Miranda ignored the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. It was becoming second nature to her. “There are worse things in this life,” she had said.

But in truth, it didn’t appear that there were. Her parents had rushed back to England, her mother full of hugs and comfort and not a word of reproach, her father coming up with outrageously intricate plans to remove parts of St. John’s anatomy and feed it to the fishes. When her monthly courses had arrived, on time, she had breathed a sigh of relief, and the rest of the family remained safely ignorant of her loss of innocence.

But in the end it hadn’t mattered. Miranda was no longer welcome among the ton. Her invitation to Almack’s had been politely withdrawn. Mothers and daughters had crossed the street rather than be obliged to speak to her, and when forced, gave her the cut direct. She was a pariah, an outcast, just as Christopher St. John had sworn she’d be.

He’d had the consummate gall to show up at her house and offer to do the honorable thing. He’d sworn that it was his passion for her that had overcome his scruples, that he would marry her and the scandal would soon die down. They loved each other, and his darling Miranda would soon get over her case of the sulks.

Marriage to him was still her only route. If she wished, they could even live in separate establishments, and he’d be certain to see that she received a generous allowance from the money that would now be in his control.

And it had been her father, Adrian Rohan, the Marquess of Haverstoke himself who’d thrown him down the stairs of their vast house on Clarges Street.

Miranda had retired to the country for a few months, until a new scandal occupied the ton’s attention. Not for one moment did she believe her sins would be forgiven—she was ruined, now and forever, and nothing would change it. But by the time she returned life had moved on, and so had Miranda.

And she had discovered, to her immense joy, that being ruined was much more fun than being on the marriage mart. She didn’t have to simper and flirt with shallow young men, she didn’t have to make certain her every move was accompanied by a footman and an abigail. She bought a house of her own, just a pied-a-terre that was nevertheless all hers, and she rode in the parks, ignoring both the cuts and the importunate young men. She went to the theater and the library and Gunters, and while she enjoyed the companionship of her cousin Louisa, the older lady was mostly deaf, sadly stout and the most indolent creature on the face of the earth.

For the first time in her life Miranda was free, and she reveled in that freedom. She had her staunchly loyal family and she had her dearest friend Jane and the rest of the Pagetts. In truth, she’d lost little and gained everything. Apart from the trouble the whole contretemps had brought upon her family, she didn’t regret it. By the following spring she’d happily settled into her new life, and she wouldn’t have changed it for the world.

Christopher St. John didn’t fare nearly as well.

The house on Cadogan Place had always given him an unpleasant feeling in the pit of his stomach. It wasn’t that the place was huge and dark and gloomy, sitting on the edge of the better areas of town, a bit too near the purview of the criminal class that haunted the darkened alleys and side streets. It was the man who owned that house, the man awaiting him and his excuses for failing to do what he’d been paid to do. It was The Scorpion, known more formally as Lucien de Malheur, Earl of Rochdale, who would sit there and look at him with those colorless eyes, his thin lips curling in disdain, one elegant hand gripping the top of his cane as if he’d like to beat a man to death with it.

Christopher St. John shuddered, then shook off his nervousness. A light, icy rain had begun to fall. February in the city was always dismal. Had it been up to him he would have stayed out in the countryside with Lady Miranda Rohan warming his bed. If the bitch hadn’t clocked him one and taken off.

And she and her family were proving most unreasonable, he thought, absently rubbing his bruised shoulder. He had a cracked rib, a broken wrist, several torn muscles and scrapes and bruises over most of his body. No, the Rohans didn’t seem likely to become sensible any time soon.

He raised his hand to knock on the massive black door, but it swung open before he reached the knocker, and Leopold, Rochdale’s sepulchral majordomo, stood there, staring down at him with strong disapproval.

Leopold was part and parcel of Rochdale’s general peculiarity. The servant was immensely tall—possibly six feet seven—and skinny in his black clothes. Someone once likened him to a giraffe in mourning, and St. John agreed. A very unpleasant giraffe. He had some sort of accent that no one could decipher. Rochdale had picked the odd man up during the travels that had occupied him for most of his adult life, and Leopold only added to the mystery surrounding his employer.

“He’s waiting for you,” Leopold said in an unpromising voice, receiving St. John’s wet coat and hat and handing them to the waiting footman, also dressed in funereal black.

