by Jade Lee
“There were two of them,” he said, his voice hoarse from disuse. “I was surprised.”
You wanted to die, commented his consciousness from that other place that wasn’t his body. You went there looking for death.
She pulled back, her eyes widening with hope. “You’re talking! You’ve been silent for days.”
He swallowed. “I am not mute,” he forced out. He sounded awful.
Her gaze traveled over his face, searching for clues. Her fingers touched him as well, roving over his stubbled cheeks and into his hair. “Do you remember what happened? Do you know where you are?”
He nodded. The other woman had explained. “Martha said Hank found me. And that he got help to bring me here.”
“He didn’t find you. He followed you, all on his own. He kept the thieves from killing you. Then we got you here.”
His eyes widened in horror. “You went there?” he gasped. The idea of her in that area of London froze him so deeply he thought he’d never warm.
She nodded. “Do you know where you were?”
“Yes,” he rasped. “You should not have gone—”
“Seth helped too. He had to. We couldn’t have moved you otherwise. We brought you here to Martha’s.”
He closed his eyes. Boys had fought for him when he had gone there specifically to die. Scheherazade had risked herself to retrieve him. And now she nursed him and cried over his worthless body. His shame deepened until he thought he would drown in it.
“Why, Brandon? Why did you do this?”
He didn’t answer. A few had asked him that question before. Only his brother Michael knew the answer, and even he did not know the full depth of it. Tell her, his consciousness urged from the bedside. Tell her how useless you are. Then she will let you die in peace. She might even help you do the deed.
Scher pulled back a little farther, her expression shifting to resignation. “Gone mute again, Brandon? Very well, then, perhaps I shall tell you what I have suffered in the days since your folly.”
He lifted his hand to stop her, but she was far stronger than he. She pushed his arm away with no more effort than she would need for a pesky fly.
“I screamed when I saw you. You were lying in mud. The stench was overpowering, and your blood was everywhere. I did not even recognize your face. If it were not for your clothes and Hank, who held you in his lap, I would not have known it was you. Not until I was in the dirt with you. Not until I was close enough to taste your blood in the air.”
Brandon closed his eyes. No death was pretty. No one smelled good or even left the Earth in angelic serenity. And even if they did, that would certainly not be his end. He tried to turn away. He had no wish to hear what he had forced her to suffer, but she grabbed his face and turned it back to her. She would not let him look away.
“A numbness entered my body. It is a place I go when the pain is too great. I can give orders. It is what I do best. I directed the lifting and carrying of you. We didn’t think you’d live for the trip to your home, but we couldn’t leave you in the street. I knew of Martha and that she would be grateful for the money you will pay her for your care. I sent for the surgeon and Joey hauled water for cleaning you. We worked the night through without rest, and all the time I wondered if you’d survive.”
She was crying as she spoke, the tears flowing freely down her face. And yet there were no sobs or interruption in her words. The tears flowed, but her voice remained clear.
“Hank tried to tell me again and again what happened. It was a nervous reaction, I think, to speak without stop. He didn’t understand it any more than I do. And he was afraid, of course. Would you blame him for not protecting you faster? For not warning you of their attack?”
“Of course not,” he rasped, horrified that the boy would fear such a thing.
“I told him that. I told him he would be richly rewarded for his efforts. He has slept outside your door ever since. He helps Martha when I am not here. In the morning, Brandon, you will praise him. Now that I know you can speak, you will thank him for what he has done for you.”
“Yes, of course.” He spoke the words automatically, his mind already tallying the ways he might reward the boy. To show such loyalty after less than a week employed. How sad for the child that he had chosen such a poor person as his employer. Then Brandon gripped Scher’s elbow. It was the only part of her he could clasp. “But what of you, Scher? Have you been here every night?”
“Yes.” She lowered her voice, though she was barely speaking above a whisper. “We have not told anyone your name. People know Martha is being paid to nurse a sick man. They think you are a butcher and Hank is your son. If anyone knew the truth—”
“It would put everyone at risk. I understand.” Kidnap-pings were not so rare, certainly not in this part of town. And if they knew he was more wealthy than a butcher—that he was a titled aristocrat—who knew what would happen in the dark of night? There were those who hated the aristocracy with a passion bordering on insanity. “Martha will be well paid for her efforts.”
Scher nodded. “Good.”
“But you have not spoken of yourself.”
“I cried, Brandon. Even as I issued orders and cleaned the filth from your body, I cried so much. I didn’t know I had that many tears, but I did. And when it was done . . .” She took a deep breath. “When I had to return the next night to the playhouse, I cleaned my face, changed into a dress, and pretended as if it had never happened. I have been pretending like that for five days now.”
He didn’t know what to say. She had cried for him? Worked night and day for the care of him? That knowledge stunned him. Then before he could think of something to say, she was standing up and he grabbed her arm in alarm. He didn’t want her leaving him. Not yet!
“Hank!” she called, though she kept her voice low enough not to wake Martha.
The boy popped his head in, his eyes wide and his sandy hair askew. He looked as haggard as a ten-year-old boy could, with pale dirty skin and red-rimmed eyes. Had he looked as such these past few days? How had Brandon not noticed before? Meanwhile, Scher’s voice continued without mercy.
