Page 17 of To Defend a Damaged Duke (Regency Rossingley #2)

A WEEK DRAGGED by, and no blackmail request was forthcoming.

An endless seven days passed, during which Benedict physically resembled the fourteenth Duke of Ashington and even managed to act in a manner befitting the fourteenth Duke of Ashington.

In that regard, he was fortunate: his reputation for being a reserved, dreary sort of fellow set the expectations of others comfortingly low.

As long as he laboured over his daily ducal affairs, sequestered in his second study, and showed an interest in his thoroughbreds, then he could probably declare a yearning desire to train as a hosier, open a shop on New Bond Street, and no one would pay heed.

When, following his recent day out at Tattersall’s, Francis expressed an interest in cheering on Ganymede racing in the Ashington colours at Epsom, Benedict agreed to tag along. Anything to divert from the draining, frozen panic constricting his lungs.

The expedition turned out to be well worth the effort.

Proving that some good could be unearthed during even the worst of times, Ganymede cantered home in first place, Ashington black silks billowing out at least four lengths ahead of the rest. And Francis’s genial smile always made Benedict’s world a little less cold.

He comforted himself with those twin small mercies as his victorious horse was washed and rubbed down before being brought to where Benedict loitered inside the winner’s enclosure, awaiting the dreaded congratulations of all and sundry.

As if he’d ridden the thing himself, as if his victory had nothing at all to do with having inherited more blunt than anyone else to throw at his damned hobby.

He expressed as much to Francis after smiling at so many people his jaw ached.

“Oh, shush,” admonished his brother. “Plenty of rich folks about here boast stables at least as fine as yours.” He waved happily to a small group of well-wishers, nudging Benedict to do the same.

“You are too modest regarding your accomplishments.” He gave his brother a sidelong glance.

“Too modest about most things, come to that.”

“I have much to be modest about,” Benedict muttered, and he busied himself with an invisible knot in Ganymede’s sleek mane.

If he involved himself in activity, then perhaps Ganymede’s army of devotees might keep their distance.

It wasn’t that Benedict didn’t like people; it was more a question of people not especially warming to him and him never knowing what to say to fill an awkward silence.

Francis did not share his problem, waving again, like a bloody daisy in the breeze, at another group.

One of his chums beckoned him across. His brother really was awfully popular, blessed with Benedict’s portion of merry disposition as well as his own.

As they petted Ganymede, side by side, Benedict felt increasingly akin to a raincloud shadowing the sun.

He jerked his head in the direction of Francis’s friends.

“Go and join them,” he said. “Have some fun. The next race starts in twenty minutes. Place a wager on that promising three-year-old roan for me. The clay soil is perfect for him.”

Francis trotted off, his and his friends’ raucous laughter becoming fainter the farther they wandered from the winner’s enclosure.

Blessedly alone, Benedict whispered soothing gibberish in his horse’s ear.

He pondered how long he could get away with seeming to be occupied before someone was brave enough to engage him in conversation.

Tranquil as autumn leaves, Ganymede nosed at a pile of hay.

Only half an hour earlier, he’d eaten up the two-mile steeplechase faster than a blizzard descending.

Hard to believe looking at him now. No longer blowing and his legs wrapped in cooling poultices, the horse was oblivious to his admirers gathered in the parade ring.

Briefly, Benedict rested his cheek against the creature’s damp shoulder, promised him he was his special pomegranate (amongst other similar nonsense), then listened to his heartbeat, now slowed to a placid lub dub .

“My accounts ledger tends to grumble when the favourite gallops to victory,” said a voice.

An ordinary voice, though its timbre had burned a hole in Benedict’s mind and melted his soul for nigh on a decade.

“Your Grace’s recent run of losses has had my blacklegs cheering and me wondering if my man Sidney miscalculated the odds.

But now, alas, normal service has resumed. ”

Oh lord . Lost in his own misery, Benedict hadn’t heard Tommy approach, and now he was here and standing awfully close. Had he overheard Benedict reassure Ganymede that he was his sweetest iced apricot? His most treasured turtle dove? Benedict would die on the spot if he had.

“I’d begun to wonder if I’d lost my knack of selecting winners,” Benedict blustered, trying to sound halfway jovial.

