Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Later that day, Benedict found himself in the familiar, heavy leather chair of White’s Gentleman’s club, his father’s favorite haunt as well.
The air was thick with pipe smoke, men avoiding their households amid the upcoming holiday and the requisite preparations and whispered politics.
But he wasn’t there for the conversation.
Benedict was there for the distance and the drink. He ordered his third glass of brandy, his gaze fixed on the low-burning fire, trying to use the heat and the liquor to burn away the image of Isla’s betrayed face.
“Your Grace, a moment?”
He looked up to see Kenneth standing over him, his expression one of measured concern.
“Kenneth,” Benedict acknowledged coolly, swirling his glass. “I am preoccupied as you can see.”
“Clearly,” Kenneth said, taking the liberty of sitting opposite him. “The whole house is aware, from which I just came.”
“Kenneth,” Benedict barked. “Mind your place.”
“Oliver is aware that something is not right. What happened with you and the Duchess?”
“It is not of your concern-”
“You are handling this in the way you handle everything you don’t wish to acknowledge. You are burying it beneath a mountain of indifference. I see through it, friend,” Kenneth said, his eyes searching.
“What do you know about that? You’re a bachelor, with no real family. Do not speak of what you do not know,” he said as he slammed his glass down on the side table.
“I know it doesn’t suit Her Grace, old man. She is a fiery woman, with a heart and a soul. I have seen how she cares for you.”
“This is for her benefit, not mine!”
“She is not Cecilia, nor is she some easily dismissed society woman. I will not let you push her away with your harsh words, I have known you too long and care too much for you.”
Benedict’s hand tightened around his glass, his knuckles white. “You overstep yourself, Kenneth. My marriage is not a topic for the club. I came here to escape all that-”
“When your marriage threatens your stability, it becomes my topic,” Kenneth shot back, his voice low.
“You made a promise to that woman. You have always been a man of your word… I know you did not have it easy with your old man, but you are more than that. You have happiness, right in front of you. All you need to do is grab it.”
Benedict set his glass down once more with a loud thunk. “You misunderstand me and my life entirely,” he rasped. “I am not throwing her away. I am protecting her. And myself. We are returning to the original arrangement.”
“As you say,” Kenneth huffed as he crossed his arms across his chest.
“It is safe. It is for the best. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have had enough of your unsolicited counsel. I am sure there is someone else here you can bother.”
Benedict watched his friend walk away, the familiar muscle twitching in his jaw in irritation.
The silence Kenneth left behind was not an improvement to aid his mood.
Rather, it was a loud, empty space where Kenneth’s infuriating, honest concern had been.
He picked up his brandy glass and swallowed a large gulp, the amber liquid burning a trail down his throat.
Safe. For the best.
The words tasted like dirt in his mouth, even to him. Kenneth’s parting shot, “As you say”, had the weight of a condemnation.
He is right, of course, the pompous bastard.
Kenneth had known him since they were boys at Eton, through his crushing years under his father’s shadow, and through Cecilia.
Kenneth saw past his polished facade and into the man who, for the first time in years, felt a terrifying, reckless urge to discard his carefully constructed walls but could not do it.
An urge that had been ignited by Isla.
He had felt a need to be with her, a desire that transcended duty and arrangement. And yet, that feeling, the pure, unadulterated vulnerability, was a terrifying echo of the past.
It is a mistake.
Benedict leaned back into the worn leather, closing his eyes against the low light of the room.
He felt utterly drained. The thought of returning to his empty room at the townhouse, the thought of Isla’s heavy distance since their quarrel, felt intolerable.
He had done this for her. He had to believe that.
The old arrangement was a solid, defensible ground.
The alternative was a crumbling cliff edge from which no one would return.
As his mind wrestled with itself, he remained oblivious to the figure in the deep, shadowed corner of the room, near the small, seldom-used card table.
Lamfort? No, it cannot be…
He wasn’t a member of White’s, and if it was him, Benedict tried to figure out how he had gotten in there. He must have been a guest of a minor, forgettable baronet who did not know how unhinged he truly was.
It must be someone else.
Yet, something inside of Benedict knew that it was Lamfort. That he had been watching him since he arrived, despite his mind being clouded with drink. Benedict looked up and saw Lamfort taking a slow sip of his port, his gaze never leaving Benedict.
I cannot even find comfort here, Benedict cursed inwardly as he got up from his seat and marched out of the club without a word to anyone. He found his carriage waiting outside, waking the napping coachman with a rough knock on the door.
“Let us be off,” Benedict barked as he made his way inside, not waiting for the coachman to open the door. “Now.”
