Chapter 20
Apatchy fog had settled over London when a coach nearly barreled into Ben the next morning.
He’d just begun crossing Buckingham Street on foot—having left his tired horse at mews about a half-mile away—and was minutes from his family’s terrace house when the hulking vehicle appeared from the mist. He jumped onto the pavement to avoid a collision, and the four cantering horses were rapidly pulled to a halt, their whinnies mixing with the clamorous screech of wheels.
While his sleepless night on the road may have dulled his wits, the effect wasn’t so great that recognition failed to sink in. He knew that coach. He’d watched it pull up onto the street before his bedroom window countless times, always with a strange mixture of awe and dread.
Yet when the door, proudly emblazoned with the flames and phoenix comprising the Rockliffe crest, flew open, it wasn’t his uncle who appeared.
Rather, it was his mother, her lithe frame leaping to the ground, her dark eyes like saucers.
“Ben?” She cocked her head, staring as if he might be an apparition crafted by the fog. An idea he half-wondered about himself, for it seemed so incongruous that his mother would suddenly be standing before him, sprung from the marquess’s carriage.
However, after another beat of stillness, she launched herself at him, her arms circling him in a tight embrace. “Ben. You cannot even imagine how relieved I am to see you.”
He let his hands go stiffly to the back of her traveling cloak, taking in the fact that yes, she was very much real. A tiny bit of familiarity and safety when nothing else in the world was right.
But all too soon, the comforting embrace was gone, and she stood back to stare at him once more, brows knitting.
“Now, give me a moment while I fight the urge to strangle you. How could you show up in London without saying a word about it? Imagine if I hadn’t happened upon you in the street at just the right time.
There would have been so many wasted miles between us, and our paths might not have crossed for days. ”
His weary brain fought to keep up. “What do you mean?” He jutted his chin toward the opulent carriage—the conveyance his mother made a habit, like most things Rockliffe, of avoiding. “And what are you doing?”
“What am I doing?” Her mouth dropped incredulously, and her eyes flashed, making her appear especially keen to follow through on her threat of strangulation.
“I accepted a loan of your uncle’s carriage so I could go to Aldercombe Grange to see what in blazes is happening with you!
Have you forgotten that you wrote a letter saying you were getting married? ”
No, he hadn’t forgotten. Not even remotely. However, the two distinct parts of his life—his family and childhood home, and the new home he’d established in Wiltshire—had yet to combine, and he could presently focus only on the former.
“I’ve been beside myself, Benedict Prescott,” she continued at his silence, his full name a telltale sign of her exasperation.
“First, you sent that infuriatingly vague letter about your betrothal at the same time I couldn’t leave Timothy’s bedside.
Then, your missives all but stopped, and just when I thought I could get on the mail coach to come to you, the ague passed to Oliver.
Do you have any idea how worrisome it was when I was confined to London and my letters went unanswered?
Can you possibly imagine the torment a mother feels when she wishes she could divide herself in half but cannot? ”
A thick lump formed in his throat. He’d been sorrily remiss with his correspondence, and in all his preoccupation with Aldercombe, he hadn’t known that his youngest half-brother, Oliver, had also fallen ill. He swallowed, a bitter taste filling his mouth. “Are the boys both all right?”
His mother placed a hand on his shoulder with more gentleness than he deserved.
“We had a few difficult days, but they’re fine, Ben.
We’re all fine.” She blew out a beleaguered sigh, her soft touch becoming a finger that jabbed him between the ribs.
“Which is why we’re now going to talk about you and this precipitous betrothal.
Is it true? Did you really get married by license? ”
“It’s true,” he managed, a quick blast of relief trickling through his insides at the news his young brothers had recovered. His mother and stepfather were well, too. With that established, however, his mind raced back to the task at hand—the entire reason he’d ridden all night. “Where’s Alex?”
“Oh, no, no, no.” The accusing finger pressed deeper, his mother’s mouth twisting into a frown. “You cannot drop such a revelation on me and provide no other details.”
He gritted his teeth, trying to rouse patience he didn’t have.
