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“You already have,” she said.

B
randon Rohan opened his eyes, staring lazily up into the hooded figure that loomed over him. The opium dream was at its zenith, and he didn’t want anyone to draw him out of it. What was the Master doing in here, anyway? He’d never seen him here before. This small, dark place that was akin to his childhood closet didn’t hold more than half a dozen men, and he was familiar with most of them. It was an exclusive meeting place for those with a taste for the poppy, and while none of them spent time socializing, he’d grown used to them. He couldn’t believe any of them could be the mysterious Master of the Heavenly Host.

“Go ’way,” he said thickly to the man. “You don’t belong here.”

Not that he knew for certain. No one knew who currently led the Heavenly Host. The new rules were clear enough that even he could remember them in his current state. The leadership of the Heavenly
Host rotated, and no one ever knew who the current one was. That way there would be no repercussions.

“Your brother’s been causing problems, Rohan,” the Master said, his voice that breathy whisper of sound from beneath the enveloping hood. “We warned you when you took your place among us that we couldn’t afford to have family members interfering.”

“Not my fault,” he managed to protest. Damn Benedick. If he was kicked out of the Heavenly Host he would kill him. “Can’t…control him.”

“You’ll need to. Or we’ll control him for you.”

Brandon’s eyes were drifting closed. Even the dim light of the opium den hurt his eyes, and he disliked having anyone interfere with his desperately needed dream state. This was the only way he could shut out the voices, shut out the sounds and the smells of war and blood and death. Of hacked bodies and screams of pain and death all around him. “Don’t care,” he said sullenly.

The hooded figure straightened, though in the dimness of the room he probably wouldn’t have been able to see him even if he were bareheaded. “So be it,” the man murmured, his faint lisp clear.

And then he vanished, like the opium dream he had to have been. And Brandon closed his eyes once more and drifted into oblivion.

Melisande fell asleep. She couldn’t quite believe it. One moment she was lying in her bed, her ankle propped up, the dastardly Viscount Rohan stretched
out beside her, for all appearances like the knight and his lady on a medieval grave, and the next she was asleep, dreaming. It took the arrival of the doctor to awaken her, and by that time her nemesis was across the room, shoulders leaning against the mantel, watching her with an unreadable gaze.

“If the gentleman would leave us,” Doctor Smithfield said and Melisande could have kissed him. There was no reasonable way Benedick could refuse.

But why had she ever thought him to be reasonable? “I don’t believe so,” Rohan proclaimed. “I’ve already examined the lady’s ankle—I won’t see anything that would shock me. Go ahead.”

“I really must insist…” The doctor’s voice trailed off as Benedick rose to his full height.

“And I would insist you don’t attempt to insist upon anything. This lady is my responsibility, and I’m not leaving her in the hands of a sawbones I’ve never seen before.”

“Are you impugning my qualifications, my lord?” Dr. Smithfield was a dear man, and he volunteered his services toward the doves for free, but he was possessed of a certain amount of pride.

“I’m impugning nothing. Stop arguing with me and attend to Lady Carstairs.”

Smithfield opened his mouth to argue but Melisande quickly intervened. “Ignore him, Doctor,” she said amiably. “He enjoys being difficult. Do you think my ankle is broken?”

After one last grumble he turned back to Melisande. There followed a few extremely uncom
fortable minutes before he stepped back. “It’s my belief you’ve merely suffered a strain, your ladyship. I’ll bandage the afflicted appendage and prescribe some laudanum. If you remain off it for the next fortnight then I expect you’ll have no repercussions.” He glared at Lord Rohan, who serenely glared back.

“I’ll make sure of it,” Benedick said smoothly. “You may send your bill to me, of course.”

“Don’t be absurd. I’m responsible for my own bills,” she snapped, but Rohan simply ignored her, ushering Dr. Smithfield out the door.

When he turned back around, she fixed Rohan with a stern expression. “All right, you can go now. The doctor has seen me, pronounced his verdict and prescribed treatment. Now go away.”

He didn’t seem in any particular hurry to leave. “So, are you going to stay off your feet for two weeks?”

