Heartless (The House of Rohan 5)

Of course, mooning over Brandon Rohan was a complete waste of time, no matter what, but she refused to think about him right now, about the way his hands had touched her, about the way his body had moved over her, inside her, so very different from all those other times, all those other men.

Enough! Going over to her worn leather satchel, she pulled out her heavy book, the sheaves of paper covered with her neat script, until she found a blank one, along with her pen and tiny bottle of ink. She sat down in a chair by the fire, and then jumped up again at the feel of something beneath her.

The stuffed toy. Morley, he’d called it. She’d spent many nights in Brandon’s bed in the last three years while he’d been banished to Scotland, and she’d slept holding the worn bunny rabbit, a pathetic talisman of someone who would never be a part of her life. Tucking it under her arm where it rested comfortably enough beneath her breast, she set the paper in front of her, using the book as a makeshift desk, and began to write.

She started with three columns, neatly arranged. First, anyone who had reason to hate her. Next to that, the ability to carry out the three attacks, followed by what her enemy had to gain by her death. When she was done she looked down at her pages of handiwork in frustration, no closer to a solution.

“Hello, dearie.” Mrs. Patrick pushed the door open, followed by a thin, very young maid carrying a heavy tray laden with covered dishes. Unfortunately the tempting aromas were lost on Emma, though she knew she needed to eat, if for no other reason than fuel. “You must not have heard me knock. We’ve brought you a bite to eat, and Jenny here will see to your bath. You’ll have a good night’s sleep, and tomorrow everything will look ever so much better.”

She didn’t bother to question Mrs. Patrick’s accurate assessment of her current state of mind—in the years she’d known her Emma had discovered the housekeeper had an almost preternatural gift for homing in on feelings and emotions she’d rather keep hidden. “I’m not terribly hungry,” Emma said, setting her papers aside, “but I’ll try. And a bath would be lovely if it’s not too much trouble.”

“No trouble at all, miss. We’re here to take care of you—it’s our life’s work to make things a little more pleasant for you. Heaven knows Lady Melisande has wanted to coddle you for years now, but you always refuse. She’ll be very happy you decided to spend some time here, I’m sure. And I’m so glad you haven’t changed your mind and decided not to stay. Lord Brandon left strict orders that you were not to leave the house, but the footmen are in distress, worried about what they might have to do to keep you here.”

Emma had never learned the gift of accepting a servant’s work as her just due, and the thought of the nervous footmen, afraid to put their hands on her but terrified to disobey Brandon, made her feel guilty. At least now she knew she couldn’t have left even if she wanted to. He hadn’t looked in any mood to stop and issue warnings when he’d stormed out of the house, but maybe her stupid words hadn’t sunk in.

She sighed, reminding herself one more time that she wasn’t a stupid woman. “I won’t be going out until tomorrow, Mrs. Patrick. I have work at the hospital.”

Including the new, unpleasant task of dealing with Mr. Fenrush about the seismic shift in responsibilities. The man was going to be enraged, but Fenrush was a ham-handed butcher, a spiteful fanatic who took lives with his carelessness and taught his sycophantic staff to do the same. Splitting the control between the two of them should lessen some of the unnecessary deaths, but she foresaw a battle royale that wasn’t going to end anytime soon. The sooner she began to deal with it, the better.

“That’ll be up to Lord Brandon,” Mrs. Patrick said, her brow creased, and Emma felt a fresh, cleansing rage sweep through her.

“No,” she said firmly, “it won’t. I will be going to the hospital first thing tomorrow morning, and you may tell the servants that Lord Brandon would not want anyone to touch me.” That much she instinctively knew was true. He might want to control and imprison her, but he wouldn’t want anyone laying hands on her. Anyone else.

Mrs. Patrick shook her head. “Well, now, that’s between the two of you, or I miss my guess. I always find that it’s the gentlemen that know best.”

The ire simmered nicely beneath her breastbone, keeping Morley company. “And I always find the gentlemen couldn’t find their arse with both hands.”

Mrs. Patrick let out a huff of shocked laughter, and the very young maid gri

nned before quickly wiping the expression off her face. “Well, that’s as may be,” the older lady said vaguely. “Speak with Lord Brandon. He’s a dear boy.”

He’s a rat catcher, she thought, giving Mrs. Patrick a dulcet smile. “Of course,” she murmured, and the gullible woman believed her.

The bath went a long way towards improving her mood, and the cold chicken, fresh rolls and cheese managed to woo even her fading appetite. It wasn’t until she climbed into bed, Morley still tucked under her arm, that the thoughts began to flood her mind once more, worry and guilt and longing. What if he’d gone straight to an opium den? There were both pubs and private clubs where he could drink, and bordellos.

With a whimper she rolled over in the bed, burying her face in the soft pillow as she hugged the toy. A mistake—the night before came rushing back, his long fingers on her skin, his teasing, questing mouth, his tongue, his. . .

She rolled onto her back with a moan. He was probably dead, she told herself bitterly, and she didn’t care. Anyone who let a woman’s harsh, careless words decimate him wasn’t long for this world anyway. Of if he’d gone to the devil once more, he could still return as he had managed to three years previously.

She stared into the room, lit only by the banked fire. It was much quieter in Melisande’s neighborhood—the docks were never silent but Bury Street might almost have been in the country. Except for the birds.

She heard the unmistakable call of the ravens, back and forth, and she was suddenly very cold in the big bed. They were nowhere near the Tower of London with its permanent flock of the birds, and yet the sound was clear and loud. They were a harbinger of death—she’d known that since she’d been a young child. It was nothing but a country superstition, and she was a woman of science, but the calls came again, and she curled up around herself, unable to quell her panic. He was going to die, and she had never told him she loved him.

Yes, she did love him, no matter how much she didn’t want to, no matter how much she pretended it wasn’t true. She loved him and he was going to die.

She heard the church bells toll midnight, echoing in the night, one more song of the city. He was drunk in a pub.

They tolled one—he was lying in a gutter, beaten and robbed.

They tolled two—his body was floating in the Thames.

They tolled three—his body was being picked apart by the ravens that had warned of his death.

They tolled four—he was . . . he was back! In the silent household she could hear him—the front door closing quietly, the steady steps on the stairs, barely a trace of a limp, moving on the landing, coming closer, past his door now, at hers.

She held her breath, frozen, waiting for the knob to turn, waiting for him to come to her, but the silence held, he moved, and she heard the quiet opening and closing of the door next to hers.

She closed her eyes, but they flew open immediately. She spent exactly one moment considering the ramifications of her act, then dismissed it entirely.