Heartless

  The streets were busier than she expected. It was autumn, darkness was coming early, and she pulled her hood over her dark hair, threading her way through the crowds. This area was busiest at night, and she had no illusions as to how most people made their living. She had done more than her share of sewing people up, administering tonics, seeing to the dying. She helped anyone who came to her house, be they thieves, river pirates, whores, or runaways. Her path home led her down by the river, and the water was her guide when she didn’t want to look up and show her face. She was hurrying by, trying not to identify what was floating in its malodorous waters, when someone in the throng brushed up against her.

  She didn’t like being touched, and she had already pulled her cloak more tightly around her when she was bumped again by the milling crowds. And then a third time, hard, and she felt herself falling, flailing, toppling into those dark, cold waters with a scream dying in her throat.

  She sank like a stone as the river closed over her head, and for a moment she struggled, panicking, blinded by the murky water and the darkness. Almost immediately, though, her level head took hold, and she kicked, pushing herself upward toward the light, until she broke through, gasping for air.

  No one seemed to have noticed she’d fallen, and she struck out, heading toward the dock and the slime-encrusted ladder that led to dry land, thanking God her country upbringing had included swimming. Her shoes were heavy, her skirts even more so, and the water was numbingly cold. By the time she crossed that short distance she was gasping for breath, her limbs leaden.

  Her fingers slipped on the mossy wood rungs of the ladder on her first attempt, and she tried to call out for help, but her voice was only a muffled croak that barely reached the scurrying denizens of the docks. Taking a deep breath, she tried again, hauling herself upwards with an unladylike grunt.

  It took all her strength to hold on to the ladder, her heavy skirts pulling at her, and she stayed very still, trying to gather her resolve. Gritting her teeth, she climbed another rung, and then another, until her sodden skirts were free of the water. She knew she should unfasten her cloak and let it go, but she was unwilling to admit even that much defeat, so she simply kept moving, gasping for breath, until someone finally noticed.

  “There’s a woman down there,” a rough voice called, and suddenly everyone was peering down at her as she clung to the ladder, unable to move any higher. Blessed hands reached down for her, and she was hauled out of her watery grave, pulled to safety as she sprawled on the filthy streets, fighting to catch her breath.

  Remembering the unimaginable filth beneath her, she managed to sit up. Her rescuers gathered around her—Becky, who ran the pastry shop, was there, and Jem from the nearby hostelry. For a moment, she thought she saw Collins, one of Mr. Fenrush’s servants, but when she looked again he had disappeared into the crowd. She struggled to her feet with the help of her rescuers and managed a lopsided smile as she thanked them in a hoarse voice.

  “Now you come along, dearie,” said Becky. “You need some dry clothes and a warm fire.. .” The woman wrinkled her nose. “And a bath, I’m thinking. I’ll help get you home.”

  Emma glanced around her. To her surprise she wasn’t far from her rooms, and she nodded with gratitude. She could have walked it by herself, her wet skirts dragging after her, but for once she was willing to accept help. She had treated Becky several months ago for a woman’s complaint and refused payment, so she could accept this much as a fair trade.

  She even managed to inquire after Becky’s health. By the time they reached her front door she was ready to collapse, but she refused any more assistance, gathering her sopping skirts over her arms to keep them from making too big a mess, not caring if she exposed an indecent amount of leg. It wasn’t until she was safe inside her rooms on the first floor that she began to shake.

  Holding onto a wall for support, she began to strip off her clothes—her cloak, dress and petticoats, her shoes, until she was just in her chemise and knickers. She leaned her head against the wall, uttered a low curse, and stripped off the rest, until she was completely naked. Her home consisted of two rooms—a parlor and a small bedroom—and she headed toward the back, immeasurably grateful that she always paid for water to be brought. There were two larger ewers, warm from being near the banked fire, and a strong carbolic soap she used to cleanse herself once more—she was a firm believer in cleanliness when it came to medicine, unlike the majority of her colleagues. Even her long hair smelled of the river, and she sighed as she leaned over the basin and scrubbed her scalp. If she lived at the mostly unoccupied Rohan house on Bury Street she could have the luxury of a warm bath—for now she had to clean herself piecemeal. When she was as clean as she could get she drew on a warm, shabby robe and sank into her one comfortable chair, too weary to even stir up the fire. At least she would have a full bath when she arrived at Starlings Manor.

