Breathless (2 page)

And she and her family were proving most unreasonable, he thought, absently rubbing his bruised shoulder. He had a cracked rib, a broken wrist, several torn muscles and scrapes and bruises over most of his body. No, the Rohans didn't seem likely to become sensible any time soon.

He raised his hand to knock on the massive black door, but it swung open before he reached the knocker, and Leopold, Rochdale's sepulchral majordomo, stood there, staring down at him with strong disapproval.

Leopold was part and parcel of Rochdale's general peculiarity. The servant was immensely tall—possibly six feet seven—and skinny in his black clothes. Someone once likened him to a giraffe in mourning, and St. John agreed. A very unpleasant giraffe. He had some sort of accent that no one could decipher. Rochdale had picked the odd man up during the travels that had occupied him for most of his adult life, and Leopold only added to the mystery surrounding his employer.

“He's waiting for you,” Leopold said in an unpromising voice, receiving St. John's wet coat and hat and handing them to the waiting footman, also dressed in funereal black.

St. John grimaced as he straightened his coat of superfine, not made by Weston but a reasonable facsimile if one didn't look too closely. Appearance was paramount in his position. He found that if one looked and acted as if one belonged, then usually one was welcomed.

He followed Leopold down the long dark hallways, ending up in the depressing library where he usually
met with the earl. It was deserted, of course. Rochdale always liked to make an entrance.

A small fire burned in one grate, doing little to warm the cavernous room. Why in the world anyone would want so many books was beyond him. And all these books had to have been acquired by the current earl. The previous one had lost almost everything in a short-lived, profligate life.

He heard the familiar approach, that ominous step that wasn't quite even, the bite of Rochdale's walking stick hitting the ground heavier than mere stylistic use, and an unconscious dread filled him. The door opened, and light flooded the room.

“They've quite left you in the dark, dear Christopher,” Rochdale purred, moving forward with his barely halting gait. “How remiss of my servants. Or perhaps how prescient. I gather you haven't come to celebrate our success in your little venture?”

Christopher swallowed. “I did everything I could. Those damned Rohans. Any other family would have been begging me to marry the girl. Any other girl would have been besotted and grateful.”

Rochdale said nothing, moving to a chair by the fire and sinking down gracefully, his ruined face in shadows. “Ah, but I warned you those Rohans are not like other people. Am I to presume those bruises and cuts on your face are the result of the brothers' attentions?”

“And her father's. My entire body's nothing but bruises and cracked bones.”

“Refrain from showing me. I certainly don't doubt the Rohans would take their revenge. You're lucky they didn't spit you like a goose.”

“By the time they found out I'd bedded her it was
too late. We were already in London and I refused the younger brother's challenge. I could have bested him easily—he's nothing but a boy—but I decided he wasn't worth having to flee the country for. You know how they've gotten about dueling recently.”

“I know,” the earl said gently. “I'm surprised the two older didn't challenge you. The oldest in particular—I believe his name might be Benedick? If you'd managed to kill him it might have mitigated this disaster.”

“They were both in Scotland, taking the girl with them,” Christopher said in a sulky voice. At least this particular interview was going far better than he'd anticipated. It was a balm, after the total failure of his plans for Miranda Rohan.

“Ah, I see. So let me understand this. You were to seduce the Rohans' sister, marry her, and kill the older brother when he challenged you to a duel. Yet you have failed me on every level. Am I correct?”

“I did seduce the girl.” Christopher's voice was defensive. “She just refused to marry me.”

“Then you clearly must have botched the job. Did you rape her?”

“I didn't have to. Once she knew it was inevitable she stopped fighting.”

Rochdale shook his head. “I chose you for your handsome face, your reputation as a lover, and your deadliness with a sword. I'm sorely disappointed in you, St. John. You may leave me.”

Initial relief flooded through him, followed by dismay. He'd been half afraid Rochdale would have… He wasn't sure what he'd been afraid of. It had been silly. “But what about the money?” he said, trying not to let the panic show in his voice. “You promised me five hundred
pounds to abduct her, and then I'd have her marriage settlement. Since I don't have that I'd think a thousand pounds would be a more reasonable recompense.”

Rochdale laughed softly, a sound that sent a chill down St. John's backbone. “You forget who you're dealing with. Your reward for a thoroughly botched job is the knowledge that I won't arrange for you to be gutted in some alleyway when you least expect it. And you know I can. I have a goodly portion of London's criminal class at my beck and call.”

