bedroom door.
He didn’t think, didn’t hesitate. He launched himself across the room, flattening his brother-in-law, and began pummeling him with enthusiasm.
But the Scorpion was a strong man, despite his bad leg, and Benedick had the hangover of the century, so it was over quickly. Benedick lay curled up, breathless in pain, as the Earl rose to his feet, brushing himself off.
“You dirty bastard,” Benedick gasped. “You fight like a street rat.”
“Of course I do,” Lucien said calmly.
Benedick said nothing, trying to catch his breath and wondering if his plan for an heir was now moot, when he was vaguely aware of someone else in the room.
“What did you do to him?” came his sister’s caustic voice.
“No less than he deserved. He decided it was time to avenge your honor.”
“Too late,” Miranda said cheerfully, leaning down beside him. She smelled of lemon and spice, her familiar scent, and beneath all the misery, fury and pain he felt a surge of remembered affection. “You shouldn’t try to hit Lucien, Benedick. He has no scruples.”
Benedick coughed. “I remember.” He was beginning to breathe again, and he decided ignoring Malheur was the best thing he could do. For now. “What are you doing