  She leaned her head back against the chair. She’d had the devil’s own luck recently—first the fire, now this. She was well overdue for a rest. Until then, she needed a cup of strong tea, some toasted cheese, and the indulgence of the small and very expensive orange she’d bought yesterday. Then she would review her notes for the day, pack for her journey to Starlings, and fall into bed.

  Where she would never, absolutely never, dream of Brandon Rohan’s beautiful, ruined face.

  Brandon was late, of course. He’d underestimated just how damned uncomfortable more than a week in the saddle would be. He was stronger, better, but it had been a long time since he had ridden such a distance. His thighs were burning, his knee was in agony, his bum ached, and he wanted nothing more than a hot bath before he made himself presentable. His only consolation was that Noonan looked as disgruntled as he felt.

  They had no idea he was coming. Starlings Manor was enormous—it could easily swallow up scores of guests, so prior notice wasn’t a necessity, and he hadn’t been certain he was actually going through with it until he approached the front gates. If there were any problems he and Noonan could sleep out under the sky—he done it often enough in the less hospitable climate of Scotland, in rain and snow, and the soft Suffolk air would be far more comfortable.

  Something else was aching as well. His stomach was a hard, painful knot of nerves. He hadn’t been among company, hadn’t seen most of his family in three years. Would they have forgiven him?

  “Maybe we ought to stop at the inn to clean up before we show up at the house,” he said gruffly.

  “None of your excuses, Master Brandon,” Noonan said in the same rough voice he’d used to drive him over rocky trails to strengthen his knee. No matter how much Brandon had hurt, he’d endured Noonan as the old man pummeled and pounded and pulled at his crooked leg until he’d passed out from the pain, only to come to and find the old man was still torturing him. The ability to walk without much of a limp came at a steep price, but he’d willingly paid it.

  He stared up the long, winding drive, and accepted there’d be no delaying his reentry into society, or at least into his family. Without another word he nudged the horse on toward his brother’s house.

  Starlings Manor was a well-run household—the servants had seen him coming, and by the time he and Noonan had reached the broad front steps the grooms were already there to take the reins.

  And watch him dismount, Brandon thought with a trace of bitterness. Somehow, he had to climb down off a horse with grace when he was hurting just as he endured the worst of Noonan’s torture.

  There was no way to spare his weak leg, but for once Noonan decided to be generous, scrambling down off his horse and heading toward Brandon, taking the reins and pushing the grooms aside.

  “I see to my master and no one else,” Noonan said in a threatening tone that was almost unintelligible with his Irish brogue. He moved to Brandon’s side, shielding him from the eyes of the stable hands, and his support was almost invisible as Brandon threw his bad leg over the horse and set it on the ground, weaker than it had been in year
s.

  “Told you we should have taken the carriage,” Noonan muttered under his breath. Brandon responded with a grunt, waited until he knew he was steady and stepped away from his mare.

  Screw your courage to the sticking post, he reminded himself, turning to Shakespeare’s Prince Hal for inspiration. He could face them all without betraying weakness and face them he would.

  He and Noonan were halfway up the front steps when Richmond, their aging butler, came rushing up. “My Lord Brandon! Is it really you? I could scarce believe it when I saw you coming but I said to Cook, no one has that Rohan face except the Rohans.”

  “It’s me, Richmond,” he said, resisting some cynical comment about his imperfect countenance. “Time doesn’t stand still for most of us, unlike you. You look younger than ever.” The butler was eighty if he was a day but damned if the old man didn’t smirk with appreciation. Richmond had always been susceptible to flattery, something that had been very useful to a misbehaving teenage boy.

  “You’ve missed them, you know.” Richmond said.