“Where to, Your Grace? The Townhouse?” He asked.
“No,” Benedict replied. “Ride around London, until I say otherwise.”
“At once, Your Grace.”
Isla was curled deeply into the velvet chaise in her private quarters, a heavy blanket wrapped around her and a cup of chamomile tea within arm’s reach. The evening had drawn in, leaving the room illuminated by the glow of a single lamp and the low, dancing flames in the hearth.
In her hands, The Highland Holiday was a welcome distraction from all that troubled her. She had borrowed it from Elspeth, who had recommended it enthusiastically. Isla let her eyes drift over the page, soaking in the sights and the sounds of home.
The heroine was a woman burdened by a secret she carried for her clan, and at that very moment was bracing herself against a blizzard on a treacherous mountain path, trying to reach the ancient, snowbound keep of her enemy and soulmate.
Aye, I ken this feelin’ too well, Isla thought to herself, her mind again thinking of Benedict against her will. To be so drawn and so repelled.
Before she knew it, Isla was nearing the climax of the book.
The two had been forced to share a small, smoky hut after the heroine had twisted her ankle.
They’d spent a tense night sharing their stories, realizing the feud was built on a series of misunderstandings and a conniving, jealous third party.
Despite Isla’s interest, her eyelids grew heavy with each passing word.
The fire crackled, the narrative tension was resolved, and the sweet promise of fictional love was a comforting balm for her weary spirit.
The book slipped slightly in her grasp, and she was just beginning to drift into a catnap, a lovely, drowsy warmth settling over her, when a soft knock broke the spell.
The door creaked open, and suddenly, Oliver appeared in the archway.
“Isla,” he whispered, rubbing his eyes and yawning loudly. “I cannot fall asleep. The shadows are too big in my room. I am…afraid. Can you hold me?”
“Ach, well, the city shadows are naught but cheeky things,” she murmured, kissing the top of his head and ruffling his hair as she pulled him up into her arms. “Come, me lad. We shall fix it!”
She led him back to his bedroom and tucked him into bed, pulling the covers up to his chin.
“How is that, Oliver?” She asked softly.
“Much better, Isla. Can you stay a little longer?”
“Of course, mo chroide,” She said and found a heavy armchair near the fire. She cracked the door slightly to let in the light from the hall lamp and began to tell him a Gaelic folk tale, her voice a low, steady murmur in the quiet night.
“Once upon a time, there was a wee fairy named Oonagh the Brave,” she said softly. “And she was a beautiful fairy indeed, with bright blond locks that curled all the way to her feet, and sharp blue yes, just like yers!”
“Really, Isla? Just like mine?”
“Oh yes. And she had beautiful wings, with all the colors of the rainbow in them that twinkled in the light of the moon,” she said. “She would flit from house to house, makin’ sure all the laddies and lassies of Scotland were safe in bed.”
“Does she come to England?” Oliver asked with a loud yawn.
“Aye, she does,” she said as the rhythm of the words and the crackle of the fire soon worked their magic.
Oliver’s breathing evened out, and his small hand, resting on the edge of the blanket, went slack as slumber took over.
Isla did not move from her seat as her voice trailed off.
Exhausted by the emotional strain of the last few days, her muscles too weak to move from such a comforting spot, she leaned her head back against the wing of the chair.
The shadows of the nursery deepened, and despite her best intentions to get up, she slipped into a light but troubled sleep.
A few hours later, a soft sound jolted her awake. It was the faint click of the heavy nursery door latch being lifted.
Benedict.
Isla’s eyes snapped open in the darkness. It did not smell like Benedict; she could not sense him. She opened her eyes wider and her gaze shifted.
A tall silhouette framed in the doorway, the light from the hall lamp providing just enough backlight to make out a man’s imposing form.
That is nae Benedict… It is nae Mr. Jennings… It is nae one that works in this house.
She rubbed her eyes harder, trying to see clearly. Her mind could not make sense of the vision.
Lord Lamfort?
What would he be doing here?
Her heart leaped with a sickening surge of recognition.
Aye, it is Viscount Lamfort… but why? It makes nae sense…
She knew in an instant that his intentions were nefarious. It was something in the snarl of his mouth, the glint of his red-rimmed eyes. He smelled of drink and pipe smoke.
He was the shadow I saw outside her window, lookin’ up at me.
Now, he is a shadow in Oliver’s room.
She blinked, fear gripping her throat, preparing to scream when she suddenly saw the dark, unmistakable outline of a pistol held steady in the man’s extended hand.
It was pointed directly at the sleeping boy as she brought her hands to her mouth to stifle her scream.