“It’s just as I wrote to you: I encountered Miss Violet Collingwood upon my arrival at Aldercombe, our meeting was witnessed and misinterpreted, and I proposed marriage to salvage her damaged reputation.
She accepted, I procured a bishop’s license, and she proceeded to become my wife.
” That didn’t begin to cover everything that had developed between him and Violet over the past weeks, but he couldn’t contemplate, let alone articulate, any of that at present.
Only one thing held his focus: “Now, where’s Alex? ”
His mother’s jaw slackened, her dark brows shooting high on her forehead. “That’s it? That’s all you plan to tell me?”
She’d never been the swooning type; however, the way she stared disbelievingly made it look like she was about to do something. Yell at him, perhaps? Order him to go sit in a corner?
Instead, her mouth snapped shut, and she looked at the pavement, muttering more to herself than to him.
“Don’t worry about Ben, Jeremy insisted.
He’s always had a level head. And when I spoke with Rockliffe about it, he said the same.
Benedict is more rational than any of us.
I trust him not to go astray. Ha! What do they know? ”
He shot his arm out to resummon her attention, unable to keep the frustration from his tone. “I cannot speak about it right now. Where’s Alex?”
Her gaze darted back up, and he recognized what he saw there: an unmistakable flash of understanding. She knew why Ben had come. Knew what Alex had done.
“He just returned from the printshop,” she said quietly. Soberly. “He’s inside.”
Oh, thank God. Ben’s instincts had steered him right. There’d be no more frantic excursions on horseback because Alex was here. He was in London, just steps away, and Ben was going to ignore his stab of unease at the mention of Alex and the printshop and fix this asinine mess his brother had made.
His foot lifted and then stilled, for there was one more thing he needed to establish. “And where are Jeremy and the boys?”
His mother crossed her arms, her lips squeezing together in hesitation before she said, “They’ve gone to the park.”
“Good.” Another stroke of luck, although he gleaned no joy from it, only a heightened sense of urgency. He spun away, his sights set on the terrace house near the end of the street. “I need to speak with Alex privately for a moment.”
“Ben …” Her voice was a warning, trailing after him as he marched down the street.
However, it hit his awareness without even causing a waver in his step. Nothing short of an explosion could do that now, so determined was he to get into the house and lay eyes on his brother.
“I’m staying away only as long as it takes to give the coachman a message for Lord Rockliffe,” she cautioned, her unease plain even though he could no longer see her face. “I imagine he’ll be curious to know why I’m not taking his carriage to Wiltshire after all.”
“I just need a moment,” he repeated, calling the words without looking back. With any luck, a moment would be enough time to talk sense into Alex and determine how to undo this pamphlet debacle.
He was practically running now, boots pounding against the pavement until he arrived in front of the familiar blue door. Finding it unlocked, he burst inside, taking the stairs two at a time and racing to the entrance of the sitting room.
Where he abruptly paused.
Alex, the blunderbuss, had ignored all furniture and was sitting in the middle of the floor, scribbled pages surrounding him.
With a quill in hand, he stared at one of the sheets, tongue pressed into his cheek as he concentrated.
It was a scene so uncannily reminiscent of their childhood that Ben’s chest tightened with a sharp ache.
He cleared his throat, walking into the room with exaggerated footsteps—for his brother, when lost in thought, could fail to notice an apocalypse.
The boot stomps did the trick, though, and Alex snapped his head up, his quill tumbling to the floor and leaving a black splotch across the page. “Ben?”
Alex—the spitting image of their father with his wild russet curls and cobalt eyes—looked well.
His color was high, his features animated.
He’d even taken the time to put on a crisp green coat and properly knot his cravat, and the glass by his side appeared to contain lemonade instead of a stronger beverage.
Ben wasn’t sure what he’d imagined he’d find.
Something more sinister, he supposed. Consequently, the sight of his brother prospering should inundate him with relief.
Yet it wasn’t enough to make fear release its angry talons from his heart.
Wasn’t enough to prompt him to do anything but snarl, “What the fuck were you thinking?”
Alex’s cheeks paled, and he hurriedly swept his papers out of the way so he could push to his feet.
