Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Benedict forced his mind to his father’s disapproving face, desperate to regain control of himself. He mounted the stairs after the dark-skinned dunner with one last cheeky look at Eliza.
That display of confidence, competence… it was captivating.
Bella would be pleased to learn that he’d used the opportunity to playact at being the hero. The effort should at least endear him to Eliza, if not to her father.
“Wait in here and don’t touch anything,” the man, Bash, ordered. His distrustful expression disappeared when the door slammed in Benedict’s face.
The room was large, with a mahogany desk at one end and two emerald leather armchairs resting beside a small fireplace on the other.
Benedict crossed the room, intent on surveying the space.
The drinks tray in one corner proved too great a distraction, catching his attention before he could gather any meaningful intelligence.
He didn’t feel the disappointment too keenly; he hadn’t thought Wayland would have a Guide to Wooing My Daughters book atop his oversized desk.
Behind Benedict, the door slipped open and clanged shut again.
When he turned, he faced Michael Wayland. The man whose misdeeds single-handedly destroyed his father, his family, and his home.
Distracted by the scuffle downstairs, Benedict hadn’t taken the measure of the man.
To his astonishment, Wayland was perfectly ordinary.
The older man was shorter than he was, with dark hair highlighted by grey strands at the temples, and a crooked tilt to his mouth.
His eyes, though… Benedict had no doubt where Eliza’s dark gaze originated from.
“Sinclair,” Wayland grumbled, assessing Benedict. “Drink?”
“Scotch.”
“Royal Brackla?”
Benedict nodded.
“Take a seat,” Wayland said, gesturing to the chairs beside the unlit fireplace with one glass-filled hand as he poured with the other.
The musky scent of the worn leather enveloped him, followed by the earthy, cedar note of good cigars. All that was missing was the musty, damp scent for Benedict to be transported to his father’s study, a small boy biting his lip—
A glass appeared before his face, and Benedict grasped it automatically—ripped from his unpleasant reverie. Wayland took the unoccupied seat beside him.
The other man spoke as soon as Benedict raised the glass to his lips. “My daughter insisted you did not know me. Yet here you are.”
Benedict swallowed, meeting the older man’s gaze. “Here I am. You’re not a difficult man to find.”
“No, I’m not. And I know everyone. So why do I not know you?”
Benedict had known this question would come. He was pleased to find he could offer the truth. “I’m not much for gaming. And I’m rarely in town.”
“My dunner tells me you are at least comfortable at the table.”
“I didn’t say I was ignorant, merely disinclined.
” Again, the smallest bit of tension abandoned Benedict’s spine at the truth.
He knew all the common games—his father had insisted.
He’d never found the enjoyment in them that his father did.
While the blame for his circumstances rested on this man’s shoulders, his father’s penchant for the gaming tables hadn’t improved their financial situation.
“Why?”
“I’ve not the luck for it.”
Wayland raised a brow. “I’ve never found gaming to be luck.”
“That is what lucky men say.” And cheats. “I suppose I should let you know that I also lack the finances to afford the practice necessary to improve.”
“Do you?” Wayland asked. Benedict thought he recognized an intrigued note in the question, but the man’s face gave him nothing. A gambler to his core.
“I assume you’ve looked into me—my finances.
Or will shortly hereafter. No point in lying about it.
” Benedict gestured to the surrounding room.
“You clearly have the resources necessary to gather any intelligence you wish.” It was the strategy he and Bella had discussed at length.
Bella favored a lie, but in the moment, Benedict opted for the half-truth.
“And what will I find when I do?”
“An estate too large and too expensive to maintain for the land it rests upon.” And the family you stole everything from.
“So you’re here for my daughter’s dowry,” Wayland surmised.
“Not at all. I did not know who she was when I approached her,” Benedict supplied easily.
“Why, then, are you in town, since you visit so rarely?”
“My sister. She wished for a season,” he fibbed.
Wayland nodded thoughtfully for a moment. “And your reputation, how do you account for that?”
Benedict shrugged one shoulder. “I’m no saint. Nor are you, I’d wager. Truly, I think the surname lends itself to the moniker more than it is earned.” The temptation to list Wayland’s sins was strong, but that impulse would not serve Benedict’s aims.
“My past is not up for discussion. And I run a legitimate business.”
There was no stilling the skeptical brow that crept up Benedict’s forehead.
