Chapter 7 #2
“Of course, no one has courted his daughter before either.”
Benedict’s chest tightened again. “You did that on purpose. Didn’t you?”
“It was a good lark. You should know, he’s not the only one you’ll need to worry about if you hurt that girl.”
“Yes, yes, the uncle.”
The other man chuckled. “You haven’t heard about what Lady Juliet did to her own father? And, of course, there’s Sophie; she’s a feral thing. When they’re finished, there will be the rest of us.”
The man’s dark gaze met Benedict’s, holding it for emphasis. He gestured with one hand to the entirety of the club, and Benedict swallowed.
“Best go meet with Mr. Ainsley. He’ll be expecting you, and he gets cross when he’s late returning home to his wife.”
After divulging a great many carefully crafted half-truths to Wayland’s second, Benedict seized the opportunity to walk back to the townhouse. The night was pleasant, and the distance brief.
In all the years he’d had to prepare for this scheme, he’d never considered Wayland himself. The man had been an abstract, amorphous villain in his mind, cackling atop his piles of money. More caricature than person.
Benedict’s imagination had been entirely in opposition from his experience. The reality of Michael Wayland left him shaken. The man had been polite enough, though forceful. Benedict rather thought he would approach a suitor of Bella’s with a similar attitude.
The way Wayland cared for his daughter—Benedict could not recall his own father ever sparing Bella a thought beyond her usefulness. Ambrose Sinclair—Lord Blackwood—never would have threatened someone on her behalf. The contrast shook him.
And those threats were a problem Benedict had naively never considered.
He had fixated on what his father might do should he fail.
But Wayland had never entered into Benedict’s fears.
The older man hadn’t been bluffing. He had considerable wealth and influence, and given the naked affection in his expression when he spoke of his daughters… There was real danger in this plan.
Benedict reached the townhouse long before he’d found a solution. The distance hadn’t culled his rising nausea.
Inside, he found Bella on the settee with a book and a drink.
“Well?” she demanded as soon as the butler disappeared down the hall.
The urge to needle her was always present, but he needed an actual confidante.
His sister wouldn’t have been his first choice, but Benedict lacked a second.
West, the stable master’s son-turned-friend, usually served that role—but Benedict could not bring himself to inform West of their scheme.
Though he’d never admitted it aloud, Benedict knew it was because West would’ve talked him out of it.
“He’ll allow me to court her, assuming she agrees, but—”
“Perfect, perhaps a promenade the next time the weather seems—”
“Bell, I… There is more to consider than we originally thought. We worried I might fail, that I wouldn’t be able to secure her interest, or that her father would separate us before I could win her affections. But… Wayland is a powerful man, with powerful friends.”
“Benedict,” she warned. “What more could he possibly do to us, take from us? He has already stolen practically everything. If you fail, we’ll lose Blackwood, regardless. You cannot possibly win enough matches to fund the repairs—no one could.”
“Of course not.”
“It was never going to be simple. But we’re Sinclairs; we stay the course. There is nothing the man can do to us worse than he already has. This is what Wayland deserves, and we will have what we deserve—what should have been ours all along.”
Benedict could offer only a weak nod. “You’re right.”
“Of course I am,” Bella chirped. “I always am.”
His answering chuckle was involuntary.
“Now, I think a promenade. You should write to Miss Wayland. I’ll join you and distract any chaperones with prying ears. It will be a lovely outing.” Bella snapped her book shut, rising before meeting his gaze. “I am sorry it has to be you,” she added, softer.
“Good night, Bella.”
Benedict listened as her gentle footsteps trailed up the creaking stairs.
It had seemed such a simple mission, almost noble even, when his father laid it out all those years ago.
He’d never expected it to feel so… tawdry.
Since arriving in London, Benedict felt untethered, twitchy.
Except once, two nights before, when Eliza’s hand found his shoulder and his met her waist. And again at the club, when his knee met hers under the table.
At her touch, the angry rolling waves inside his mind quieted, and he was moored, safe inside his own skin.
Surely it should be the opposite. Her touch should sicken him. Action, after years of impotence, should have provided a sense of triumph or left anticipation coursing through his veins.
But Eliza was charming. Quick and confident and so unbelievably responsive. Even demurely hiding from his gaze, she’d reacted to every breath, word, touch. A study in contradiction, she flushed prettily for him even as she delivered her riposte.
Benedict would never, could never, admit it, but he had hung on every word, every motion, every blush. His attraction was clear, though unexpected and unwanted. Fortunately, there were worse problems to have. An inclination would make seduction much easier.
The plan remained unchanged: ruin Eliza Wayland, hold her for ransom, restore Blackwood, avenge his father.
Sinclairs stayed the course.