Chapter 37
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Benedict’s skin crawled with anticipation and dread as he awaited Eliza’s arrival at the transformed gaming hell.
Few guests had arrived, most preferring to be fashionably late. Benedict, Bella, and West were told to wait in Wayland’s office until a few more made an appearance so as not to draw undue attention.
A glass of scotch appeared in front of him. “Take the edge off,” West suggested. Whether the man had the expensive waistcoat and coat hidden in a drawer somewhere or had procured them with less than a day’s notice, he wore the dark fabric, stitched with burnished gold, as though he were born to it.
That afternoon, Bella had thrust a stack of black clothing at Benedict without a word. Dutifully, he’d donned the black fabric, layer after layer, until he was nothing but a phantom, complete with black domino. There was comfort in concealment—in shadows he could be reborn.
Bella had appraised him with a critical eye before pinning a fresh violet onto his lapel. “She is dressing as a violet. I asked her mother during our promenade.”
Benedict swallowed before offering a nod of thanks. He’d then taken a moment to examine his sister. Suddenly, Benedict understood her eagerness to attend. And the modiste bill.
His sister was a phoenix, half-reborn. Hundreds of feathers in impossible arrays of yellows, golds, oranges, and reds trailed up the hem of her gown before melting into midnight black plumes.
On her back, a set of matching wings, black at the top before bursting into flames at the tips.
Her demi-mask followed the same pattern as her gown and wings.
Now the trio paced the walls of Wayland’s office, growing ever more restless. Benedict’s brief glimpse of the hell earlier was more than enough to impress him. Far from the luxurious but functional gaming floor, Wayland had converted it into dueling worlds.
Rich, glittering bronze fabric, and torches lined the walls at one end of the octagonal room. The firelight cast dancing shadows against the draping—living flames consuming those who dared enter. There, the gaming tables and bar were lined with all manner of sinful temptation.
Across from hell was a garden to rival even Eliza’s.
Blooms arranged in artful displays lined every surface, including the floors.
They spilled across tables and lined walkways.
A bounty of pastries and macarons in every shade of the rainbow threatened to topple the table they rested on, piled on stands nearly as tall as Benedict.
And in the center of it all, a dance floor. Heaven and hell in a single breath.
The effect was overwhelming. Already the air churned with heat and perfume, laughter pitched too sharply, strings tightening like a bow pulled past safety.
It was no wonder that news of the masquerade reached them at Bodmin every year.
The gossip columns reported on it in hushed whispers, sins and scandals of all sorts recounted in excruciating detail.
It was said that more shocking and thrilling matches were made on that makeshift dance floor in a single night than the rest of the season combined.
With each masquerade, his father grew ever more irate. It had become a trend for his father to make yet another ill-advised wager that very evening. Benedict suspected it was a scheme to ensure he had a plausible reason—the inevitable loss—to terrorize the household.
Wayland chose that moment to enter the office.
His hair was ragged, as though he’d run his fingers through it a few hundred times.
He wore a navy coat over a delicately embroidered waistcoat of navy and silver, with a periwinkle cravat.
The effect was surprisingly fashionable for the usually spartan Wayland.
“What are you supposed to be?” Benedict asked.
“Ask my wife. I do as I’m told in this respect,” he said, smoothing a hand along the silver buttons on the waistcoat. “Advice I’d highly recommend to any gentleman.”
For a moment, Wayland occupied himself by over-pouring a glass of scotch and enjoying an oversized gulp. He then turned to Benedict, his eyes narrowing in on the single flower. He rolled his eyes at the sight but did not comment.
“There are enough people downstairs that you can mingle without too much difficulty—though you could have chosen a less conspicuous gown,” he said to Bella.
“Do you know how far in advance ladies need to order these if they cannot afford the rush fees?”
“No.”
“I assure you, there was no less conspicuous option to be found.”
Wayland held up his hands in a placating gesture.
He sighed, then declared, “Once more, unto the breech.”
Benedict trailed the others out, meeting Wayland by the door. “If you hate these events so much, why do you host?”
“My wife sacrificed many things to be with me. I am more than happy to sacrifice one evening a year for her. And these are, on occasions where my children are not being used as pawns in a game they haven’t the slightest idea they’re playing, quite diverting. The grumbling is for show.”
