Chapter Four #2
The stanza came unbidden to his mind. Upon the initial accumulation of his wealth, he had taken to collecting old books and manuscripts.
Anyone on the streets knew money could buy food, power, security—but it was not until he had those things that he saw what it could really grasp hold of—knowledge.
It was a secret luxury he allowed himself; the quest for knowledge for its own sake was a heady drug only the truly wealthy could enjoy.
He could wield his business and his reputation like a weapon, but he always felt the threat of the streets breathing down his neck.
It was only in the reading, the amassing of knowledge, that he caught glimpses of what life could be beyond his world.
He had felt especially drawn to folkloric literature, so rich in mystery and tradition that it made him feel worlds away; another man in another time.
It was a balm to the soul of the young boy scrounging for tuppence when others his age—his own flesh and blood even—were being read stories safe in their beds. A life he had tasted and lost.
He had not thought about that feeling in years.
The hobby had faded with the growing realisation that this quest for knowledge could be even more valuable.
The knowledge of others. Secrets. Things they did not want others to know.
That was the truest power. He could use the knowledge of another to bend them to his will.
He had never imagined he would recall much of the content of the books he read. Ultimately, his mind for figures and people had built his empire, not old prose fading into obscurity.
And if ye dare to kiss my lips. / Sure of your bodie I will be.
He could not even think of where he had read it. Perhaps he had made it up. Still, the thought was alarming, and he floundered for rescue. Wrenching his gaze from sleeping Charlotte, only then did he realise Doctor Price had been speaking to him.
“I apologise, Doctor. What was that?”
Price gave him a curious look, but was so out of sorts himself, he just shook his head and repeated himself.
“She came to briefly when I was extracting the bullet and screamed and thrashed so hard, I thought she would strike me.” There was genuine fear in the doctor’s eyes.
“So I gave her a draught of laudanum before I continued.”
“Gave her?” The idea of Price forcing the sedative down a frantic Charlotte’s throat sent a surge of protective fury through him.
The poor woman did not know where she was and who she was with.
Let alone being awakened with such agony.
She must have been half mad with fear. Benjamin knew the feeling well.
“Yes. I could not otherwise have finished the operation. And without the proper staff, I might add.” Price looked simultaneously apprehensive and affronted. He clearly knew the power Benjamin wielded but also felt the indignity of serving someone of such dubious birth.
All that considered, he was an excellent doctor, and Benjamin recognised the invaluable service he had provided in saving Charlotte’s life. From a wound he himself had inflicted.
“Thank you, Doctor Price. You will be compensated generously for your impeccable efforts.” Benjamin suddenly felt devilishly tired, and he waved a hand in the air, dismissing the man.
He stripped off his wet outer garments and rang for a footman to take away the bloody remnants of the doctor’s work. Once a fresh jug of water appeared on the washing stand, he sponged off the grime of the morning, including some of Charlotte’s blood, and stood with his back to the hearth.
Despite her considerable height for a young woman, she looked so small in Benjamin’s bed.
Her white face shone in the dim light of the room, and he felt it calling to him like a beacon.
His mind was numb from the shock of the morning, or perhaps the excess of the night before was catching up to him.
Either way, he could not muster the aloof resistance that had become second nature over the years.
Walking over, he sat on the edge of the bed opposite her.
It was such a large bed, and she was bound to be unconscious for hours still. On top of that, it was his bed. Where else would he be able to rest his head? He was very tired.
Of course, he could sleep in one of the other chambers—though they were likely not turned out for an occupant.
He could go to Elysium, where he kept rooms that he occupied far more often than these, but that would be such an effort.
It would be no effort at all to lie atop the covers here beside Charlotte.
It would only be for a moment to rest his weary body.
It was not so improper as all that. And what did he care of propriety, anyway?
He was Benjamin Scarsdale. The most renowned rogue in all of London.
Before reason could win out, he shifted his legs upon the bed and pillowed his head on his arm. As sleep quickly dragged him under, he watched the fading form of Charlotte Aston beside him until a lingering thought caught at his mind: he could stay right here, forever.
The thought was so jarring that the hard-fought exhaustion pulling at his limbs vanished in a rush of panicked adrenaline. He fixed his gaze on the canopy of the bed, trying to calm his jackrabbiting heart.