Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
The next afternoon found Benedict practicing at the heavy bag.
After a sleepless night, even the monotonous rhythm of his fists against leather could not keep the treacherous thoughts at bay.
Every moment he spent in Eliza’s presence made it more difficult to remember what he was supposed to be—rather than what he was.
No role had ever felt more natural than that of her suitor.
Truths he had no business considering slipped through his traitorous mind.
Not only did he want her desperately, but he liked her.
She teased without barbs—unlike the way he and Bella had learned to survive, snapping at each other before anyone else could draw blood.
And in moments where it truly counted, when he unintentionally exposed his soft underbelly, Eliza offered gentleness—as though she had never considered the ways she could destroy him.
Their every interaction was so unlike any he’d ever known. Her warm smile and kind eyes brightened when she spoke of her passions, and darkened when he left her flustered with desire.
With every passing day, the thought of using the trust she’d placed in him for his own wretched gains left him feeling untethered, sometimes downright sick.
But what was the alternative? He’d never considered a future where he chose not to forge ahead with the plan.
Failure had been a pressing fear. Success—a distant dream.
But to choose another path? His head refused to make that turn, to consider what that might look like—every time he tried, his stomach swayed tumultuously.
Because his head knew what his heart refused to admit: There was no future with Eliza.
Because the thought of choosing her—choosing anything for himself—was too dangerous even to contemplate.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of West striding into the saloon. Benedict gave the bag one last forceful punch, but West ruined the satisfaction of the gesture by catching it on the backswing.
“Weston.”
“Sinclair,” he reflected Benedict’s formality and petulant tone with ease. “I know you’re feeling glimflashy. But you’ll need your wits about you if you mean to win tomorrow. How’re you feeling, then?”
“Fine… Ready,” Benedict muttered as he untucked one of the protective cotton strips from his knuckle and unwound it. “Your approval or disapproval of my actions is hardly a factor in my preparation.”
West made no attempt to hide his eye roll. “I don’t want you beat half to death for not training proper. And I know you—you’re all distracted over your own contemptible choices, even if you won’t own them.”
“You do not understand me half so well as you seem to believe you do.”
“Fine. You’ve no conscience, no soul. This grand plan of yours is brilliant and fair, isn’t it? You’re even set to put Harker out of time in one blow. Now then—do you want a drink?”
“God, yes.”
West clapped him around the shoulder and guided him out of the saloon.
Less than a minute’s walk found the men at the nearby public house. A few moments later, Benedict had a pint of Worthington’s in his hand. With a single sip, tension melted from his spine.
Unlike so many of the ton, West was comfortable in silence. He could cross verbal swords with Benedict with ease but was also perfectly happy to finish his drink in silence beside him.
Shortly after the barkeep brought their second round, West began.
“I’ve been watching Harker for a few months.
His way’s always the same—he throws the first blow, then keeps on hitting without easing up.
He won’t bother to block, and it only takes one good hit to lay him out.
You’ll best him handily; you only need to wait for your chance. ”
“Thank you… for that.”
“You’re my brother, even if you are making shameful choices that will devastate you and everyone in your life. I cannot let you die.”
“I take it back.”
“No, no, much too late for that. You appreciate my efforts.”
Benedict merely sighed and took a pointed swig of his ale. He spun the glass between his thumbs, contemplating as it caught the light from his perch on the stool abutting the bar top.
“Believe it or not, I am actually aware that this is wretched. Your reminder is entirely unnecessary.”
West offered merely an intrigued hum in response.
“Not only is her father likely to have me killed and my body deposited somewhere that not even the buzzards can find, but I’ve grown quite…
fond of her. It was easier when she was merely a means to an end.
I knew my lines then. But every time she looks at me as though I’m worth something… I forget the script.”
West’s answering nod was slow and paired with a sip of his own. “You want her.”
“I— Yes. I want her like I’ve never wanted anything. She’s turned me into a fool, hanging on her every word, telling her things I’ve no business telling her. She makes me feel safe. What I’m doing— It will affirm her every single insecurity. She’s trusting me with her heart, while I—”
“Mean to shatter it?”
“Aye. I’m a wretched, cruel thing. But what choice do I have?”