A cold sweat broke out on Christopher's forehead. “At least the five hundred pounds.” His voice a whine now. “I'm out of pocket for the cottage, the carriage, any number of things…”

“Then you shouldn't have failed.” His voice was like silk. “Leopold, see him out.”

The servant had appeared silently behind them, and St. John jumped, startled. One look at the man's impassive face and he knew he was bested. He opened his mouth to hurl a threat, a recrimination, but Rochdale's voice stopped him.

“I wouldn't if I were you. Killing you here would be so inconvenient.”

Christopher closed his mouth with a snap. And followed Leopold though the dark house, out into the cold, cruel streets of London in the rain.

 

If you want a job done well you'd best do it yourself. Wasn't that what the old saying was? Not that the Earl of Rochdale listened to old sayings, but in this case it was true. He'd chosen the best weapon he could, and the idiot had failed him.

His wants had been simple. The Rohans had destroyed
his only sister, bringing about her death. He'd wanted to return the favor, with the hopeful side-benefit of killing Benedick Rohan, the architecture of Genevieve's destruction. Though he could have been just as happy at the thought of Benedick living with the knowledge that his precious little sister was trapped in a life of misery with a gazetted fortune hunter and womanizer.

St. John had proven a miserable failure, and with his bungling it was unlikely that another pretty young man would get anywhere near her. Trust the Rohans not to care if one of their own was ruined in the face of society.

Clearly it was time for him to take a hand in the situation himself. He couldn't rush into anything–she would be whip-shy for a bit. He'd have more than enough time to decide exactly what form his revenge would take.

He would wait. Wait until they'd lowered their guard. Wait until he had everything in place. Wait until his prey had no idea that she was simply the pawn in a game of revenge.

And then he would pounce.

Two years later

L
ady Miranda Rohan stood before the window of her cozy house on Half Moon Street, staring out into the rain. She was restless. She hated to admit it—she'd always prided herself on her ability to find interest under almost any circumstances. At the advanced age of twenty-three she considered herself a resourceful young woman. She'd faced disaster on a social scale and come through the other side, independent and happy, with the support and affection of her large family and closest friends, and, indeed, ostracism had unexpected benefits. She didn't have to attend boring parties, dance with odious men who simply wanted to ogle her and her inheritance. She didn't have to survive miserably crowded gatherings and lukewarm punches and boring conversations filled with salacious gossip and little more. Particularly since nowadays she was more than likely to be the topic of that gossip.

No, that was no longer true. Enough time had passed that her transgressions were no longer half so interesting.
There were always more exciting scandals around. She didn't have to spend time with those judgmental wags who'd tell her she was simply reaping the rewards of her foolish behavior two years ago. Foolish, not truly wicked, but in a society where those two words were interchangeable, Miranda Rohan was living with the results.

Normally she didn't care—she found life to be full of interesting things. She read everything she could get her hands on, from treatises on animal husbandry to paeans to the classical poets. She found nature to be boundlessly fascinating, and while her own efforts at the pianoforte and singing were decidedly lackluster, she still found great enjoyment in pursuing those two disciplines. She was an exceptional horsewoman, both as a whip and a rider; she had a limitless capacity for affection for both dogs and their haughtier cousins, cats. She had a gift with children and according to her dear companion Louisa she readily sank to their level.

She followed politics, gossip, science, the sciences, the arts.

And at that particular moment she was ready to weep with boredom when she swore she would never be bored.

“This winter is lasting forever,” she announced disconsolately, staring into the dark, dismal afternoon. Half Moon Street was a mere two streets over from the Rohan family manse, which, unfortunately, did her no good. It was deserted, as the rest of her noisy, sprawling family had gone up to Yorkshire to await the birth of her newest niece or nephew.

“It will last just as long as it always does,” Cousin Louisa said placidly. Louisa was in truth the most stolid
creature alive, and therefore the perfect match for an outcast like Miranda Rohan. Her great girth allowed her no more than the least taxing of social venues, and her calm, placid nature was a balm to Miranda's rare emotional outbursts.

“I should have gone to Yorkshire with the family,” Miranda said, swinging one foot disconsolately.

“And why didn't you? Granted, the thought of traveling that far brings on a most severe case of the vapors in an invalid such as myself, but if you'd been with your family there would have been no need for me to accompany you on such an arduous journey, and you wouldn't be pacing this house like one of those lions they show at the Bartholomew Fair.”

