Page 22 of To Defend a Damaged Duke (Regency Rossingley #2)

BENEDICT’S HEAD REELED the following morning.

He’d hardly slept, the night broken into unrefreshing chunks of oblivion, interrupted by swirling, bolt-upright snatches of wakefulness.

The disorienting sort of waking, whereupon one couldn’t be sure what century one had woken in, never mind what time of night.

And then, after a few seconds, the horrors all came flooding back: Lyndon’s slurred, artful insinuations, Tommy brutally cutting them off, Sidney’s heavy boots and bold callused knuckles.

A bloodied eyebrow and harsh stone steps.

Francis’s fascinated dismay and how Benedict wished his brother had witnessed none of it.

Tommy again, his blanched features bristling with white-hot anger.

His voice and its preternatural calm in the face of such abrupt violence.

Tommy’s wildflower eyes and how they softened when they looked upon Benedict.

His sweet mouth. Oh God, Tommy’s lush, sweet mouth.

If only that had been the cause of his wakefulness.

“What the dickens went on last night, Benedict?” demanded Francis, disturbing the much-needed peace of the breakfast room.

“Mr L’Esquire seems a jolly nice chap and all that.

And he runs a very fine establishment. But he can’t have his…

his henchman throwing punches at Lyndon simply because he’s excessively trifled.

” He gave a humourless laugh. “He’d be black and blue by the end of the week if we allowed that.

One minute, Lyndon’s harmlessly bragging about his trips down Petticoat Lane, the next, he’s flat out on the floor! ”

Sipping his coffee, Benedict pretended to absorb his brother’s righteous indignation.

In truth, it washed through him. Because in the cold light of day, he recognised his nocturnal tossing and turning for what it was: Dread, coiled in his belly like a living thing, chewing his insides apart, engulfing him from the inside out.

Cloaking him in a fog of fear that threatened to unman him every time he opened his mouth to speak.

Have any young colts caught your eye recently?

Lyndon knew. Somehow, his twin knew what he was; the bastard had always known.

Even as a child, his brother had been a sly bugger, creeping around, listening at doors, earwigging conversations.

Perhaps he’d followed Benedict one time he’d slipped off to Vere Street, or watched him fluster around men like Rossingley, or noted the paucity of his unenthusiastic dalliances with the fairer sex and put two and two together.

“I mean,” continued Francis, waving a hunk of sausage around on the end of his fork.

“There have been plenty of occasions when I’d have liked to plant Lyndon a few facers myself, but one can’t go around…

Goodness me! What on earth is the matter, Benedict?

Your hand is shaking. Your cup hasn’t stopped rattling against the saucer since I sat down, and now you’re spilling coffee across the cloth. Are you quite all right?”

Hurriedly, Benedict put his cup down and grasped his napkin instead, tightening his fist around it until his knuckles shone.

“No, I’m not. Not really. It’s a pity Mr L’Esquire’s man didn’t give Lyndon much more than a fat shiner.

” Hot bile rose in his throat. “I’d say our brother should have had his neck wrung, but it would be too good for him. ”

“Steady on, old chap,” answered Francis. “He was a tad bosky, that’s all. We’ve all overcooked things once or twice, even you.”

Benedict couldn’t recall when, but he let it pass and jabbed with the napkin at the spilled coffee. Francis helped himself to another sausage. The rich, savoury scent wafted across the table, making Benedict nauseous.

Taking advantage of the lull in conversation, the first footman approached the duke to offer up a silver salver.

Yet another bloody missive, a piece of foolscap folded over once, with His Grace , Duke of Ashington , handwritten in blood-red ink.

Sweat broke out on the back of Benedict’s neck as, gingerly, he accepted it.

“A love note from a secret admirer?” teased Francis.

If only . Barely breathing and trying to stay his fingers from trembling, Benedict shook it out. Then swallowed drily as last night’s kisses came flooding back.

“Um…hardly.” He moistened his lips. “It’s from…ah…Mr L’Esquire. He’s requesting an appointment with me at eleven. Says it’s urgent.”

“Good,” answered Francis briskly. “His ears must have been burning. He needs to know he can’t set his attack dog on folks willy-nilly, Benedict.

And most certainly not on an Ashington! You might want to give that upstart a gentle reminder that Lyndon, for all his—let’s just call them peculiarities —is the twin brother of a damned duke and, as such, should be granted a little respect.

