“We’re not going anywhere until we’re certain our sister is all right,” Benedick said, still eyeing Jacob with profound distrust.

There was a reason he’d spent his adult life robbing the peerage. They were a royal pain in his backside. “I can take you to Ripton Waters. I’m the only one around here who knows where the house is.” He smiled politely. “If you promise to leave them alone once you’ve satisfied yourself that she’s happy.”

“I find that unlikely. Our sister has a profound distrust of men, for very good reason. She’s hardly likely to relax her guard with someone known as the Scorpion,” Benedick said.

“Will you leave her be if she tells you to?” Jacob said.

Benedick glanced at his brothers for agreement, then nodded. “Agreed.” He started for the door, turned back and gave them all a peremptory look. “Well? What are we waiting for?”

The quality, Jacob thought wryly. If this was the price he had to pay for Jane, then he’d do it. But he didn’t have to like it.

Jacob sighed, glancing down at Jane. “We’ll be with you in a moment.”

He waited until they were alone, and then he pulled her to him and kissed her, full on the mouth, not caring if any of the Rohans came storming back into the inn. “She’s all right, you know? Scorpion wouldn’t hurt her. He might come close, but in the end he’s not nearly as bad as he likes to think he is.”

“I hope you’re right,” she said doubtfully.

“I’ve known him for more than twenty years, love. I know what he will and will not do. They’ll be happily romping in their marriage bed and he won’t thank me for dragging her three brothers up there to interfere.”

“I need to see her as well,” she said in a quiet voice. “It’s not that I don’t take your word for it. But I want to say good-bye before we head for Scotland. I want her to meet you.”

“Then we’ll go,” he said, kissing her again. And he only hoped his faith in his old friend wasn’t misplaced.

The late afternoon sun was shining brightly, casting long shadows on the wide front lawns. They were going to have to be cut, Lucien thought absently, staring out through the Palladian windows on the landing.

He could see her walking out there, the sun gilding her rich brown hair he’d once thought quite ordinary. She was walking toward the dock, and he knew a moment’s disquiet. She wouldn’t make the mistake of walking out there again, would she? Not when she’d almost fallen through.

But no, she walked on, her arms filled with daffodils, down to the old boat that had been pulled up on the shore, and sat. Waiting for him.

His relief was so strong he was almost weak with it. He should have known a leech like St. John would be easy enough to deal with. The kind of money he’d asked for was merely a pittance in the scheme of things, and he’d happily pay ten times that amount to know that Miranda need never discovered the depths of his perfidy.

Sooner or later he’d probably have to have the man killed. Once a blackmailer started he never stopped, and it went against Lucien’s grain to let a little worm like St. John think he’d gotten the better of him. But for now he was gone, and when the time came Jacob would know someone who could handle it, neatly and quietly. It wasn’t as if St. John was any boon to this world.

No, everything was going to be fine after all. Whether he liked it or not he was tied to the woman who was waiting for him down by the lake. The Rohans had gotten their revenge instead of the other way around, and he no longer cared. As long as he had Miranda, then nothing else mattered.

It was a beautiful day, Miranda thought absently. The kind of day to fall in love. Scarcely the kind of day to discover that the man you were going to marry was even more of a toad-licking, worm-kissing, putrescent arse of a skunk. Scarcely the kind of day to commit murder, but one had to start somewhere.

There were daffodils everywhere, and she began to pick them for lack of something better to do. She’d dressed once he left her, and gone looking for him. He wasn’t in his very pink rooms, and she’d been half tempted to take off her clothes and climb into his bed to await him. He’d find her soon enough.

But she didn’t have the patience for it. So instead she went looking for him, finding him closed up in the green parlor, in low conversation with someone. She was about to push open the doors when she recognized the second voice, and she froze.

Silly, of course, she was imagining things. She put her hand on the doorknob, about to push it open, and then she heard the word “blackmail” in the voice she’d once hated most in the world.

No, Christopher St. John’s voice wasn’t the one she hated most. It was the drawling, mocking voice of the man who lay in her bed just hours ago and told her he loved her. The man she had every intention of killing.

Stabbing was too good for him. She’d done a frenzied search for pistols among the walls of weapons that made the gloomy old house so cozy, but apparently the de Malheurs gave up war when guns were introduced. And no wonder. They were much better at stabbing people in the back.

