Chapter 21
Evelina waited for Benedict Rothwell, the Baron of Eastbrook, to make his rounds, greeting those he deemed imperative to acknowledge. Smoothly, she took two glasses off the tray of a passing waiter and strode decisively over to him while he stood away from the dance floor.
He walked over to a walled concave alcove that was under the grand staircase. As both ends of the alcove were out in the open, she deemed herself safe.
Victoria was not with him, and Ellie was not sure if she preferred it to be that way or not. Still, she summoned a maid to stand by her.
At the edge of the alcove, she began, “Ben—” but she stopped. It was scandalous to call a lord by his given name, wasn’t it? Despite her friendship with his sister and their prior, less formal meetings, she was a Duchess now and ought to behave as one.
Offering him the glass, she instead said, “Lord Eastbrook. Do you have a moment?”
Benedict looked as if he wished to be anywhere but there, but she knew he was too polite to refuse her. Bowing, he replied, “I am at your disposal, Your Grace.”
Cognizant of the inquisitive—and searing—gazes of the onlookers, Ellie notched her head up. “What is your side of the story?”
Instantly, his face fell. She knew he had caught onto what she meant. He threw back half of his drink and rubbed his eyes with his right thumb and forefinger. His eyes were closed, and his tone quiet but hard. “Your Grace, are you sure about this?”
“I wouldn’t have asked if I did not feel it imperative to know,” she replied.
He dropped his hand. “This is a conversation that cannot be held here, not in depth, that is. To be fair, Beaumont does have reason to think that I am a part of why he lost his fortune and his good name. But I had no part in it.”
Ellie knew there was a disconnect, Dorian had not gone into specifics, and here Benedict was doing the same.
What from Dorian’s perspective made him think his friend had betrayed him—and thus elicited in him trust issues that still plagued him to this day?
And what had truly happened for Benedict to see the opposite?
She shook her head. “You are still not telling me much.”
“Your Grace—”
“Please, Benedict,” she said softly, then hovered her hand near his arm. “I am asking as Evelina, your friend, not a Duke’s wife. Please tell me what happened, in detail, that has made my husband so cautious and wary around not only yourself but all others in his life.”
He exhaled once more. His voice was low and firm now. “We were… ten, I believe? Beaumont’s family and mine were friends from our grandparents’ time. We even attended Eton together. After he lost his mother, his father took a steady decline, and more responsibilities landed on Beaumont’s shoulders.”
“That does not explain his—”
“Uncle, I know,” Benedict continued. “I am working up to that. For almost two weeks in August, heading to the new semester of Eton, his father took a swift turn and began ranting and raving about the most madcap things.
“During that time, his uncle had found a loophole in the particulars of the ducal leadership. The line was about the oldest male relative taking control of the Dukedom, regardless of the line of succession. It was a line that provided for continued, albeit transient control in the instance a Duke was ill, mentally or physically.”
Ellie rocked on her heels as she tried to leap ahead of his story; how was it that Dorian had gotten tricked?
“Wouldn’t you need a lunacy inquisition—”
The hairs suddenly lifted on her skin; even though she’d heard no footsteps, she knew he was there. Evelina could not explain how or when she’d gained such an intense connection with Dorian that she could sense his presence, but the rapid tattoo of her heartbeat spoke volumes.
She whipped around to find him there, golden hellfire blazed in his eyes as he glared at Benedict.
Her throat squeezed. “Dorian. I was only—”
“What in the devil possessed you to be here?” Dorian’s tone was so cold, he could have quelled the fires of hell.
“Dorian, it was not his fault,” she pleaded softly. “I asked him to speak to me.”
“You should leave,” Dorian ordered Benedict.
Ellie was frantic to stop him from making a larger scene. Stepping closer, she pressed her hand to his chest. “Please, Dorian, we were just having a conversation.”
“About what?” he asked tightly.
“I suspect you already know what,” Benedict muttered as he stepped out from the shadowed alcove. “What do you want from me that you haven’t already taken, Your Grace? I have already given you your pound of flesh.”
Ellie fastidiously ignored the crowd along the ballroom that were watching and murmuring behind their fans. She wanted to curl into a ball and die of embarrassment. Heat burned behind her eyes.
“Dorian,” she dropped her voice. “Please.”
“That afternoon, you damn well knew what was going on. You distracted me while your mother came in with sweet pies,” Dorian boomed with fury. “My weakness at that age.”
“No one forced you to sign that document,” Benedict huffed, waving a breezy hand.
“Your father damn well handed me the paper and convinced me it was authorization to get my father the help he needed!” Dorian shot back.
“And still you blame me for your lack of due diligence,” Benedict responded with equal vigor. “Pah. Why would you change now, I suppose, eh?”
“Leave,” a muscle in Dorian’s jaw jumped. “Now.”
She tried again, “Dorian—”
“No,” he snarled. “Traitors have no place in polite society.”
Benedict straightened and set his glass on a nearby table; he tugged down his jacket. “With all due respect, Your Grace, I will stay. My invitation is just as valid as yours. Now, if you will excuse me, I could do with some fresh air.”
As Benedict trudged away, the nattering throng parted like the Red Sea before Moses. Dorian turned his eyes to her, “We need to talk.”
Resting a hand on the small of her back, he led her through the onlookers as if they were not there. He held his head with a poise that Ellie could not fathom holding, not with the stares and whispers swirling around them.
He led her up the stairs and down a hallway, tested a few doors to the rooms, but none of them seemed to fit his needs. Finally, he flung the door open to a solarium and hauled her inside.
She didn’t get a chance to look around much—most sunrooms were well-appointed in their design and décor. This one, not so much. It had the workings of a woman who liked to plant; pots were stacked on the floor and tools in a haphazard pile on tables.
