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.”
Miranda was trying to tuck her wet hair back inside her bonnet when she paused. She imagined she looked like a rain-swept slattern, but perhaps her odd rescuer could no more see her than she could see him.
“You have?” she said, curious, her own misery banished.
“I beg pardon—I’ve been most remiss. Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Lucien de Malheur.” He paused for a moment. “You may have heard of me.”
Miranda didn’t blink. So this was the notorious Scorpion, the fifth earl of Rochdale. She peered through the darkness with renewed fascination. “You’re right,” she said with her usual frankness. “Even in my cloistered existence I’ve heard the stories. Compared to you, I’m St. Joan.”
His soft laugh was oddly beguiling. “But we both know that gossip is seldom true.”
“Seldom?”
“Occasionally an element of truth colors a story. Doubtless you’ve heard that I consort with criminals, that I’m debauched and evil and lead young men to their financial ruin and consort with the notorious Heavenly Host. Don’t look so shocked—I realize people seldom admit the organization even exists anymore, but it’s a very badly kept secret. And you would have heard of my deformities, doubtless exaggerated to the point where I’m better suited to Astley’s Circus and its objects of Wonder and Horror.”
He’d been described in exactly that way, but she wasn’t about to admit it. “And what is the truth?” She didn’t have to look out the window. She recognized the sound of the pavement beneath the carriage, the pattern of cobblestones on the narrow street. They were already on Half Moon Street. Too soon, she thought, frustrated. This was the most interesting thing that had happened to her in weeks, perhaps months.
For a moment he said nothing, and she had the odd sense that he was weighing something, considering something new and unlikely.
“The truth is, Lady Miranda, that I am an ugly brute with a lame leg and I prefer not to impose my ugliness on unsuspecting strangers.”
She wanted to see him. For some reason she was quite desperate to set eyes on the notorious, reputedly villainous earl, and she suspected his words had been formed with just that intent.
They had pulled up outside her small, immaculate house. “I’ve been warned,” she said with humor in her voice. “You can show me and I promise not to scream or faint.”
His soft laugh was her answer. “I’m afraid I don’t know you well enough yet, Lady Miranda. I would never trespass on so short an acquaintance.”
She picked up the important word. “Yet?” she echoed warily.
“Please,” he protested, once again reading her doubts. “I do only wish to be your friend.”
“A friend I can’t see?”
“I’ll make a bargain with you, Lady Miranda. You’re fond of music, are you not? If you agree to attend a musical evening at my house in Cadogan Place you’ll have no choice but to look at my unfortunate face. And no, don’t go jumping to conclusions again. The twenty-four people who’ve been invited have all accepted with flattering alacrity. I would be honored if you joined us.”
She probably shouldn’t, she thought. She knew she shouldn’t, but the risk sounded so tempting, and in faith, what did she have to lose?
“I was planning to go out of town, my lord….”
“But surely you can put your departure off for a few days? London has been so devoid of company you must be bored to tears. Indulge yourself, and me.”
“I shall have to see.” It was tempting. It had been so long since she’d held a conversation with anyone outside her small circle, and she was strangely drawn to him, another outsider. She’d be a fool to walk into trouble again. Still, there was always the chance that common sense would reappear as needed.
He seemed to take her pause for acquiescence. “I’ll send my carriage round for you, since I expect it will be a while before your curricle is repaired. Wednesday next, at nine.”
“I shall see,” she said again, being careful. The servants had opened the door to the carriage but the gray, dismal light penetrated no deeper than his shiny black boots.
He took her lack of agreement in stride. “You can come or not as you please. In either case, my men will have your horses back in no time, and I’ll see to the return of your carriage, as well. In the meantime I’m most delighted to have met you, and honored to have been of some minor assistance.”
To her surprise he took her hand, bringing it to his lips in the dark of the carriage. The touch of his mouth was light, but against her bare skin it was oddly…disturbing. What in the world had she done with her gloves?
She practically scrambled away, almost falling down the lowered carriage steps. She might have heard a soft laugh from the shadows, but realized that was absurd.
“À bientôt,” her mysterious rescuer murmured.
And a moment later he was gone.
She was lovely. He didn’t know why he should be surprised—no one had ever referred to her as anything less than presentable. To be sure, she had brown hair when the current fashion was for blondes, but her eyes were extraordinary. She had a low, melodious voice and her soft mouth, when it wasn’t set in a tight line, was full of good humor.