Miranda forbore to point out that, in fact, none of Cousin Louisa's duties had been strictly necessary. After all, ruined was ruined, and even the presence of a middle-aged cousin of impeccable lineage and reputation couldn't do anything to lift Miranda's banishment.

Not that she wanted it to, she thought defiantly. It was just that she was…restless.

It was distressing. She wouldn't have thought she needed anyone's company to make her happy, and she'd always been perversely pleased that ruination meant she no longer had to spend her life trying to attract a suitable husband.

But that was before she knew what true isolation was. Before her world narrowed down to her boisterous family, her dearest friend Jane and the rest of the Pagetts, and the indolent and comfortable Cousin Louisa.

And right now everyone was out of town. Her brother Charles's wife was just about to give birth to her second
child, Benedick's new bride was increasing, and their parents were thrilled.

They'd begged her to accompany them, but she'd refused, making up a believable excuse when the truth was far simpler. When Lady Miranda Rohan was a member of the household the social invitations dwindled to a trickle. Society had already accepted that the wild Rohans were prone to misbehavior, but when it came to young ladies of the ton, rules were rules. Miranda was an outcast, and the Rohans, proud and loyal to a fault, didn't leave their daughter behind, no matter how great the opprobrium of the ton. Miranda's best choice was to simply absent herself, allowing her family to enjoy themselves without second thoughts.

Unfortunately Cousin Louisa could scarcely make up for the energetic Rohans, given her tendency to fall asleep at unlikely moments. Normally this would have been no problem, but in March even the few members of the ton who did recognize her were still out of town, including dearest Jane.

“You need to do something to stop that appalling fidgeting,” Cousin Louisa said with the small, catlike yawn she seldom bothered to disguise. “Why don't you go to the library and see if there are any new French novels? Something saucy to take your mind off things?”

“I went yesterday. I've already read everything that interests me, saucy and otherwise,” she said in a disconsolate voice. She kicked at her skirts. “Listen to me! I sound like a nursery brat who's lost her favorite toy. Forgive me, Cousin Louisa. I'm not usually so tedious.”

Cousin Louisa yawned behind her fan. “What about a walk?”

“It's raining,” Miranda said in mournful accents.

“Is it?” her companion said sleepily, not bothering to turn her head to look out the window into the dark afternoon. “I hadn't noticed. Go to the theater.”

“I've seen everything, and my problem is right now—” Miranda made a sound of disgust. “I can't imagine what's wrong with me! I'm not usually so ill-tempered.”

“You're usually so good-natured you exhaust me. In truth, child, you're wearing me out at this very minute. I'd suggest you go practice on the pianoforte but you're always a bit too enthusiastic, and I need my nap without music thumping through the house. Go for a drive. Take the curricle. It looks as if the rain has stopped for now, but if it begins again you can simply have the groom raise the hood.”

Miranda seized the notion like a lifeline thrown a drowning man. “That's exactly what I shall do, minus the groom. I'm entirely capable of driving myself, and if the rain begins again I'm sure I won't melt.”

Cousin Louisa uttered a long-suffering sigh. “I do wish you wouldn't insist on flying in the face of conventions. Society has a long memory, but I'm certain there are any number of people, short of the most proper, who'd eventually overlook your…er…fall from grace if you'd just give them proper reason to.”

It was an old argument, one Miranda had given up on ages ago. She could spend the rest of her life doing penance and being grateful for the scraps of acceptance tossed her way, or she could embrace her new life on the outskirts of polite society, no more apologies to anyone. The choice was simple and she'd made it without a second thought.

“No.”

Cousin Louisa was too good-natured to argue. “Enjoy your drive, my dear, and try not to wake me when you return. I sleep so dreadfully that my little naps are crucial.”

In fact Louisa slept at least twelve hours each night, aided by her admitted fondness for the French brandy Benedick provided for them. And since she found the trip up the stairs to her bedroom too exhausting to accomplish more than once a day, she tended to nap in the salon.

By the time Miranda had changed into driving clothes the horses had been put to and she could hear faint snores drifting from the drawing room. In fact, Louisa slept like the dead. The house could fall down around her and she wouldn't notice, she thought with an affectionate smile.

One of the great joys in Miranda's altered life was her curricle and horses. She loved driving, and owning her own carriage and pair delighted her to no end. In truth, she would have loved a phaeton, in particular a high-perch one, but she'd resisted temptation, deciding her family already had enough censure to deal with.