“Come on in, Hank. His lordship requires some help and I cannot manage it alone. And I’d be so grateful if you could—”
“Right away, Lady Scher. Wotever you need.” Then he glanced anxiously at Brandon. “I’m gentle, yer lordship. I’ll be careful.”
“Of course you will, Hank,” Scher soothed.
Was there to be no end to the humiliation? But he had gotten himself into this situation. The least he could do was not complain about it.
Meanwhile, his gaze slid to Hank, whose gaze hopped nervously between the two of them. “You did well, Hank. And I thank you.”
The boys face brightened like the sun, and Brandon felt more shame wash through him. “I tried, my lord. I tried real hard—”
“I know you did,” he interrupted. “Your bravery astounds me.”
Hank flushed red to the very tips of his ears, and he ducked his head. But nothing could hide the grin. “Thank ye, my lord. Thank ye.”
Twenty minutes later, Brandon sent the boy to his bed. The child was still grinning despite his yawns, and Brandon made a mental note to reward him extremely well. Meanwhile, he was alone again with Scher. What would he say to this woman who had saved his life? Who spoke to him with simple honesty such as he had never heard his whole life. “Thank you, Scher. Thank you for everything.”
She nodded her head slowly. “You have people who depend on you, Brandon.”
She made to move away then, and he grabbed her hand. She could have easily broken his grip, but she stilled. “And what of you, Scher? How can I thank you for all that you have done?”
“I want no thanks.”
He tightened his grip. “Then what—”
“I want to know why, Brandon.” She rounded on him, her eyes fierce. “Why did you do this? I refuse you, and you rush out into the stews? Why?”
He swallowed and looked away, his min
d dark. “I don’t know.”
“Unacceptable, my lord.”
“I don’t know!”
“I don’t care!” Then she reached out and pulled his chin to her. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears, but he felt no softness in her grip. “You wish to thank me? Then find the answer.”
He could have refused her, but he had no will in this. She was right, and it was long past time that he ceased his destructive path. “I will . . . I will find your answer.”
Chapter12
Brandon was asleep. Scheherazade stepped silently into the bedroom, a quiet nod to Martha as the woman gratefully sought her own bed. The boy Hank was asleep as well, his curled form on a blanket and pillow set beside the fire. It was still cold enough at night that a burning ember was very welcome.
She glanced backward at the fire and noted the full coal bin. A sniff brought her the unusual scent of cooked meat. Chicken, she believed, and her stomach growled in hunger. Pulling out a hard roll, she tore off a piece as she entered Brandon’s bedroom. The linens looked clean and fresh. And if she wasn’t mistaken, the man had shaved.
She smiled as she sat down in the chair beside his bed. It was clear his temper had improved, but she was surprised that he remained at Martha’s. Surely the mighty Lord Blackstone could have moved himself back to his apartments in the posh area of London. Why remain here if he could be infinitely more comfortable there?
She watched as he took a deep breath, then exhaled on a sigh. Mint. He had been chewing mint.
“You are here,” he said without even opening his eyes.
“And so are you.”
He opened his eyes and frowned at her. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know what to expect from you, my lord. I never have.” It was part of his appeal. Then when he frowned in confusion, she gestured in the direction of his bachelor apartments. “You might be more comfortable at your own home.”
“Would you come visit me in the middle of the night there?”
She shook her head. “Of course not. It would be highly improper and someone would surely tell.”
“Then I shall remain here, a butcher in Martha’s care.”
She tilted her head, pleased despite how inappropriate the feeling was. She should not be happy to sneak off and meet someone who was not her fiancé. “Do not expect that I will continue to do this. It has been a sore trial already, and I am dropping with weariness.”
He raised his hand and brushed his thumb against her cheek. “Yes,” he said softly. “I regret that.”
She shivered at his caress. Everything was so confusing. “I do not know why I keep doing this,” she said softly. “Someone is bound to discover it.”
“So I can give you the answer I promised.”
She lifted her chin. She had been nuzzling his hand like a stray kitten, but now her eyes leapt to his. “Answers, my lord? Truly? I am breathless with shock and curiosity.”
“Do not take that tone with me,” he said without heat. “I am a man of honor.” Then he made a half-choking sound. “Or at least a man who tries to repay his debts. I promised you an answer as to my . . . er . . . motivations, and so you shall have it.”
She stilled, her eyebrows raised. And when he still did not speak, she leaned back away from his hand. She rested against the chair and folded her arms. She would not say anything until he did. But he shook his head.
“It is a hard thing to bare the soul, Scher. Give me a moment of your company first. Tell me what you have been doing. H—how are the wedding plans?”
She smiled at his slight stammer. He did not want to think of her wedding, but he was polite enough to ask about it.
“Do you know,” she drawled, “that all of London is agog asking about my wedding plans? The playhouse has had record attendance since my engagement, a record number of brawls too. I cannot tell if we shall register a profit this month because of all the broken crockery.”
He frowned, obviously startled. “They are brawling? Why?”