  Sudden relief washed over Brandon. He was prepared to do his duty but putting off his trial by fire was a blessing. “I was afraid of that,” he lied. “It’s hard to keep track of time when you’re travelling such a distance. When was the christening?”

  “Why, it’s happening at this very moment, Lord Brandon,” Richmond said cheerfully, missing Brandon’s stiff expression. “If you ride fast you might make it to the church on time.”

  Bollocks, Brandon thought, his momentary reprieve vanishing. “I couldn’t show myself to my sister in such a state,” he said, brushing at his breeches. “I’ve got half the dust of Scotland and England on my clothes, and Emma is worn to pieces.”

  Richmond jerked his head up, looking at him strangely. “Emma?”

  “My horse,” said Brandon. “That beautiful black mare you see over there. I’ve been pushing her much too hard for the last ten days.”

  For a moment Richmond was silent as if considering something and then he straightened. “Surely you don’t think a house such as Starlings would be so ill equipped as not to have extra horses? The coachman will mount you immediately and if you give me five minutes I can get the dust out of your clothes and off your face and make you quite presentable, even with such long heathenish hair.”

  “Don’t even think about it.” Brandon hadn’t cut his hair since he left for the North and it reached well past his shoulders. He indeed felt like a heathen, a wild man, and he liked it so much that he had no idea when or if he would cut it off. Right now it was in a braid down his back and he was leaving it that way, whether his stuffy brothers would be horrified or not.

  Then again Benedick wasn’t nearly as stuffy as he used to be—ever since Melisande had taken him in hand he’d become positively playful. The third Viscountess Rohan had brought his brother back to life. It had taken Brandon a while to see that but once he did, he blessed the woman who had only seemed to be an annoyance while he had sought out his various perverse pleasures. He wasn’t looking forward to meeting her again with a clear mind—he could remember little from that time and most of it was horrifying.

  Benedick might be less stuffy now, but this time his older brother had every right to lecture him, to take him to task for the things he had done. Brandon deserved every harsh word, and he would listen without protest. He owed his brother for his life, for bundling him off to Scotland when chaos had erupted, for cleaning up the horrific mess he’d left behind.

  He’d been such a coward for that short, dreadful time when he’d run afoul of the Heavenly Host, the group of harmless miscreants who’d unaccountably turned evil. He’d been drinking too much, though he couldn’t remember why, presumably from the pain he’d endured, and with the amount of opium he’d smoked it was lucky he’d survived. Once he’d gotten to Scotland, Brandon had sworn never to shirk his duty again, and he’d fulfilled that promise. Nothing would expiate the sins of the past, but he wouldn’t stop trying. He’d already come this far—he wasn’t about to start out his visit to his family by running away, no matter how desperately he wanted to.

  He nodded. “Noonan can see to my coat,” he said gruffly. “Just find me a mount.” He debated whether to specify a calmer ride than he was used to. Damn it, there was no shame in a bad leg, particularly considering how much work he’d done to strengthen it, but he couldn’t bring himself to ask. He’d always ridden the wildest horses, reveling in his mastery, but that was another lifetime.

  “Merlin, Master Brandon?” Richmond suggested, and Brandon made sure not to show his relief. Merlin was a huge gelding with perfect manners—even a young girl wouldn’t have trouble controlling such a gentleman. Had Richmond known? Of course he had. He’d been there in London, knew the breadth of Brandon’s injuries.

  He nodded his acquiescence while Noonan brushed the dust from his coat. His old friend was grumbling under his breath the whole time. “You want I should come with you, me boy?” he muttered.

  “You can’t take care of me forever,” Brandon said, pulling away as Merlin was brought forward, already saddled. A moment later he was mounted and ready to go, and for a brief moment he wondered what would happen if he took off for the North instead of across the fields to the small chapel attached to the estate.

  Pride was all he had left at this point, and he hadn’t much to waste. He wasn’t going to cut and run. He nodded at Noonan, and then took off into the afternoon light, heading for the chapel.