” He stabbed at the sausage as if it needed killing first. “I’d be very happy to speak to him myself. ”

“I…ah…I’d very much rather you didn’t.”

Most days, Benedict admired and approved his brother’s unwavering sense of justice and his pride in upholding the good Ashington name. But not today.

“Yes, yes. But listen, Benedict. I know you prefer to shy away from pointing out to folks what’s what, and for a man in your esteemed position, that’s highly commendable.

But sometimes, one needs to assert one’s authority before a situation gets out of hand.

And you can rest assured, I’m perfectly capable of doing it in your stead if that’s what’s troubling—”

“Tom—Mr L’Esquire removed Lyndon from the gaming room in order to protect our good Ashington name. Not to dishonour it.” Benedict’s belly lurched as if someone had stabbed a knife through his entrails. “To protect me.”

Francis responded with a half laugh. “Hate to disagree, old chap, but I rather think he didn’t.

Or were you also dipping rather too deep last night and missed the part where his man took a swipe at Lyndon and almost knocked his block off?

And what do you mean by protecting you ?

What on God’s green earth do you need protecting from? ”

Under the table, Benedict’s knee joined his hands in their shaky dance.

He swallowed the cooling remains of his coffee, feeling sick as a dog and aware of Francis’s perplexed expression, bordering on alarm.

Pulling air into his lungs, Benedict mopped his brow.

What was it Rossingley had said? They imagine your shame isolates you. A standard bullying tactic .

“Johnson?” He addressed the footman standing at the door. “Would you be kind enough to leave us a moment, please.”

Benedict could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times an Ashington had cleared a room of staff.

Once, when his mother and father had a blazing row over a damned ugly painting of a spaniel (why that almost spiralled into the Second War of Jenkins’ Ear, Benedict was still none the wiser eight years later).

And, secondly, when Lyndon, in a fit of pique, lobbed a steak knife across the room, sending it whistling past their father’s head by less than six inches to spear the wall behind him.

To this day, the flock wallpaper and Lyndon’s arse still bore deep scars.

Benedict stared down into his empty cup, searching for inspiration amongst the dregs until the door closed firmly behind Johnson. None was forthcoming.

“I’m afraid to inform you, Francis, that our brother has recently learned some truths about me. He’s prepared to use them for personal gain and, in so doing, may downright ruin my reputation. And, by proxy, your chances of persuading Lord Ludham to allow you to marry his daughter.”

He dared a glance up at Francis, whose boyish features bore a baffled expression that under any other circumstance would be amusing.

Benedict plunged on. “I can only assume this is an act of retaliation by Lyndon against our deceased father and his final wishes, which I follow out of a sense of duty and, broadly speaking, can see very little alternative to.”

Again, he wiped his damp forehead, feeling utterly spent and dreading Francis’s inevitable questions. Perhaps he wouldn’t pose any. Stranger things had happened. Tommy kissing Benedict back, for instance.

Yet Francis did respond, of course, though his tone was much softer than the one he’d used to berate Tommy.

“Whatever Lyndon thinks he knows, he must be very much mistaken, Benedict. On every occasion, you behave impeccably. You put the rest of us to shame and have done so for the entirety of my existence. Whatever ton prattling Lyndon believes he has dug up, I would not believe a single word of it. Nor, I’d wager, would anyone else. ”

Benedict could weep. “I’m afraid, my dear Francis, you have me raised on a pedestal supported by feet of clay.”

“Poppycock.” Francis laid down his cutlery and leaned back in his chair. He folded his arms. “What is this thing, then? Tell me, that I may judge for myself.”

They imagine your shame isolates you. A standard bullying tactic.

“If Lyndon had been allowed to complete his sentence yesterday evening, then…then he would have intimated, none too subtly, that…that I do not, and have never, frequented Petticoat Lane.”

Even in the depths of his misery, Benedict squirmed at the stupid, coy euphemism. “He has discovered that I…I have, on occasion, preferred to seek…um…carnal refreshments elsewhere.”

“You…you…” Francis’s brow creased, and he screwed up his nose as if trying hard to make sense of things and failing.

Benedict could have added that nowadays he sought his pleasure not at all, not since that fateful night, but he really preferred not to allude to his prevarications more times than absolutely necessary.

Once was enough, and the damage was done.

As comprehension slotted into place on his dear brother’s face, Francis’s confidence a few seconds earlier vanished like a candle snuffed out.