Chapter Two
The previous night
Benjamin threw back his fourth…fifth?…scotch of the last few hours.
He had lost count and, if he were honest with himself, really could not hold his liquor the way he had in his young, hard days.
This scotch was far finer than the blue ruin of the London gin houses he once had cause to frequent.
But the fine peat-rich elixir of the verdant Scottish isles—each glass worth more than he could scrape together in a year in those lean days—sat more ill in his gut than those cheap spirits ever had.
At the ripe age of thirty—an age he had never expected to reach—he was starting to suspect this was the beginning of a precipitous geriatric decline.
Benjamin looked out over the den of Elysium, the sumptuously appointed gambling floor churning with monied patrons, elite and suspect alike, rubbing elbows under his roof, trying to account for each of the drinks that had led to his current state.
The first had been a toast, poured jovially in his study, shared with his only two friends in the world, Jonathan Bradford, the Duke of Wells, and Alexander Burke, the Marquess of Elkington.
Really, he had been happy for Elkington’s news—though he knew things that would likely have even his besotted, devil-may-care friend reconsidering his situation. The three of them had shared another toast before Elk left. That made two drinks.
The third had been poured by a conciliatory Wells as Benjamin handed over the thick roll of banknotes that he had been certain he would not lose when he had wagered them weeks prior.
He had not thought Elkington would be snared so quickly, though he knew he could find no better woman than Elsie Wylde, a woman with secrets all her own.
He did not like to admit that he had been wrong.
But more than that, the news of their engagement unnerved him.
It was not that he was not happy for his friend—in fact, he was relieved the man had finally come to his senses.
But knowing what he knew of the lady in question, which was more than anyone else in London—likely the whole of the British Isles—he was certain it would not turn out well for either party in question.
The knowledge hung heavily on him. It was a familiar weight, but not so comforting as it had once been.
Wells had left shortly after. That was when Benjamin had poured the next drink. Four. There must have been another between then and now, for the tumbler in his hands was still three fingers full. It was probably his fifth.
That was why he felt this gnawing emptiness in his chest. It was not because he had seen his friend happier than he could remember.
And it was not because he had proven himself ignorant in the course of others’ relationships; he had just misjudged the situation.
It happened—usually to other people, not him—but he could accept that.
It was then, as he stared down at the amber liquid in his hand, considering tossing the contents back and seeking out a server to refill it, hangover-be-damned, that a familiar face on the floor caught his attention.
Patrons of Elysium were free to come as they pleased, but a fashion had emerged among some of the regulars to wear concealing face masks—it added to the mystery and allure of it all, he supposed.
Following that set, it had become common practice for anyone attending the club to don at least a black domino, though the more ostentatious the mask, the better.
It was because of this fashion that the unmasked face stood out so much more clearly.
Sucking in a frustrated huff, he set the tumbler on the rail and made his way down onto the floor.
“Jasmine, what are you doing here?”
The beautiful, shapely woman turned, a charade of innocence stamped on her beautiful, hard face.
Like most prostitutes who worked the London streets, Jasmine had all the feminine charms that tempted men to their disgrace.
But she also had the same weathered toughness beneath it all.
The reality beneath a beauty that had seen the truth of life’s savagery and survived.
“Wot d’ya mean, sir?”
“Do not sir me, Jasmine. You know you are welcome to come as a patron, but none of this.” He did not begrudge her the work, but he would descend the basement steps into the pits of Hell rumoured to lurk below his establishment before he let his club become a brothel.
She opened her rouged mouth again, likely to argue her case, but Benjamin held up a hand. “You can stop by the kitchens to grab something for your sprogs, but then be on your way, please.”
Her dark eyes scrutinised him for a moment longer, calculating her odds of getting what she wanted, then she shrugged, a secret, expert smile taking over her face as she passed by, her clean, rough hand daintily passing over his chest as she made her way towards one of the concealed side doors on the edge of the rotunda.