“What do you think? The full moon is in five days. I can either stay in bed and coddle myself and let innocent women be tortured and perhaps killed, or I can deal with it.”

“By dealing with it you mean getting out of bed and risking crippling yourself?” He sounded no more than casual. “I don’t think so. Our partnership is over, Lady Carstairs. You’ll have to trust me to deal with the Heavenly Host.”

She glared at him. “I don’t. Not for one moment.”

“You don’t have any choice in the matter.”

“Then I have no choice but to follow my investigations on my own.” She would have climbed out
of bed, just to prove to both herself and him that she could do it, but Dr. Smithfield had already given her a generous dose of tonic and she was having trouble lifting her head from her pillow. No trouble glaring, however.

He moved swiftly, so fast that she had no warning, and he was on the bed, his hands braced on either side of her as he leaned over her, and all pretense of manners had gone. “You will not,” he said in a dark, angry voice, “do anything more to endanger yourself. Do you hear me?”

She stared up at him, her mouth set in a stubborn line. For a long moment he didn’t move, and then his hands gripped her arms and yanked her up, and he kissed her.

Oh, God, she thought, as sensation washed over her, pure, bloody wonderful sensation. How many times had he kissed her? she thought. More than any other man. She knew his mouth by now, the touch and taste of him, the rich thrust of his tongue, the hard edge of his teeth, the sweet smoky flavor of him. Night had already closed in around the room, and the only candles were beside the bed, left there to assist the doctor’s examination. It was only a blur of light, and she closed her eyes against the shimmering brightness, lifted her arms and slid them around his neck, pulling him closer, wanting to feel him against her body, heat and hardness and living flesh. He shifted, and she knew he’d moved onto the bed, covering her, and she didn’t even think of making a protest. This was going to be the last time she would
see him, she thought dazedly. He was going to refuse to help her after this, and she was going to have to proceed on her own. He would never come near her again, and she had every right to take what she wanted right now, and what she wanted was him. To indulge in the forbidden delight that was Benedick Rohan.

The doctor had tucked her beneath the covers. He pulled them away, so that their bodies were touching. She opened her eyes for a brief moment, wanting to see his face, see whether there was any affection, any tenderness, but he reached out and pinched the light from the bedside candle, plunging them into darkness, and it was as if there were no more restraints. No one could see them, therefore there were no rules. He rolled to his side, bringing her with him, and she ran her hand down his chest, inside his open coat to the loose white shirt he wore. His skin was hot beneath it, and she tugged at the fabric, wanting it out of the way. He reached down and yanked at it himself, and she slid her hands beneath, reveling in the silken feel of his skin.

She moved then, putting her mouth against his throat, and he tasted salty and sweet, wonderful. A faint thought danced through her brain—why had she never felt this for someone reasonable? Someone she could have? With dear Thomas it had been an uncomfortable burden. With Wilfred a disappointing experiment gone wrong.

But Benedick Rohan was richness and delight, setting every inch of her skin alive with feeling, and
she wanted to lie beneath him, to have him take her, thrust inside her, cover her. She wanted…

She was dimly aware that he had frozen, and his hands covered hers, stilling their feverish exploration. She made a muffled sound of protest, but he moved away from her, releasing her, and she was very cold.

“I may be a bastard,” he said in a soft voice, “but I do draw the line at taking advantage of drugged women. You and I both know this is a very bad idea, and it’s just as well we’re forced to end our association.”

His words weren’t making sense, but she blamed the laudanum. Damn Dr. Smithfield and his silly concoctions. She hadn’t been in more pain than she could bear, and she should have been able to argue Benedick out of his absurd idea that they should sever their connection. And if she weren’t shatter-brained from that vile stuff he wouldn’t have stopped what he was doing. She wanted him to touch her the way he had in the darkened room in the tunnels. She wanted to feel that astonishing surge of feeling that was almost painful in its intensity. She wanted…

But he was already gone. She heard the click of the door as he closed it behind him, and she wanted to cry. But the laudanum robbed her of even that much. All she could do was fall asleep.