She never confided this particular concern to her brothers; Benedick would have immediately purchased the most outrageous equipage he could find for her. They were loyal to a fault. She adored them all, but in truth they'd been through enough, and she'd discovered that an insult to a family member was always more painful than an insult to oneself. And the pain that she caused them was far harder to deal with than her own censure.

She headed for Hyde Park, perversely enjoying the cold, damp air. She could feel her hair escaping the
confines of her bonnet, and she knew her cheeks would be flushed and healthy, rather than the fashionably pale, but she didn't care.

She let the horses out a bit, enjoying the sensation as they pounded through the park. Perhaps she ought to go out to the countryside, to the family estate in Dorset, but that would scarcely solve her problem with her family away in the north. She would still be kicking her heels in frustration, bereft of any kind of stimulation apart from the solitary enjoyment of books and the theater. She had no one to talk with, no one to laugh with, to fight with. And it looked as if it would continue that way for the rest of her life.

An unexpected fit of melancholia settled down around her, and she bit her lip. She made it a rule never to cry about her situation. She was simply reaping the rewards of her own foolishness.

But after endless days of rain and gloom she could feel waves of obnoxious self-pity begin to well up. The damp wind had pulled some of her hair loose, and she reached up a gloved hand to push it out of her face.

The swiftness of the accident was astonishing. One moment she was bowling along the road, in the next the carriage lurched violently and she just barely held on to the reins, controlling the horses as she kept them from trying to bolt.

She knew immediately that something must have happened to one of the wheels, and she hauled back on the reins, trying to stop the frightened beasts, trying to maintain her seat and not be tossed into the road, just as a huge black carriage came up from behind her. Within moments two of the grooms had jumped down, pulling her frightened animals to a halt.

It had begun to rain again, and Miranda was getting soaked. The carriage had stopped just ahead of hers on the road, a crest on the door, but she didn't recognize whose it was, and she was too busy castigating herself as an absolute idiot, a total noddy for letting the horses panic like that. Her curricle was tilted at a strange angle, and she scrambled down before anyone could come to her aid, passing the broken wheel and moving to the leader's head, taking the bridle in her hand and stroking his nose, murmuring soothing words.

The footman she'd displaced went back to the dark carriage and let down the steps, opening the door, holding a muffled conversation with someone inside before returning to her. “His lordship wonders if you would do him the honor of allowing him to assist you,” the groom said politely.

Bloody hell, Miranda thought, having been taught to curse by her brothers. “I thank him, but he's already come to my rescue.”

A voice emerged from the darkened interior of the carriage, a smooth, sinuous voice. “Dear child, you're getting drenched. Pray allow me to at least give you a ride home while my servants see to your horses and carriage.”

She bit her lip, glancing around her in the rain. There was no one else in sight, and she certainly couldn't handle this on her own. Besides, he was of the peerage—he was unlikely to be terribly dangerous. Most of the titled men she'd known were elderly and gout-ridden. And if he offered her any insult she was quite adept at kicking, biting and gouging, all skills that would have stopped Christopher St. John two years ago…if she'd possessed them then. Her father and three
brothers had seen to it that she would never again be at the mercy of any man.

“You are very kind.” Giving up the fight, she handed the reins back to one groom as she allowed the other one to hand her up into the darkened carriage. A moment later the door shut, closing her in with her mysterious rescuer.

He was nothing more than a shadowy figure on the opposite seat of the large, opulent carriage. The cushions beneath her were soft, there was a heated coal box near her feet and a moment later a fur throw was covering her, though she hadn't seen him move.

“You're Lady Miranda Rohan, are you not?” came the smooth voice from the darkness.

Miranda stiffened, glancing toward the door. If need be she could always push it open and leap to safety—they weren't moving that fast.

He must have read her thoughts. “I mean you no harm, Lady Miranda, and no insult. I simply wish to be of service.”

It was a lovely thought, but she still wasn't certain that she trusted him. She glanced out the window. “Where are you taking me?”

“To your house on Half Moon Street, of course. No, don't look so distrustful. The sad fact is that London society is a hotbed of gossip, as I've discovered to my own detriment. Everyone knows of your…ah…unique lifestyle.” His voice was gentle, unnervingly so.

“Of course,” she said with a grimace. “You would think polite society had better things to do than concern itself with me, but apparently not. There is nothing worse than having the world judging you, making up outrageous stories and even worse, believing them.”

“In fact, there are any number of things that are a great deal worse.” His voice was dry. “But I do understand what you mean. I've been the victim of the same sort of malicious gossip for most of my life.”