“You haven’t told them?” Benedict asked, distracted as he used the landing to survey the scene below. Perhaps two dozen of the ton’s finest mingled about, draped in satin and jewels. But there was no precious violet to be seen.
Wayland sighed as they descended the stairs. “I gave them the sternest lecture I could manage. But I didn’t tell them. It’s almost certainly the wrong decision, but I couldn’t bring myself to.”
Benedict’s stomach clenched uncomfortably. Eliza was walking into the lion’s den blissfully unaware that the beasts were present and ravenous. “You should have told them.”
“I’ve already had to admit to my wife that my past sins led to our daughter being directly targeted for humiliation, ruin, and heartbreak. You’ll need to forgive the selfish impulse to pray we can resolve this before my girls learn precisely how wretched I am.”
Benedict shook his head as he bit his tongue. It would not do to be thrown from the club before he was certain Draycott was curled up somewhere clutching his ballocks and his Eliza was safe.
Wayland escorted him to the bar where that familiar dunner was pouring something amber. The enforcer had dressed simply, in all black, and he’d not bothered with the domino Benedict had seen some of the staff wearing.
“Bash,” Wayland began, “scotch for us both. And you remember your role tonight?”
“Yes, as soon as the girls arrive, Potter’ll take over here, and I’ll move upstairs for a wider view. Everyone has memorized Draycott’s description—even Potter. Though I’m not sure it will do much good. Lady Arabella made him sound like every other dandy that comes in here.”
“He’s got the scar,” Benedict said, drawing a line across his cheek in demonstration.
“And he’ll be wearing a mask. No doubt of it.”
Benedict swallowed hard, for the first time recognizing how insurmountable the task might be. Already there were too many people to keep track of. And the crush was yet to come.
Bash handed over their drinks. “I’d make these the last all night. Potter couldn’t keep an order straight to save his life.”
“Why do you employ this person?” Benedict asked Wayland.
“Honestly? Initially, it was because he had a family to support. But now I keep him on because it’s usually a lark to see how he’ll muck it up today. It’s rarely such an inconvenience.”
Judging by Bash’s expression, Benedict rather thought Wayland was the only one who found it a lark.
“Where is Augie?” Wayland asked.
“Calming the missus down in the kitchens. She was fretting that there weren’t enough pastries about an hour ago and pulled on an apron.”
“I should check in with him.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“Why on earth not?” Wayland demanded.
“As I said, he’s calming her down.”
“Please tell me my second in command is not sullying my kitchens at present.”
“Wishing I could.”
“And I’m certain my brother plans to violate my linen closet later with his wife. Why is everyone determined to turn my club into a den of iniquity?”
“What was it before?” Benedict asked, trying to keep the mirth from his voice.
Wayland paused for a moment before tipping his glass to Benedict in acknowledgment.
Suddenly, Bash stilled, his gaze fixed on something behind them. He tipped his head. The other men spun around in time to watch all three Wayland ladies step into the club.
Benedict straightened as first the mother entered, wearing a pretty periwinkle gown decorated with silver-and-navy embroidery, then stepped aside for her eldest. Miss Wayland sparkled like a gem in a glittering sapphire gown.
But Benedict had eyes only for the third, his violet.
Dozens of fabric panels layered to form her skirts—turning her into the living embodiment of her favorite bloom. Beyond his pitiful imaginings, she left him struck, unable to move, to speak, to breathe. Even if he had not known her dress from Bella’s teasing, he would have known her.
Eliza shone in the transported gardens as she strolled through, brushing against the delicate blooms with a single finger.
“Stop looking at my daughter like that,” Wayland grumbled beside him. “Both of you.” Benedict met Bash’s equally startled gaze over the bar top. “I’ll send Potter over and then Jules and I must open the dancing.”
Bash cleared his throat as he nodded.
Benedict’s gaze found Eliza; he was captivated by the delight he found etched on her face. His legs ached with the desire to go to her, to be in her orbit, to exist in the same air.
A befuddled-looking gentleman joined Bash behind the bar. The dark-complected dunner passed the confused one a rag with a rote series of instructions. “Do not leave this bar for anything. Pour the drinks they ask for. Hand them the drinks. Spill nothing. Break nothing. Do not try to be clever.”
The other man, Potter, gave him a jaunty salute, causing Bash’s face to fall and his shoulders to slump.
“Come,” Bash said as he caught Benedict’s elbow and hauled him back up the stairs.
“Why am I joining you?”