Page 21

Fine. This time. But I won’t be bullied.Watch yourself.

Benedict reread the letter as if it would make what he was seeing make more sense. What did his mother have to threaten Theodore Dowling with? Yes, the man was involved in all sorts of nefarious acts, but his mother hadn’t known about them…

…had she?

Torn between needing to know more and desperately not wanting any confirmation of his worst fears, Benedict paused, fingers hovering over the paper. There were more letters here. Should he read those, too?

In the end, the decision was taken out of his hands. He heard, from closer to the front of the house, his mother’s cheerful trill as she addressed one of the members of the staff.

Frustrated at being interrupted, he left the paper where it lay and bolted from the room. He wasn’t ready to confront his mother about what he’d read.

Not yet. He needed to figure out what he thought about the letters before he let her get into his head with her explanations and obfuscations.

Even so, he cursed his shortsightedness in not taking the letters with him. Was his mother going to accuse him of theft? In his own bloody house? Although, knowing her entitlement, she would probably try…

He slipped up the servant’s staircase to avoid her, making for his own bedchamber where he would not be disturbed. If he’d had a bad feeling about the mysterious money, it was nothing compared to the way he felt about this newest discovery. His mother had never cared much about other people, that much had always been obvious. But he’d never thought that this would extend into outright criminal activity such as blackmail. For one, he would have thought she’d lack the initiative. Why bother withsuch a mess when there were men to seduce, pointless trinkets to buy, and sons to annoy?

But this newest discovery suggested that maybe he’d underestimated the extent of his mother’s selfishness—and the lengths to which she was willing to go in order to get the things she wanted.

He dropped into his armchair, feeling frustrated, confused, and so bloody furious. His mother was a constant thorn in his side, but this felt like more than that.

Something, he feared, was very much not right.

CHAPTER 7

There was always another bloody ball.

Christ, but Benedict hated the Season.

He would have found the whole thing intolerable (instead of, as it was,barelytolerable) if not for his purpose: Miss Amanda Rutley would be here tonight. He would dance with her again this evening, avoid offending her sister (or at leastminimallyoffend her as not offending Miss Emily Rutley was perhaps too Herculean a task for even him), and call upon her the next morning. He would repeat this pattern several more times, whereupon he would set up a meeting with Lord Drowton, gain his permission to ask for Miss Amanda’s hand, then summarily marry her.

Neat. Easy.

Benedict loved it when things were neat and easy.

He had to focus on things that were neat and easy to distract himself from the undoubtedly messy and complicated thing that was brewing inside of his home, the evidence of which he presently had secreted in his breast pocket.

“You look even more sullen than usual.” Evan’s voice at his shoulder practically made Benedict jump out of his skin. His friend frowned. “And a bit more nervous, too.”

Evan was, honestly, the last person he wanted to talk to about this whole business with his mother and Dowling…at least not until he had more information.

Themore informationin question was practically burning a hole in his pocket.

“Sorry,” he told his friend with a wry, self-deprecating grimace. “I’m just…planning.”

Evan’s sharp bark of laughter was teasing but not unkind. “You? Never.”

That made Benedict’s grimace intensify. Because the thing was, he had planned rather poorly when it came to stealing the letters. He’d been walking to his mother’s parlor this evening when the opportunity had presented itself. His mother wasn’t in the room…but the letters had been, still laid out on the table.

Almost like shewantedthem to be found.

In reality, Benedict didn’t much care what his mother did or didn’t want. Whathewanted was to make sure she wasn’t about to bring some other hideous scandal down on his head. He was goddamned sick and tired of seeing their name dragged through the papers because his mother was up to her unceasing antics.

After all, if he intended to make a respectable bride of Miss Amanda Rutley—and hedid, ideally soon, so he could stop coming to these wretched events—he needed to not be hip deep in yet another scandal.

So he’d taken the letters without feeling a prick of remorse. Though hedidfeel a great deal of irritation at himself for grabbing them too close to their departure to secret them in his study or bedchamber before departing.

If one was working to avoid a scandal, one should not bring the evidence of potential scandal into a room with half thetonpresent. Not that he knew what the letters said; he hadn’t had a chance to read them yet, which was both torment and relief because he feared what those letters would reveal.