St. John grimaced as he straightened his coat of superfine, not made by Weston but a reasonable facsimile if one didn’t look too closely. Appearance was paramount in his position. He found that if one looked and acted as if one belonged, then usually one was welcomed.

He followed Leopold down the long dark hallways, ending up in the depressing library where he usually met with the earl. It was deserted, of course. Rochdale always liked to make an entrance.

A small fire burned in one grate, doing little to warm the cavernous room. Why in the world anyone would want so many books was beyond him. And all these books had to have been acquired by the current earl. The previous one had lost almost everything in a shortlived, profligate life.

He heard the familiar approach, that ominous step that wasn’t quite even, the bite of Rochdale’s walking stick hitting the ground heavier than mere stylistic use, and an unconscious dread filled him. The door opened, and light flooded the room.

“They’ve quite left you in the dark, dear Christopher,” Rochdale purred, moving forward with his barely halting gait. “How remiss of my servants. Or perhaps how prescient. I gather you haven’t come to celebrate our success in your little venture?”

Christopher swallowed. “I did everything I could. Those damned Rohans. Any other family would have been begging me to marry the girl. Any other girl would have been besotted and grateful.”

Rochdale said nothing, moving to a chair by the fire and sinking down gracefully, his ruined face in shadows. “Ah, but I warned you those Rohans are not like other people. Am I to presume those bruises and cuts on your face are the result of the brothers’ attentions?”

“And her father’s. My entire body’s nothing but bruises and cracked bones.”

“Refrain from showing me. I certainly don’t doubt the Rohans would take their revenge. You’re lucky they didn’t spit you like a goose.”

“By the time they found out I’d bedded her it was too late. We were already in London and I refused the younger brother’s challenge. I could have bested him easily—he’s nothing but a boy—but I decided he wasn’t worth having to flee the country for. You know how they’ve gotten about dueling recently.”

“I know,” the earl said gently. “I’m surprised the two older didn’t challenge you. The oldest in particular—I believe his name might be Benedick? If you’d managed to kill him it might have mitigated this disaster.”

“They were both in Scotland, taking the girl with them,” Christopher said in a sulky voice. At least this particular interview was going far better than he’d anticipated. It was a balm, after the total failure of his plans for Miranda Rohan.

“Ah, I see. So let me understand this. You were to seduce the Rohans’ sister, marry her, and kill the older brother when he challenged you to a duel. Yet you have failed me on every level. Am I correct?”

“I did seduce the girl.” Christopher’s voice was defensive. “She just refused to marry me.”

“Then you clearly must have botched the job. Did you rape her?”

“I didn’t have to. Once she knew it was inevitable she stopped fighting.”

Rochdale shook his head. “I chose you for your handsome face, your reputation as a lover, and your deadliness with a sword. I’m sorely disappointed in you, St. John. You may leave me.”

Initial relief flooded through him, followed by dismay. He’d been half afraid Rochdale would have … He wasn’t sure what he’d been afraid of. It had been silly. “But what about the money?” he said, trying not to let the panic show in his voice. “You promised me five hundred pounds to abduct her, and then I’d have her marriage settlement. Since I don’t have that I’d think a thousand pounds would be a more reasonable recompense.”

Rochdale laughed softly, a sound that sent a chill down St. John’s backbone. “You forget who you’re dealing with. Your reward for a thoroughly botched job is the knowledge that I won’t arrange for you to be gutted in some alleyway when you least expect it. And you know I can. I have a goodly portion of London’s criminal class at my beck and call.”

A cold sweat broke out on Christopher’s forehead. “At least the five hundred pounds.” His voice a whine now. “I’m out of pocket for the cottage, the carriage, any number of things …”

“Then you shouldn’t have failed.” His voice was like silk. “Leopold, see him out.”

The servant had appeared silently behind them, and St. John jumped, startled. One look at the man’s impassive face and he knew he was bested. He opened his mouth to hurl a threat, a recrimination, but Rochdale’s voice stopped him.

“I wouldn’t if I were you. Killing you here would be so inconvenient.”

Christopher closed his mouth with a snap. And followed Leopold though the dark house, out into the cold, cruel streets of London in the rain.

If you want a job done well you’d best do it yourself. Wasn’t that what the old saying was? Not that the Earl of Rochdale listened to old sayings, but in this case it was true. He’d chosen the best weapon he could, and the idiot had failed him.