“What if you didn’t?”
“What if I didn’t what?”
“Ruin Eliza, or whatever fool thing you have planned. What if you simply didn’t?”
West’s words rang in his ears, over and over. What if I didn’t?
The barkeep appeared before them with a question in his brow. West signaled for another round with two fingers.
“Brackla, if you don’t mind?” Benedict asked before finishing the dregs of his ale.
“You’re paying?” West asked with a sarcastic note.
“You won last week.”
“Purse was only a hundred.”
“And how many gifts did you receive in addition to the purse?”
West gave him a one-sided smirk and a raised brow.
“You’re buying my scotch. And possibly paying for my keep.”
“You and Bella, you’re not in danger of being thrown out?” West asked, an unexpected hint of sincerity in his tone.
“Bella is in very great danger of the modiste refusing to stitch another hem. But the roof, sagging though it may be, will remain over our heads.” Benedict nodded gratefully at the barkeep with the delivery of his scotch.
“Good, good.”
“If she even attempted to exercise restraint at the modiste, she would have sufficient funds for the rest of the season.”
“Your sister is not the sort to economize by nature. And she’s been forced to do so her entire life.”
He took a heavy swig of his drink. “True, Bella was born without a practical bone in her body.”
“She’s never seen a season. Buy her the pretty frock.”
“It’s not one pretty frock; it’s a morning frock, and a promenade frock, and a dancing frock. There’s probably one tucked away in her wardrobe dedicated solely to the eating of soup.” With the reminder of the absurd modiste bill, Benedict finished his drink and nodded to the bartender.
“How do you suppose a frock dedicated to eating soup would look? And is it eating? Or do you drink soup?”
“It’s eating. You use a utensil.” The bartender returned with another glass of scotch. “Speaking of drink, finish yours. You’re behind.”
West pressed his lips together in an indulgent sort of half-hearted smile before he tipped the last of his Worthington’s back.
Benedict used the opportunity to enjoy a hearty sip of his fresh scotch.
Weston seemed content to linger in their momentary lapse.
Benedict’s newest and dearest friend, the barkeep—whose name he ought to learn—anticipated his next request far in advance and brought both another ale and scotch.
Delightful fellow, that one. He was probably named something affable, Bert or Ned, perhaps.
Suddenly, and entirely without permission, the question that refused to leave his mind, escaped from his lips. “Do you really believe Father lost a fair game?”
“Yes,” West said simply, as if that wasn’t a blasphemous statement. As though it were an undeniable fact. The sky was blue, Bella was a shrew, and Ambrose lied about his loss for decades.
“That is all?”
“That is all. You know I have no love for your father. He lies like breathing—the ever-disappearing money, what happened with Bella. Why would he tell the truth about such a monumental failure?”
Benedict rolled his eyes. “How are you so certain?”
“How are you so certain? So ready to believe his truth?”
“He is my father…”
“He’s shown you over and over who he is. When will you believe him about that?”
West was right. His father had proven time and again that he would put himself above his family and the gaming tables. But to insist for years that he’d been cheated? To ruin a girl’s life as recompense for a fictitious slight? To charge his son with such a vicious, soul-crushing task?
“But he wouldn’t do this. Wouldn’t tell me to do this if it wasn’t what is right,” Benedict protested, fighting to stay above the wave of desperation, gasping for breath as the alternative truth threatened to tow him under.
West huffed, shaking his head before tipping back the last of his ale and nodding at the barkeep’s unasked question.
“Tomorrow night, you’re going to be struck repeatedly, perhaps hundreds of times, while waiting for your opening. And neither of us has even the slightest concern you’ll break. Because he trained you for violence. He beat you—”
“When I’d done wrong, failed in my duties—”
“When it suited him. Those were no mere corrections, Benedict. He tortured you because it satisfied his vile soul to break you, to twist you into something more wretched than him. He tried to take every kind, generous, loving piece of you and wrench it into something monstrous. And if you go forward with this scheme, he will have succeeded.”
The denial, born of years of repeating the only truth he’d ever known, caught in Benedict’s throat, screaming and clawing to break free from his parted lips. Determined to loosen the knot in his trachea, he emptied his scotch into his gullet.