Epilogue
It was a rough night in Somerset. Benedick, Viscount Rohan, was being forcibly held down on a sofa in his study as his father poured him another tall glass of good Scots whiskey. He handed it to his son-in-law, better known as the Scorpion, a man tolerated because his daughter adored him, and eyed him warily. “Whiskey’s the only thing for it,” he said.
“Indeed,” Lucien replied. “So I’ve discovered. Drink up, man,” he said to Benedick. “It’ll be over soon enough.”
The storm was howling outside. Inside, Benedick was wild-eyed and desperate, but there was no way his father or Lucien would let him leave the room, and he knew he could simply ride Bucephalus over a cliff come morning. No, he wouldn’t do that to such a fine beast. He’d hobble him and then jump himself. It didn’t matter how. If he had a sword, he’d fall on it, in fine Roman fashion. But for now all he could do was get as drunk as he possibly could.
“How bad is he?” Charlotte, Marchioness of Haverstoke stuck her head in the door. She was a fine-looking woman even at her age, her red hair streaked with gray, her eyes full of compassion as they surveyed her eldest son.
“I expect he’s a sight worse than your daughter-in-law,” Adrian replied, smiling at her.
Charlotte nodded. “He looks it. Won’t be long now.”
Momentary concern crossed Adrian’s face. “The girl…she’s all right, isn’t she?”
“Strong as a horse,” Charlotte assured him. “Just keep on with the whiskey.”
It was near dawn when the door opened once more. Benedick, stubborn bastard that he was, had simply refused to pass out, but he was sitting there mumbling, planning all the ways he would end his life now that he was certain his wife was gone. “He’s pathetic,” Miranda observed as she walked over to the fire.
“Don’t be so harsh on him, darling one,” Lucien said. “He’s had a hard history.”
“Not anymore,” she said briskly. “She popped him out easier than I do.” She touched the light swell of her eighth and, she hoped, final pregnancy.
“Him? It’s a boy then?” Adrian lifted his head. He’d imbibed his own fair share of the whiskey, as had Lucien, and none of them were in any great shape.
“You have a grandson. Charles Edward, after your brother who died young.”
For a moment Adrian blinked, and it had to be the whiskey that brought the tears to his eyes. “Whose idea was that?” he said gruffly.
“Oh, Melisande’s. Benedick wasn’t going to come up with a name—he was that certain he’d be burying her and the little one.”
“And they’re healthy?”
“Listen for yourself,” Miranda said, holding the door open, and a loud, lusty wail came down the hall.
Benedick lifted his head, suddenly, astonishingly sober despite all the Scots whiskey he’d ingested. Miranda smiled at him. “Come along, my brave one. Your wife and son want to see you.”