Which frankly surprised him, given that she’d spent the last two years in isolation, without much hope of having anything change in the near future. He would have thought she’d be a bit more subdued, even crushed.
Lady Miranda Rohan struck him as someone extremely difficult to crush. Thus, the challenge was immediately appealing. The Rohan family had a debt to pay, and so far they’d gotten off too easily. Even their only daughter’s fall from grace had failed to disturb their equanimity.
That would soon change.
All her watchdogs had finally left town. Every single one of the notorious Rohans were in Yorkshire, days away, leaving her behind. Alone. Unguarded. Vulnerable.
It had been simple enough to have one of Jacob Donnelly’s men sabotage the young woman’s curricle. He’d run the risk of a dangerous accident, but it was a chance worth taking, and he’d come to her rescue like the proper gentleman he was. She hadn’t suspected a thing.
And now he was very glad he’d decided to do something about the soiled dove. So far the Rohans had faced disgrace with total hauteur and defiance. As he would have, had he ever been fool enough to get caught in his various illegal and immoral activities.
Lady Miranda’s brother Benedick had no idea his former fiancée had a half brother living in the tropical islands of Jamaica. A half brother determined to gain revenge no matter the price. Taking Benedick’s sister had perfect symmetry, and Lucien liked symmetry.
Besides, Lady Miranda had quite caught his fancy. His original plan had been simply to meet her, so he could better decide the best way to continue his vendetta. Vendetta—he rather fancied the word. The raging fury of old Italian families wiping each other out over an imagined slight—that was a similar, albeit more well-bred, version of what drove him.
One look at her windblown countenance and he knew he’d be a fool to leave it to anyone else to ruin her.
He should have known better than to delegate the task the first time. But then, he’d never realized that there could be all sorts of added delight in drawing Miranda Rohan into his web.
He was halfway to his home on Cadogan Place when the idea came to him, and he laughed out loud.
He knew exactly how to crush the Rohans, to leave them unable to rescue their sweet, ruined little girl this time, unable to do anything at all about it.
He would marry her.
The thought of Lady Miranda in the Scorpion’s hands would drive them mad once they knew who and what he was. They’d protected her from everything, even her foolish disgrace. But they wouldn’t be able to protect her from her lawful husband.
The more he thought about it the more delightful it seemed. He had no intention of hurting the chit. If he was desirous of inflicting pain there were always the infrequent meetings of the Heavenly Host where like-minded people could happily while away an hour or so.
No, Miranda would survive the marriage bed with no more than her spirit beaten down. He would drive the laughter from her eyes and from those of all the Rohans.
It was a very practical solution to a number of issues. He’d been meaning to find a bride these last few years. He was halfway between thirty and forty—more than time to find a wife. Miranda Rohan would do admirably.
He’d get a couple of children on her, quickly, and if she survived childbirth he’d keep her at his estates in the Lake District, as far away from her family as he could manage. Pawlfrey House was a cold, grim place deep in one of those shadowed valleys that abounded in the Lake District, and he doubted even a woman’s touch could make it more appealing. It would be a difficult life for any brats she might happen to bear him; he’d most likely bring them to a warmer climate to be raised.
Miranda, however, would remain at the house. She would never see her family again, and his familial debt would be repaid. Genevieve would at last rest in peace, knowing he’d avenged her, and he might very well return to his travels. Even the sunnier areas of this blighted island were a little too raw and cold for his liking.
He remembered the taste of Lady Miranda’s skin when he’d kissed her hand. Oh, this was going to be quite delightful. He could indulge his taste for villainy and no one would know what he planned until it was too late.
No shoddy abductions or protestations of love. He would propose their union as a business venture, though he certainly didn’t plan to start out that way. He suspected she wouldn’t be wooed, which was just as well. It would take time to fix his interest with her, and time was his enemy. As soon as the Rohans learned who he was they’d be on their guard, and he hated the thought of being forced to do anything clumsily.
No, the advantage was definitely on his side, and when had he ever failed to take full use of such a boon? He would have her eating out of his hand well before her family even caught wind of it.
She would probably view the thought of him as a lover with extreme distaste. Tant pis. She would learn to like, if not him, at least the things he could do to her. He was a most accomplished lover when he cared to be. And she just might be worth the effort.
The rain was pounding down by the time he reached his house, but rushing made him clumsy, and he mounted his front steps leisurely, ignoring the drenching. Indeed, he was a man who relished storms over insipid blue skies. And they were in for tumultuous weather.