She looked at the lake. The old rowboat sat there, no longer seaworthy but with a good solid seat, and she headed toward it, her arms filled with daffodils. She dumped them on the ground, crushing them beneath her feet as she climbed into the beached boat and picked up the oar. It was still solid and heavy, and she climbed out, carrying it up and onto the dock. The sun had dried some of the slime, but she could see the broken board where she’d nearly gone through. He’d saved her then. She almost wished he hadn’t.

She was halfway down the length of the dock when he began shouting at her, but she kept her back to him, pretending she couldn’t hear. Her face was set in stone. Swill-sucking bastard. To think that she’d loved him. After all the things he’d done, he’d threatened to do, and she’d forgiven him.

Not anymore. She gripped the oar more tightly, keeping her back to him, and waited.

The weak old dock bounced when he climbed up, and he was starting toward her. She turned, and she knew her face was cold and terrible.

Unfortunately he didn’t. He was too busy haranguing her for being foolish enough to put her life at risk by going out on the dock again, after the close call last time. She didn’t move, waiting as he negotiated the missing plank. He hadn’t brought a cane with him. Good thing—it would make his balance even more precarious. It wouldn’t take much to make him go over.

She waited until he was almost in reach. Not close enough to grab her, but close enough for the old oar. “Stay there, my darling,” she said in a silken voice.

Finally he caught on. He jerked his head up, looking at her. “What are you doing out here?” he asked in a steady voice.

“Waiting for you. The water is ice-cold, you said.”

He watched her warily. “Yes.”

“And very, very deep?”

“Yes.” She could see the tension radiating through him, the same tension that ran through her. “You must have run into St. John.”

“Not exactly. I listened at the door.”

“Curiosity killed the cat,” he said lightly.

“No, it didn’t. It killed you.”

And she swung the old oar at him with all her strength.

It hit with a great thwack, splintering in two, and he went over the side, into the dark, cold waters of the lake, sinking like a stone.

It took her two seconds. And then she let out a scream for help, tossing the broken oar away from her, and jumped into the water after him.

It was very cold, numbingly so, and as it closed over her head she grabbed for him, wrapping her arms around his body, ready to sink to the bottom with him.

Instead he kicked, pushing them up so that they broke the surface, his arm clamped around hers as she struggled. “Jesus, woman!” he snapped. “When did we have to become Romeo and Juliet?”

“You liar!” she screamed, hitting him. “You filthy, evil, degenerate piece of garbage, you slimy, unspeakable pile of offal, you worm-ridden dung heap of a human being, I hate you I hate you I hate you.” Her struggles were pulling them down again, and water filled her mouth, stopping her mid-tirade.

Unfortunately, even with a bleeding head he was still stronger than she was, and it seemed to take him no effort at all to disable her, clamping her arms together as he dragged her toward shore, doubtless helped by her angry kicks. By the time it was shallow enough for them to walk he released her, collapsing on the stone beach.

She followed him a moment later, her sodden dress clinging to her heavily. She looked down at him, then started looking around for another weapon. There was another abandoned oar in the weeds, and she started toward it, but he rolled over and caught her ankle and she went sprawling. A moment later he covered her, holding her down as she fought him, fury in every inch of her body.

He let her fight, doing nothing to shield himself from her blows, simply pinning her with his weight so she couldn’t get away. It seemed like hours later when she finally grew too tired. Her arms ached, her hands were sore and he seemed to realize she was spent. He let her shove him off her, and she rolled onto her stomach in the dirt, sobbing.

They stayed like that for a long time. The sun was sinking lower, and finally she looked up at him. “Your head is bleeding,” she said in a raw voice. Indeed, it was bleeding a great deal, pouring down the side of his face and staining his shirt bright red. Maybe she’d killed him after all.

“I know.”

She got to her feet slowly, slapping away his hand when he tried to help her. “Come back to the house,” she said wearily. “I may as well bandage you. It will bring me little enough satisfaction if you die of blood poisoning.”

He very wisely said nothing, following her up to the house. She gave orders for clean rags and warm water as well as bandages and lint, and then ordered him into the salon. “Not the green one,” she snapped, as he started toward it.

The red one was on the other side of the hall. He paused, looking at her. “Why did you jump in after me?”