“You ruined everything with your bloody recklessness,” Ben snapped, ire swelling like a high tide, sending an incensed wave crashing upon his brother.
“Did you not stop for a second to think of the consequences your damn publishing venture would have if you chose to continue it? I gave you another chance at Cambridge, and you pissed it away.”
Alex braved the tempest without flinching, although his face was shadowed. His mouth tight. “I’m sorry, I—”
“Don’t apologize.” Ben clenched his hands into fists, reminding himself to breathe. This was bad. This was horribly, exceptionally bad. However, he’d get nowhere if he lost his head to anger. He needed to think. Needed to be unflappable.
“Let’s not waste time on I’m sorry,” he continued, working a touch more levelness into his tone. “I care about nothing but how we can make the university undo your expulsion. Perhaps we could find someone who would accept coin to claim responsibility, or—”
“I wasn’t expelled.” Alex kept his voice low, but it shot through Ben like a bullet. “I left of my own accord before it could come to that.”
The room began spinning as the blood rushed from Ben’s head. He couldn’t have heard his brother correctly; there was no bloody way …
Except Alex continued standing before him, his words a mocking ring in Ben’s ears. I left of my own accord.
Not only did the room pitch as if it were a ship in a storm, but Alex’s figure blurred into an indistinct mass of russet and green. So convoluted that it was impossible for Ben to tell whether he stared at Alex or their father. Overturned bottle. Limp hand.
“Are you an imbecile?” Ben shouted, because restraint and logic had deserted him, leaving only fiery, turbulent emotion in their wake. “Do you have a death wish?”
Alex shook his head, maddeningly unruffled. Oblivious to peril. If anything, he looked a little sad. “I don’t know what you mean by that. You might not approve, but they’re only stories. There’s nothing unlawful about them.”
Nothing unlawful, but there was everything to lose. A future in which Alex’s stories consumed him until there was nothing left of him. Nothing at all.
Overturned bottle.
Limp hand.
“You were supposed to be at Cambridge!” Ben’s reply was a roar, and with it, something ripped inside his chest, letting an animalistic sound break free. A growl? A sob? He forced air into his too-tight lungs; spat words in his brother’s face. “You were supposed to be safe.”
“Ben.” Alex’s features gentled, and he extended a hand, nearing Ben’s sleeve.
Ben recoiled instantly, shirking the impending contact. “Don’t you fucking touch me.” He held every muscle taut enough to snap, pouring the force of his fury—his terror—into a lethal glower.
He wished he could hate his brother. Wished he didn’t care what happened to him one way or another.
How much easier it would be if he could return to Aldercombe and not give a good goddamn.
Yet caring embedded itself at the root of him.
Caring was the reason he couldn’t lose again, for he’d never be able to withstand that pain a second time. Not if it pertained to Alex.
His brother held his hands up in surrender, his mouth opening to utter what would no doubt be placations. Platitudes.
“Don’t you say another fucking word,” Ben hissed, cutting him off before that could happen. Why couldn’t Alex see? Why was he too much of a clodpole to recognize that if he didn’t take care, history would repeat itself? Like father, like son.
Ben’s legs turned to putty, making him stagger backward. He smelled his mother’s perfume. Detected her voice from somewhere behind him, although her words were muffled by the pounding in his ears.
Alex spoke, then, just as something crunched beneath Ben’s boot and trickled against the floorboards.
The glass of lemonade, he registered vaguely, but he couldn’t get it to mean anything.
Couldn’t think of anything but the voices in his head screaming danger and the pain tearing across his ribcage.
He’d become vulnerable and raw—prey being hunted by a fate he was powerless to quell. And so, he did the only thing any creature with a shred of self-preservation would do: he fled.
He bolted down the stairs and out the door, scarcely hearing the shouts that followed him. He ran until they faded to nothing at all, replaced by the indistinct hum of a bustling city and its nameless passersby.
He traversed both familiar streets and those he’d never walked before, plodding along until the mist turned to rain and then cleared to sun.
He strode haphazardly until his feet were as weary as his heart.
And then, he entered an alehouse, where he proceeded to get raging drunk.