“Brandon,” Charles said, shocked. “She’s a lady!”
“And ladies don’t like bedsport?”
“Certainly not!”
Brandon’s mood was much improved, and he laughed. “Poor, poor Charles,” he said softly. “No wonder you only have two children.”
“I request that you cease this discussion of such a private topic. It’s in bad taste.”
Brandon was unmoved. “Did you know your wife was going to be such a dud in bed? It certainly wasn’t a love match. What a waste! And you’re such a paragon that you probably don’t have a mistress.”
“Of course not! And leave my wife out of this!” Charles’s color was high, and Brandon took pity on him.
“It’s neither here nor there. You may as well accept it; your well-orchestrated plan has fallen to pieces. But you needn’t worry about any lingering embarrassment—I plan to go back to Scotland the first chance I get and with luck no one will ever know a possible alliance was being considered.”
“I sent a notice to the Times.”
For a moment Brandon didn’t move. The idea of fratricide had a certain appeal, but Benedick would probably stop him, and it would make his parents unhappy. “Then you’re just going to have to send in a retraction.”
Even Charles couldn’t miss the menace in his voice, but his brother always believed that his version of “right” was incontrovertible. “I can’t. Do you realize what it would look like? Everyone would think you jilted Miss Bonham, and she has trouble enough already.”
But Brandon wasn’t interested in Miss Bonham’s trouble. “I doubt it. People have seen my face—it would be more unusual that someone would agree to marry a wreck like me.”
“Women marry peers in their dotage quite happily. Miss Bonham needs your protection, not to be publicly humiliated.”
“Not my problem. Find some nice, pretty boy for her if you’re so inclined—with a fortune it should be simple. Trust me, she’ll be much happier.”
He should have known his brother wouldn’t give up that easily. “Who’s to say your. . . er. . . condition is permanent? In fact, a year or two without marital relations would probably be very good for Miss Bonham. She’s extremely timid around men, and this would give her time to get used to the idea.”
“Quite permanent,” Brandon said wickedly. “They shot off my. . .”
“Enough!” Charles was looking a deliciously uncomfortable cross between bilious and embarrassed. “I get the point.”
“Good,” Brandon said.
Charles took a deep breath. “Hear me out. I told you, Miss Bonham is in a difficult situation. You know as well as I do that presentable heiresses are always in short supply, and she should have been besieged all year, ever since she came out of mourning. Now the only one who’d take her is a fortune hunter or a. . .”
“A monster,” Brandon supplied, and Charles had the grace to look embarrassed.
“You know your situation is difficult. It’s highly unlikely that anyone else would be willing to marry you, given your. . . I’ll be blunt. . . given your appearance. You could go back to Scotland and Miss Bonham could stay here with her companion. She’s a quiet little thing with no interest in society, and she’d be perfectly happy to live her life in the country. Since the prospect of children is not an issue there would be no reason to stay around.”
“And you’d just as soon an inconvenient complication like your scarred brother disappear, wouldn’t you?”
“Of course not.” Charles’s denial was perfunctory. “I appeal to your Christian charity, Brandon.”
“I don’t have any. Miss Bonham’s difficult situation, whatever it is, has nothing to do with me.”
“Actually, old man,” Charles said, “It does.”
He’d known this, Brandon thought. Charles was doing his best to tighten the noose around him, and deep inside Brandon had known that he was somehow to blame. He still wasn’t done paying for his sins.
He sighed, weary beyond belief. He should have just kept going today, not turned around to come back. What was it about Emma Cadbury that had made him change his mind? Curiosity? Lust? That nagging bit of memory that kept eluding him? “So tell me about Miss Bonham,” he said finally. “And I’ll judge for myself just how culpable I am.”
There was no missing the gleam of triumph in Charles’s pale blue eyes, and it took all of Brandon’s strength of will not to clock him. “Miss Bonham’s half-brother was no other than Harry Merton, the late, unlamented mastermind of the Heavenly Host. You remember, the man who orchestrated rape and murder? The man you followed slavishly until you were so far gone in depravity that you tried to hang yourself rather than face the consequences of your own evil.”
Brandon turned slowly to look at him, his face a cold mask. “And how does that concern me? I’m hardly responsible for that deranged scum of a human being,” he said coldly. He could feel things slipping out of his control. He was drowning, and there was no lifeline to pull him to shore. Where was Emma?
The thought was errant and absurd. Why would he think Emma Cadbury could save him from his worst self? Why would he want her to?