Page 27

Chapter

Twenty-Seven

B enedict strode through the ballroom, determined to leave this cesspit of vicious and false people whom he thought were his friends. He smiled at Lord and Lady St. George, determining not to speak to them, no longer in the mood for conversation, but St. George had other ideas.

"Lord Benedict, how good to see you and you're looking well. Do say you’ll have a glass of wine with us," St. George said, fastening a glass of the beverage from a passing footman.

Benedict knew he could not avoid the interaction now and strode over to them, bowing to Lady St. George and accepting the glass.

"Good evening to you both. I was just on my way out, but I'll never decline having a drink with friends.

I hope I find you both well this evening too?

" he asked, glad his voice did not give away the turmoil that tumbled about inside him.

"We're very well, thank you, my lord." Lady St. George glanced past, her gaze turning expectant.

He didn't want to know who she searched for. He hoped it wasn't her sister, for he had little to say to Lady Angelica now. Their relations seemed to be at an end after her words this evening, and he felt like a gudgeon who'd been used for another's amusement.

"Did you come with Lord Whitmore? I thought I saw him this evening. I wished to catch up with him if I can, do mention if you see your brother that I'd like a word."

"Of course," Benedict said, taking a good-sized sip to finish his glass of wine sooner rather than later. "If I happen to run into him on my way out, I shall mention you." He took another sip, almost finishing his drink.

"Lord Benedict, how lovely to see you again.

" The false words from Lady Angelica washed over him, and a slow-burning annoyance settled deep inside his chest. Her tone told him she had played him the fool, and she did not care for him. For all his holy ways, to forgive and pray for one’s soul, he could not find it within him right at this moment to pretend to be friends.

He smiled, seemingly able to play this game as well as she, even though his heart crumbled in his chest that she would believe him to be a shallow man without honor.

Why, however, he could not make out. Why did she believe him suitable to marry the church after everything that they had said to one another, the promises and love he thought radiated between them?

What had changed to make her hate him so?

"Good evening, Lady Angelica. I was just on my way out, when Lord St. George waylaid me with this very good wine," he said, hoping she understood he would not be staying.

He held up the glass, a mouthful or less left to drink.

He downed the last of it and waved the crystal glass before them all.

"Ah would you look at that, alas, it is empty now.

" He bowed before them all. "If you'll excuse me, I'm late for an appointment and must be off. Good evening to you all."

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Lady Angelica's smile slip, but thankfully, she could not come after him, not without raising interest from the ton .

He started for the door, her gaze burning a hole in his evening jacket. Still, he moved forward. The hurt that ached in his chest was foreign and nothing like he'd ever known.

Why had she said such a thing? After what they had shared, it did not make sense. The mocking of his faith—of him as a man—was cruel, and he could not reconcile how altered she was when in different company.

She was not who he thought she was.

T he following day Benedict lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling of his room. The words of Angelica from the night before repeating their cruelty through his restless dreams and again now that he was awake.

Footsteps sounded in the adjoining rooms and he frowned, surprised to hear his sibling up at this early hour. Still the footsteps continued until his bedroom door flew open and his brother stood before him, his face bloodied, his top lip two times bigger than it ought to be.

"What the hell has happened?" he asked, throwing the bedding back and going to his brother, who stumbled toward the fireplace that had burned down to warm coals and nothing else.

Benedict threw on some small logs and was glad when the fire took hold, and the room warmed. "Tell me, who did this to you?"

His brother dabbed at his lip with his cravat and shook his head. "That does not signify, but you must know that I took part in a duel last evening, and well, we were caught and now I have several Bow Street Runners after me."

"Did you kill anyone?" Dear God, what was his brother doing taking part in a duel? "Please tell me you did not."

"I did not, but dueling is illegal. I must leave England, lay low for a while."

"Were any shots fired?"

"Yes, they were, and I'm certain I did not hit Lord Cheswick, but we were accosted by the runners right at that time so I cannot be certain. There was a tussle, and now I resemble a beast."

Benedict ignored his brother’s concern over his appearance more than his dueling. "Where will you go?" He strode to his jug and basin and brought it over to where Whitmore sat.

"France, perhaps, or Italy, somewhere far away. I refuse to be thrown into Newgate, not for the likes of Lord Cheswick, the pompous ass."

"What did he do?" Benedict asked, needing to know before his brother bolted from England.

"He roughened up Kitty when I wasn’t with her last evening.

Thought to take liberties that were not freely given.

I caught him boldly hitting her in Vauxhall last evening and could not stand for it.

Nevertheless, Lord Cheswick demanded a duel, and I agreed, wanting to shoot the lout in the leg or some such place. "

"But now you do not know if he's been shot at all as you fled."

"I do not think I hit him, for I was tackled to the ground before the shot rang out, so I do believe it went up into the air, but I cannot be certain, so now I must go, today." His brother paused. "I need clothing, but I do not wish to wake my valet, can you help me? I must leave immediately.”

"Of course, but we must hurry. I’m certain the authorities will check here before anywhere else.” Benedict strode to his brother’s room, grabbing a bag and packing as many items of clothing he could manage to fit within it. His brother was a good man—even if he was a rake.

"Benedict," Whitmore said from his doorway. "You must take over the Marquessate, at least until I return. I have written a letter for my steward to give to the family solicitor, placing you in charge of everything until I can come back to England. It’s on my desk downstairs."

"I cannot take over the Marquessate. I'm not the heir."

"You will not take on the title as such, but I'm leaving everything—the estates, the family money, everything that is entailed to me—into your capable hands. I may never be able to return, but the family name must go on. An heir by you will do that should I not ever marry and beget one."

Benedict's mind raced. This could not be happening. His brother could not go and leave him here alone. He needed him now more than ever, especially after what happened with Lady Angelica.

Still, he did not want his brother to get in trouble with the law, not when he'd been doing the honorable thing and defending an innocent woman. Lord Cheswick had asked for the duel—that his brother agreed and they were caught should not fall solely on his head.

"Of course, I shall do all that I can to keep the Whitmore name safe and prosperous."

His brother smiled and, walking up to him, pulled him into a tight embrace.

"I knew you would help me. You're truly the best person I know.

" His brother stood, going to several other drawers and pulling out clothing before throwing them into a small bag also.

"I will write when I land somewhere I intend to stay for a time.

Be safe and I hope to see you again one day. "

"And I you," Benedict said, before his brother turned and fled, disappearing as quickly as he'd appeared.

Leaving him alone to face everything by himself.