An inevitable hot flush crept around his collar, picking up speed as the recollection of his last encounter with Tommy reduced him to a limp crust. At the same time, he became aware of another heat, settling in a much lower portion of his body.

He’d never seen Tommy out in the open, in broad daylight before.

And without putting too fine a point on it, Benedict very much liked what he saw.

Tommy’s lean, compact frame wore lighter colours well.

The grey of his waistcoat, more of an unburnished silver, brought out his eyes.

Sunshine, only averagely bright today, daubed the smooth skin of his face a rich clotted cream, leading Benedict to imagine how it might pinken under hot June skies.

And how even paler bits of him might glow.

Hidden by his coat, an unmentionable portion of Benedict’s midriff gave a hopeful twitch.

Oh God , he really was very bad at being normal.

“I assure you, you haven’t,” answered Tommy.

A little mysteriously, if Benedict was being honest. And if he were even more honest, he’d totally lost the thread of the conversation because, as Tommy adjusted his hat, a lick of fair hair obtusely sticking up as all the others lay sleek and flat, caught his eye and held it.

Darting his gaze over Tommy’s shoulder, Benedict checked they were still alone and lowered his voice.

“Look, I…I really should apologise once more for intruding upon you in your rooms the other evening. I made a total and utter cake of myself. I spoke out of turn on a number of matters. I harped on about the past and my heart and…and some absolute ridiculous nonsense, and that’s the truth of it.

Rubbish that no man except his valet ever deserves to hear.

And…and hurling those appalling accusations at you was absurd and unforgiveable.

To even contemplate for a second that you would be behind—”

“I know who sent you the list, your Grace.”

“You do?”

“I do.” Tommy’s watchful expression was grave.

“How…how did you find out? And more pertinently, why?”

“Because someone attempted to blackmail me in regard to the same matter.”

Oh lord, this was worsening by the second. “They…what? Who?”

Tommy issued a long, drawn-out sigh. “Dickie Duggan, the son of the landlady who ran the White Hart. I received a list, too, a week after you. Except with the additional request for a sum of five hundred pounds in exchange for silence.”

“But—” Benedict frowned, nonplussed. “His own name is on the list, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Tommy agreed. “Though he’s pickled himself in such vast quantities of gin, watered down with laudanum, he probably didn’t even notice. He was never the sharpest of creatures. But he was present the night of the raid, and he knows who else was there too.”

“Oh.” In a small way, Benedict was relieved. An opium-soaked degenerate was a manageable, if not unpredictable, foe.

“He became greedy,” Tommy continued. “Not content with receiving a substantial sum from your putative blackmailer in exchange for your name, he erroneously believed he could make a few extra sous by blackmailing me too.” He cleared his throat.

“Following a…concise exchange of opinions, it’s a moment of avarice he now deeply regrets. ”

Benedict scratched his head, feeling rather like an unsharp creature himself. “You said my blackmailer? Are you saying someone else is involved?”

“Yes, I’m afraid our blackmailers are not one and the same.”

Still frowning, Benedict pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m befogged. There are now two of them out there?”

“No,” corrected Tommy, grimacing. “Not any longer. My own particular problem has been swiftly dispensed with.”

“You have paid up?” Benedict’s belly churned with alarm. He considered himself to have led a sheltered existence thus far, but even he knew blackmailers inevitably returned for second helpings.

Tommy shook his head. “Not at all, though a small amount of coin did exchange hands for information regarding the individual behind all this damned chicanery. Simply put, the involvement of my former employer and her son was not too difficult to guess. Who else could it have been? So Rossingley and I paid them a visit.”

“ Rossingley ?” Benedict felt more at sixes and sevens by the minute. “What…what the devil’s he got to do with it?”

“Peripherally?” said Tommy. “Everything.” He paused before adding in a rather irritating, enigmatic fashion, “And yet nothing.”

He threw Benedict the merest glimpse of a smile, and despite his topsy-turvy head, Benedict’s heart lurched. “Though I advise you keep the earl away from your pointy silverware, Your Grace. For an idle pleasure-seeker, he possesses a frightening talent with a switchblade.”

Registering Benedict’s horrified expression, Tommy qualified. “The earl didn’t slice the swine’s mother’s neck, per se, but simply worried it a little. Sufficient for Ma Duggan and her son not to be bothersome in the future.”