“It’s true. I’ve never cheated.” Wayland insisted. His expression was unguarded, even. Had Benedict not known the truth, not known what a skilled gambler—liar—Wayland was, he might have fallen for the falsehood. But Benedict had lived with the consequences of the man’s misdeeds his entire life.
His father may be a flawed man; he might not even be a good one. But Benedict knew in his bones that he never would have made that wager if it were so risky. He wouldn’t have done that to his wife, to his son. He could not have.
Benedict bit the inside of his cheek, fighting back the insults that threatened to spill. “Forgive my skepticism. I merely meant to illustrate that no man is without sin. I merely have the misfortune of the surname Sinclair.”
Undeterred, Wayland asked, “And what sins are you known for?”
“I’ve had a mistress or two in my misspent youth.”
“That would not earn the appellation.”
The sigh was difficult to restrain. “I accepted the patronage of a lonely officer’s wife, and later a widow.
It paid for university.” The explanation, despite the years that had passed, always left Benedict feeling fouled.
No matter that he was hardly the first to enjoy the mutual benefits of such an arrangement—that it was more than expected for a lady to receive such benefits—he always felt shameful giving voice to it.
Benedict gnawed on his tongue. This was the moment, the linchpin. If Wayland objected here, it would be nearly impossible to win the daughter’s affections. Benedict would be a failure. He would be forced to return to Blackwood and confess his defeat.
Wayland was quiet for a moment, contemplating him as he took a sip from his glass. “And your fellow students…”
“As I said, the surname provided the ammunition. And there are worse reputations. After university, I found other financing.”
“So you no longer enjoy the company of lonely women?”
Benedict huffed. “I’m not a monk, if that’s what you are after. I like women, and they like me. But I’ve a crumbling estate and not enough daylight to repair it.”
“Women are a time-consuming lot,” Wayland said. “Especially daughters. Good Lord, daughters. You caused quite a spat, sir.”
“I did?” he asked with genuine surprise.
“Indeed. An unforgivable offense to a man like myself, who appreciates harmony in the home. However, you also made my Lizzie feel beautiful and special, and for that, I would forgive you almost anything. Assuming, of course, that your interest is genuine.” He caught Benedict’s gaze with a pointed look.
“Have you ever spoken to your daughter?” Benedict blurted, unthinking.
“Yes.” Wayland’s tone carried a hint of warning.
“She’s…” Benedict hesitated, searching for the words to describe his two meetings with the enigma that was Eliza Wayland.
A wallflower on the surface, certainly, but she hadn’t hesitated to clash wits with him.
She’d left that gentleman downstairs in dire straits with nothing but a pleasant smile.
“I’ve only met her twice. But she left me speechless each time.
Miss Eliza is quick and bright, and her smile— I’ve never known its like.
So yes, I would very much enjoy the opportunity to know her better. ”
“And once you do?” Wayland prompted.
“I did not come to town expecting to take a wife. But if the perfect wife should appear— I am no fool.”
Wayland released a heavy breath. “Assuming, of course, that you agree to submit to the usual investigations we perform at the club before offering membership. If my Lizzie is amenable, you may perform the usual courtship nonsense, flowers, promenades, and the like. No more flasks in corners or fisticuffs at my gaming tables. I expect you to treat her with the respect she is due.”
The sheepish expression that crossed his face came more naturally than Benedict would have wished. “Certainly, I— This is more than I could have hoped. Thank you.”
“You’re assuming she will be amenable.”
“I am… cautiously optimistic.”
“Correct answer. Now, go visit Augie next door and provide him with your personal details. Then leave my club before anyone else bleeds on my carpets.”
Benedict rose and started toward the door, striving to hide his eagerness for freedom behind a vigorous straightening of his frock coat. He’d nearly reached the rich, carved mahogany before Wayland called out.
“Oh, and Sinclair?”
“Yes?” Benedict asked as he turned back with his heart in his throat.
“I have criminals, judges, constables, and more than a few members of the royal family in my debt. If you hurt my daughter, the only limit to your pain is my imagination. You’d do well to remember that.”
“Yes, sir,” Benedict croaked.
“Good lad,” Wayland said as Benedict backed slowly out of the room.
As soon as the door clicked shut, Benedict slid against the wall beside it and released the breath caught in his throat.
The enforcer from before strolled over, quirking a brow. “He’s never had anyone killed, as far as I know.”
“That’s a relief,” Benedict replied with an exaggerated sigh.