Ruthless (The House of Rohan 1)

She would just need to find someone who would dispense laudanum. Perhaps her new brother-in-law would be so kind, she thought mirthlessly.

She looked over at her husband-to-be. He was quite handsome, all in all, despite the Harriman Nose. His colorless hair was thinning slightly, very different from Rohan’s luxuriant black mane, and his mouth was…

She had to stop thinking about that. She had to remember the cruel, heartbreaking words and hold them close to her, in case she should ever waver, ever long for him. That man was a lie. The truth lay across from her, dozing slightly as they made their way through the night, heading for Calais.

24

Maison de Giverney was dark and silent. Charles Reading looked up at the huge building in astonishment. It was only five days into the two-week Revels, and the place looked abandoned. He’d been gone for only three days, and he knew a moment’s dread when he surveyed the darkness.

He’d waited too long, selfishly assuring himself and Lydia that Elinor was safe under Rohan’s protection. Francis had compromised her—that had been in the cards since the moment he’d laid eyes on her, but despite his threats Charles knew he wouldn’t hurt her. And he’d simply swept Lydia off to the nearest English parson he could find and married her out of hand before anything or anyone could stop them, including his own conscience. He wasn’t good enough for her, and it was totally impractical, and he didn’t give a damn. He was in love, and all the rationalizations couldn’t make it go away.

The nearest English parson had been half a days’ ride outside of Paris, and they’d spent their wedding night in a tiny inn in the countryside. The next two days had passed in a blaze of desire and a burst of tenderness, and it was only after they’d arrived back in Paris, returned to his rooms in the Place des Vosges, that they’d both emerged from their cocoon of happiness to think about Elinor’s rescue.

His wife was safely ensconced there, drowsy-eyed and naked in his bed, and he’d been more than loath to leave her. The only thing that could distract them from their dazed delight in each other was the nagging question of Elinor, and he’d come to retrieve her, take her away from Rohan before he could dispense with her.

He’d known perfectly well that despite Rohan’s threats he’d make no move to get rid of her until after the Revels had concluded, and he would cushion the blow. For all that Rohan strutted around thinking himself the Prince of Darkness, his battered soul contained a bruised nobility that would appall him. Rohan much preferred to fancy himself heartless.

Charles had no idea how Elinor Harriman would take her dismissal. From what he’d seen of her she was a most resilient young woman. If anything, she might come back and smash a vase over Rohan’s elegant head, but she wasn’t the sort to sit in a corner and weep.

Then again, she wasn’t the sort to succumb to Rohan’s notorious powers of seduction, and she had. And Rohan’s usual methods were totally at odds with his current behavior. Reading wasn’t certain if he’d ever seen his friend the way he’d been that night, the savagery of his one-sided duel with the unlamented Sir Christopher, the anger when he’d gone after Elinor during her aborted escape. Something was very wrong in his friend’s life, and the darkness at Maison de Giverney was a clear sign.

He was relieved to see some light behind the windows surrounding the vast front door, and it opened upon his approach, a dour Willis standing there. For a moment he’d wondered if the Heavenly Host had some new conceit—Revels in dark and silence, but he knew immediately that his first surmise had been correct. The place was deserted.

“Is your master here, Willis?” he said.

“He’s here. Everyone else is gone, though, including half the servants,” he muttered. “I’m glad you’re here, sir. He needs you. ”

“Where is he?”

“In the library. Drinking or drunk, if I make my guess. No one’s to go near him, and since he almost blew Cavalle’s head off with his dueling pistol the servants, w

hat’s left of them, are keeping their distance. ”

“He won’t shoot me,” Charles said, heading off through the dimly lit hallways.

The house was spotless—all signs of the recent party had been swept away. Charles couldn’t imagine how he’d done it—once the Heavenly Host were in full swing it was almost impossible to distract them until excess had exhausted them.

The door to Rohan’s study was closed, and for once no footman sat waiting for a summons. He knocked on the door.

“Go away, damn it,” Rohan’s voice came from behind the door. There was just the faintest suggestion of a slur in it, another astonishment. In their years of heavy drinking he’d never heard Rohan sound anything but cool and in control.

“It’s me. ”

“Get the hell out of here, Charles. ”

That was welcome enough. He pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The last time he’d been in this room they’d been trying to kill each other. Obviously Rohan had continued that pursuit on his own.

The room was destroyed; a madman had clearly taken a firepoker to every possible surface, smashing and destroying in a blind fury. The massive desk was overturned, chairs were splintered, paintings torn off the walls and sliced through. And Rohan was in the midst of it. On the built-in window seat that even he couldn’t destroy, a bottle of Scots whiskey in his hand.

He looked like holy hell, and Charles could only surmise that he’d been doing nothing but drink and smash things since the moment he left.

One of the overturned chairs looked to have four intact legs, though one arm was gone, and he picked it up and righted it, then sat in it, looking at his old friend. “What have you done with the Heavenly Host?” he inquired politely.

“Got rid of the lot. Drove ’em out of the place, and they won’t be coming back. ”

“No, I expect not. Not with their Revels disrupted,” Charles observed. “And where is Miss Harriman? I assume you sent her on her way as well?”