“Umph—” Her breath punched out of her chest as Dorian lifted her onto a table.
He slapped both hands on the table beside her, his gaze now hard as stone. “How many lies did he tell you?”
“He did not get a chance to tell me much of anything,” she said, tilting her head up to meet his eyes. “You came in like a bull in a china shop.”
The twin flames in his gaze entranced her as much as they terrified her. She knew he would never hurt her, but that protection did not extend to others, did it?
“We spoke of this already, Evelina! The Rothwells are not to be trusted,” he ground out. “Do not let Eastbrook deceive you with his blasted lies!”
She reached out for him, hesitated before touching his cheek, but then cupped his face.
“Tell me what happened then? You have only given me morsels of a story that shaped your entire childhood and the dark alleys your life took you through. How can I help heal your wounds if I don’t know what there is to heal? ”
Leave it to that bloody bastard to ruin everything.
Pushing away, Dorian began to pace the room; the memory of Benedict’s unwelcome presence sent a rippling undercurrent through his blood.
He didn’t know what infuriated him more: that the man had the temerity to tell Evelina lies, or that she was leaning to believe them. Either way, Benedict Rothwell had destroyed a night of good cheer.
His mood had gone from cheerful to irascible, and he’d managed, just barely, to stop himself from planting a facer on the man.
He tugged his jacket away and stuck a finger under his collar, loosening the vice grip of his cravat. The damn thing felt like it was decapitating him. With a glance through the window, the moon was hidden by thick, impenetrable clouds, a mirror of his emotions.
He wanted to hide the truth, but he knew he could not. Not now.
“That summer before my second year at Eton, my father grew ill,” he admitted. “My uncle had contrived this document that allowed him to usurp the ducal lands from me and my family. What I know now, that I did not know then, was that he had the Rothwells under his thumb, and he took advantage of it.
“After having my father—who could barely read at the time, let alone grasp the circumstances—sign and seal it, he had Rothwell’s father and our family solicitor—two men who I trusted my life with at the time—to coax me into doing the same.
” Dorian sneered. “They’d brought me in and convinced me the documents were merely formalities to prescribe my father the care he required.
“I was young, but it is no excuse. I should have read it, I know,” he grunted. “But his mother had pies out and Benedict was at the door, brandishing a kite that I’d wanted to fly for ages. I’d signed it and rushed out the door, not knowing that I’d signed mine and my father’s life away.”
Evelina slid away from the table and cupped his face with both hands. “Dorian, do you really think he intended to hurt you?”
“We were friends from the cradle,” Dorian muttered. “And he was his father’s shadow at the time, just as I was mine. He had to know about his father’s plans.”
Evelina tried another approach. “When did you learn of the betrayal? Was he there with you?”
Dorian’s face went mulish, and he pulled his body away. “I am not talking about this with you.”
She reeled away as if she’d been struck. “Dorian, please think about this—”
“We are leaving,” he said while snatching his jacket from over the chair and shoving his arms through the sleeves. “Now.”
As the vehicle dipped past the dark London streets, an awkward silence filled the carriage; as ever, unspoken words lingered between them. Not once had Dorian looked Evelina in the eye or made a motion to explain his sudden reticence in proving himself right.
He knew she wanted to continue from the solarium, but Dorian was of no mind to. He damn well knew what had happened with Rothwell—the man was a traitor.
So what if Dorian’s memory showed him the stark, shocked, bloodless face Benedict had donned after the truth of the betrayal had been revealed? An actor and a snake. Pitiful.
By the time they reached Somerton, Dorian knew Evelina’s skin was raw with his dismissal. If he felt it, he knew she felt it ten times worse. He hated himself for it. His emotional state teetered precariously between self-pity and rage.
I want to break something…
As they mounted the last step to the front doors, she tried again. “Do you think your younger self would like you doing this to yourself?”
His head snapped to her. “What the devil are you on now?”
“You were young, Dorian,” she probed. “You took a deeply personal blow, and all your younger mind could latch on to was that your best friend had stabbed you in the back. I think older you knows that is not true, but you’ve held onto it because it is the only truth you’ve told yourself over and over again, and he is the only person that stayed around to hold the brunt of your ire. ”
His eyes narrowed. “I know he is a traitor because he is a traitor, and I do not appreciate your tone.”
“Dorian—”
“It would be best if you stay in your rooms tonight,” he cut her off, peeling his jacket away. “I will see you in the morning—” he paused. “—or perhaps not. I’ll be at the club early.”
He slammed the door to his rooms without as much as a look over his shoulder. As bad as Evelina had to feel, he knew the pain in his chest was worse. He shed every stitch from his body as the clothing felt like a prison, slumping to the bed in only his small clothes.
Despite his fatigue, the moment his head hit the pillow, his mind leapt awake. Tucking his fists under his nape, surrounded by the scent of fresh linens and the odd hoot of an owl, he glared up at the embroidered bed hangings.
Instead of sleep came the unbidden memories of his past. Tortured ones, using a stone in an alley as a pillow, filching a hunk of bread and an orange from a costermonger’s cart after not eating for days, and lastly, the slash of the knife as he’d battled for his life in another of Sterling’s twisted games.
“If you want to rise in the ranks, you’ll have to prove it.” Sterling’s dark eyes had glittered in the dark as he handed Dorian the knife. “Prove to me how much you want it.”
“I suppose Sterling has something on me after all…” he rubbed his tired but sleepless eyes.
As he watched the darkness fade and the sky lighten, the only question that lingered in his heart was; did he tell Evelina about his worst sin… or pretend it never happened?
“She will keep asking about her beloved Ash…” he sighed. “What will she do when she finds out he never was? Will she ever forgive me?”