Benedick Rohan was in a toweringly foul mood, and he had no wish to pass the gauntlet of staring women and girls, all scrubbed and fresh-faced and a far cry
from their earlier profession. He particularly didn’t want to have Violet Highstreet staring at him with disapproval, nor did he want Emma Cadbury to stop his headlong pace toward the front door, putting her trim little body in between him and safety.

“Your lordship, we need to talk,” Mrs. Cadbury said in the pure, well-bred tones that were clearly natural to her.

“You tell ’im, Mrs. C.!”

“This is none of your business, Violet. You may join the other girls while I speak with the Viscount.”

“Don’t let ’im get around you,” she said, and he stopped his annoyance to look at her in surprise. The last he’d seen her she’d been fighting for the chance to service him—now it seemed as if he’d become persona non grata.

“What in the world is the matter with you?” he said, and then was astonished at himself. The opinion of whores had never mattered. Then again, those of Charity’s gaggle were no longer whores. They were women and girls, human beings. Not faceless bodies for his pleasure.

Damn the woman, he thought absently.

“Just because I fancy you doesn’t mean I’ll stand by and let you hurt the mistress,” Violet announced in strident tones. A chorus of bellicose assent echoed from the women who lined the stairwell, looking down on them.

“
That’s enough
, girls,” Mrs. Cadbury said, sounding more like a schoolmarm than a notorious madam. Then again, she looked more like a schoolmarm,
albeit a badly dressed but still exquisitely beautiful one. If she were planning to live a life of celibacy it was a damned shame, he thought absently.

At another time he might have considered changing her mind. At another time he would have signaled Violet and he knew, despite her disapprobation, that she would follow him home and do anything he required her to do, and do it with great pleasure and enthusiasm. He preferred his women, even the ones he paid for, to honestly enjoy themselves in his bed, and Violet had a natural ability for pleasure.

Unlike the frowning Mrs. Cadbury.

“I’m afraid I don’t have time to speak with you, madam,” he said with thinly veiled impatience.

“If you do not speak with me then I will be forced to call on you, and to keep calling on you in your house in Bury Street until you’re willing to meet with me. You may as well get it over and done with.”

He looked at her with real dislike. A year ago, six months ago, six days ago, he would have given a great deal to have this woman in his bed. Now he wouldn’t touch her if he were the one paid to do so. He glanced up at the staircase at the faces leaning over, watching them, and he realized he didn’t want any of them, or their painted sisters who still populated the elegant houses he knew so well.

There was only one woman he wanted, and he needed to get far away from her. One didn’t seduce a gentlewoman merely for sport, even if widows were considered fair game. Melisande, for all her calm good cheer was closer to a virgin than a woman who
understood her own body and needs, and it would get very messy indeed if he didn’t put a stop to it now.

In fact, he could consider himself fairly noble. He’d given her just enough pleasure to let her understand what could exist between a man and a woman. She would find someone suitable and marry him, living a rich, full life, all thanks to him.

Yes, he was a hell of a fine fellow, he thought mockingly. Always willing to do what was necessary for the good of womankind.

Mrs. Cadbury gestured toward an open door that clearly led into a salon, and short of manhandling her there was no way past her. “Five minutes,” he said tersely. “After you.”

She blinked in surprise. “I beg your pardon?”

“I said, ‘after you.’ Don’t worry, I’m not going to make a dash for the door the moment your back is turned. I’ll come in with you.”

She stared at him for a long moment. “I’m not used to gentlemen having me precede them… We’re usually bidden to follow meekly behind.”

“I believe I have manners,” he said, his sharp tone belying his words.

“Manners usually don’t extend to whores,” she replied.

He was tired, he was frustrated and he was angry. He wanted to reach out and strangle her. “Consider it one of my quirks. I believe in treating everyone equally.”

“You mean you treat everyone this abominably?” Mrs. Cadbury murmured.

“No, madam. This is how I treat my friends,” he said icily.

“We’re friends? How delightful,” she said, sweeping ahead of him into the room. He considered making a run for it, after all, and then stopped himself. Just how craven was he?

He strolled into the room after her, all insouciance, to see her already seated behind a massive mahogany desk, and his image of her as a stern schoolmarm increased enough to force him to smother a laugh with a false cough.