“Because I am either a champion of the people or a grasping shrew.”
“And everyone wishes to voice their opinion on your life,” he said with a grimace. “I am truly sorry, Scher. I had hoped that it would not become a matter of public discussion.”
She tilted her head, looking at his expression. “Truly?” she asked. “You did not hope for exactly this . . .” Disaster? Trial? What word did she put on her nuptial plans? “This spectacle?”
He reached out and stroked the back of her hand. “I always hope I am wrong these days. And I would never wish you pain.”
She believed him. “But you are never wrong,” she said, knowing that he had predicted everything that had come to pass. There had even been political cartoons drawn lampooning her, and that was nothing compared to the scathing commentary on grasping women that was printed in today’s newspaper.
“Do not encourage my pride,” he commanded. “But, yes, it appears that I am right when I expect the worst.” He smiled at her and her heart stuttered in her chest. “It is one of the things that I most admire about you, Scher. You still hope, despite everything. You still think . . .” He cut off his words, but what he meant was obvious to her.
“I still hope that I will be happy with Kit.”
“You could be,” he said as he withdrew his hand from her. “But not in London, I fear. Not here.”
He had said that to her before. He had told her to move far away, but she would not leave London. Primarily because she and Kit could not leave the source of their money. He had too little on his own. Besides, it could not possibly be as bad as what Brandon thought.
“Kit is not so inconstant,” she said firmly. “He will marry me, and this . . . this notoriety will end.”
He nodded, though she could tell he did not truly believe that. Instead, he shifted slightly in the bed so that he could look more fully at her. “Tell me what has happened. Perhaps there is a way to make you and Kit seem less interesting to the public.”
She hesitated, trying to judge his earnestness, but in the end, she began to talk. She needed someone to listen, someone to hear how difficult this had been. Kit was in the thick of it with her, but whenever she tried to talk to him about the latest insult, he waved it aside. He had no wish to hear more. He lived it every day, as did she. So she never showed him the newest broadside that pictured her stepping up to the altar while a host of gentlemen bet on the paternity of her child. But she told Brandon about it, as well as all the other humiliations. To be able to talk with someone else about it was a godsend. Especially someone who understood British ton better than she.
So she talked, each word like a burden laid down at Brandon’s feet. He listened without judgment and offered witty commentary when she faltered. All in all, he made her feel as if he understood. And when she finally finished, his advice was simple if completely impractical.
“Tell them all to go to the devil,” he said.
She smiled ruefully. “I wish I could.”
He grabbed her hand, trying to impress on her his point. “But don’t you see? You can! Tell them that there will be no talk of weddings or class struggles or even babies in your presence.” He leaned forward, then grimaced as he pulled on his wound. “You are Lady Scher. I have seen you lay a miscreant down with a single cold stare. I have watched as gentleman after gentleman made unseemly advances, and you simply waved a hand. They were escorted outside immediately.”
She nodded. “Yes, of course I have, but that is entirely different.”
“Only in terms of scale. Don’t you see? You are Lady Scher. You have the power of a queen inside the playhouse walls. Of all places, you must make it your sanctuary.”
She shook her head, her mind spinning with thoughts. Was it possible? Could she enforce such a rule? “But the ticket sales will drop.”
“You have already said that the income is balanced out by the broken pottery and the brawls. How many more people have you hired to control
the crowd?”
“Two.”
“Then you must factor in their pay as well. Are you truly coming out ahead?”
No. A thousand times no. She looked at him, a new respect for him forming in her mind. “I will do it,” she resolved. “I will create a place of peace in my world.”
He smiled. “Your home must be your sanctuary, Scher. Wherever it is, you must make sure you have a place to be at peace.”
There was an added note of seriousness in his words. Something that told her that he searched for that same thing. Had clearly searched and never found it. She realized her smile had slipped away, as had his. And in the silence, his gaze slid to the door. Was he thinking about a way to distract her? Perhaps he would call Hank and forestall the coming discussion. But she would not allow him to set her aside so easily.
“You have heard my story, Brandon. Perhaps it is time for you to pay your debt.”
He swallowed, but to his credit, he did not run. “You said once that we have a connection because we were both betrayed.”
She nodded. She well remembered every word of that night. And every caress. But she had been too simple in her thoughts that night. Their connection had more to do with listening to one another, not something that happened in their past. But she did not say that now because he was still struggling with his words.
“I was the betrayer, Scher, and because of me, good people died. It is something that I cannot undo. I cannot even find atonement for those who died. And so . . .” He looked to her, his eyes begging her not to judge him. “I want to die, Scheherazade. I want to end this farce I have become. That is why I left you. Why I wandered in the stews until someone beat me. I did not think that . . .” He gestured weakly to the room. “I just wanted it all to end.”
She swallowed. She hadn’t expected him to say such a thing so clearly, so firmly. So much of her life had been one endless struggle to survive. Her mother had never been good with money. It wasn’t until she took over paying the bills—all the troupe’s bills—that she was even able to breathe at night. She knew now that she had enough to pay for her next meal, for a good many next meals. But that had certainly not been the case when she was a child.