  Chapter 2

  Baby Alexandra slept through the christening in her mother’s arms, her sweet, pink face serene in the sleep that always came at inconvenient times and never when her mother was exhausted. Emma’s hands itched to hold her, but she remained decorously still beside the baptismal font as the old vicar droned on and on about smiting the devil and watching over this precious child. Emma doubted that she and the vicar had the same view of the devil, since he seemed to think she was Old Nick’s incarnation, but she would defend this baby with her life, as well as Alexandra’s brother Gabriel who now sat in the front pew, restless on a mild Saturday afternoon.

  She would get a chance to hold the baby soon enough, once Alexandra awoke and started to shriek, probably the moment the vicar poured cool water on her little forehead. It would serve the disapproving old man right.

  Not that he disapproved of the baby or her parents, or even any member of the notorious Rohan family—he wasn’t a complete fool when it came to who provided his living. But Emma was a different matter. High spirits in an aristocrat equaled degradation in a middle-class girl, and the old man clearly knew her history.

  Too damned bad. If she tried to cower away from anyone who knew her past she would spend her entire life running away, and she’d already wasted too much time as it was.

  No, she’d made herself a good life, a happy life. She had Melisande’s children to dote on, she had the Dovecote, she had her work. She had far more than she ever thought she might have, and she was foolish to long for more. She shifted slightly in her too-tight shoes, the only pair she owned that weren’t stained with blood or the filthy Thames, and smiled at the sleeping baby.

  The sound of the heavy wooden door opening was enough to pull her attention away, and she looked up, through the mottled shadows. Everyone turned to see a tall, strong figure standing in the doorway, the bright daylight surrounding him. He looked like a fallen angel, and Emma’s breath suddenly caught in her throat as he started down the aisle toward them, not rushing, moving with a kind of casual grace that belied the faintest of limps. Her skin began to prickle.

  “Brandon!” Viscount Rohan called out, his voice filled with joy, his face taut with emotion. He moved swiftly down the aisle to meet the newcomer halfway and pull him into a rough embrace.

  Emma instinctively ducked her head. She was wearing one of the new poke bonnets with a wide brim, and if she kept her head lowered he’d have a hard time seeing her face, and she could fade into the background. She edged behind Mel
isande surreptitiously, trying not to draw attention to herself.

  She didn’t want him to see her face, to even notice her presence. She’d let go of the ridiculous fantasy of Brandon Rohan long ago, and she was the better for it. He had been the only person on this earth who’d made her vulnerable, and she would rather abandon all pride and hide than risk her heart.

  The elderly vicar had taken a step back to allow the family reunion, and the christening guests buzzed excitedly. The dark exploits of Brandon Rohan and the Heavenly Host had never been adequately covered up, and they would find a great deal to gossip about.

  And then, amidst the flurry of embraces and excited laughter came the words she most dreaded. “Emma, allow me to introduce my brother-in-law Lord Brandon Rohan to you,” Melisande said, socially correct when she cared to be. “Brandon, this is my very dearest friend, Mrs. Emma Cadbury.”

  Emma nodded her bowed head, keeping her eyes lowered. She didn’t want to see the strong, muscular body that had replaced his skeletal, broken one. In truth, she didn’t want to look at him at all—she was much better off with him living four hundred miles away in the Highlands of Scotland.

  A large hand reached out to touch hers, and lightning sizzled through her arm. He had removed his riding gloves, and she could feel his strength in the hand that had once been thin and weak. “Mrs. Cadbury,” he murmured, and she knew that voice so well. It was cool now, though, different from the faintly humorous one when he’d lain in hospital, his body ruined but his spirit intact.

  The monsters of the Heavenly Host, that decadent group of so-called gentlemen, had put paid to that, until he’d ended up.. .

  She wasn’t going to think of that. She dipped a slight curtsey, keeping her head down. She didn’t want to look at him—this was hard enough. She’d managed to forget about him—at least, almost everything about him, but if she saw him she’d be vulnerable once more, and she couldn’t afford any weakness.