“Alright, sir. If that be all…” She let the teasing words hang behind her. “You always know where t’ find me.”
He gave her a wave as she flounced off in the crowd, men’s eyes devouring her as she passed.
Normally, he would have dismissed her flirtation without a second thought.
Years on the street had made him circumspect in his dealings with women—he had seen what the diseases could do.
But the gnawing hole in his gut made him hesitate.
Some contact—any warmth at all, even if purchased—might lessen its hold.
A shove from behind had him whipping around, the spirits slugging through his blood, unsettling his balance.
The offender was a young, corny-faced lad glaring up at him from a mask haphazardly skewed across his face.
Benjamin stared down at the smaller man for a moment, uncomprehendingly.
The boy did not even look old enough to have been let in the doors.
He would have to have a word with Harvey.
If he had started letting children into his hell, so help him…
“What are you about, sirrah?” The boy’s voice was cultured; a gentleman’s whelp then. A bothersome type.
“Rethink your question.” Benjamin rubbed the bridge of his nose. The dull throb of too much drink had settled between his eyes, and he was too old to be spoiling for a fight. He wanted to find his bed.
The lad glared. “I say! Who do you think you are? Throwing out another man’s sport? I already paid for her. I have half a mind to give you what for, you grotty little man.”
Benjamin just stared, completely uninterested in the arrogant little prick.
“I expect compensation! This is common thievery!” The lad was working himself into a lather, the uneven tone of his skin under his domino turning an unflattering shade of red.
“Get out.”
Benjamin’s voice was low. They had already attracted a crowd. From the corner of his eye, he could see another young buck, surely this boy’s companion on their ill-advised evening of revelry, pushing through the crush.
“Freddie!” The newcomer’s voice was still cracking.
Children. When the other boy arrived, Benjamin felt a flicker of recognition pierce through the throbbing in his head. This was a lord’s brat. He knew his father. But he could not pin the man’s name or face in his muddled mind. He never let his control slip like this. It was foolish and messy.
“Freddie,” the brat muttered. “We should go. Come.” He pulled on his arm.
“Listen to your friend, boy.” The dismissal in Benjamin’s voice must have struck a chord in the milksop before him.
“I say!” Freddie was flustered, and even to Benjamin’s diluted eye, soused. “I will not go. I will have satisfaction!”
The trembling youth beside him let out a bleat at that, his eyes as big as saucers when they turned on Benjamin, as if hoping he had not heard his friend’s challenge.
“Rowley is my second.” The fair-haired youth blustered and took an equal hold of his friend. “Send yours to discuss particulars. I will see you at dawn.”
The slight slur of his words undermined the effect of the outraged stand as much as the tottering way he leaned on his friend as they turned to take their leave. Benjamin would wager his right arm that the boy would not make it to the field.
Still, he absently waved a hand, done with the idiots before him, and returned to his office, instructing a passing server to track down Wells.
∞∞∞
Present
Benjamin had no choice but to agree to pistols at dawn. How unoriginal. As the challenged, it was his prerogative to choose the weapons, but Wells had taken one look at him and declared swords to be out of the question.
Benjamin was sure he fared somewhat better than his pickled opponent, but he had acquiesced.
He regretted his capitulation now, though. His head was throbbing, and he hated the wet, all-permeating drizzle that seemed to come from up, down, left, and right, all at once, making his beautiful wool overcoat smell of wet dog.
What was the point of this misery? There was no sense in such a worthless display.
Standing in the damp, pointing guns at one another, was an empty gesture of manliness that smacked of deluded privilege.
The idiot standing across from him did not know the price of life—how capriciously fate could have it leaking out of your guts in a back alley after years of miserable scraping and enduring.
He could feel the cold cobbles beneath his face—could feel the heat of his lifeblood soaking through his clothes.
He meant to teach this foolish boy a lesson, at least, or else the morning would be a complete waste indeed.
And so at the indicated moment, he turned, took aim at the figure across the field in the mist, and fired.