Chapter 28 #2
"It was," Damien replied flatly, removing his gloves one finger at a time.
Benedict studied him for a heartbeat before the amusement faded from his face. "That serious?"
Damien met his eyes. "Private room."
Benedict merely nodded.
Without another word they followed the servant upstairs, passing richly paneled corridors until they reached a quiet chamber furnished with a round mahogany table, several leather chairs, and a roaring fireplace despite the mild weather.
The servant closed the heavy door behind them, leaving the room wrapped in welcome silence.
Benedict waited until the latch clicked shut before folding his arms. "Now," he said more quietly, "what has happened?"
Damien remained standing for a long moment, his fingers resting upon the back of a chair. He rarely asked anyone for assistance. In truth, he despised needing it. Yet this matter no longer concerned only himself. Every decision now carried consequences for Seraphine, and that changed everything.
"I have a problem," Damien said at last, lifting his eyes to Benedict's. "And I require your assistance."
Benedict's expression softened at once. "You have only to ask," he replied, taking the opposite chair. "You know that."
Damien drew a slow breath, hating even the taste of the admission.
"I have received a threat," Damien said, his jaw tightening as he rested one hand on the back of the chair.
Benedict leaned forward, his earlier levity fading at once. "From whom?" he asked, folding his hands upon the table.
"Lord Pemberley," Damien replied, his voice clipped.
A brief silence followed as Benedict's brows lifted in disbelief. "Augustus Bowditch?" he repeated, leaning back slowly in his chair.
"The very same," Damien said, his expression darkening.
Benedict frowned thoughtfully before resting one elbow upon the table.
"And why exactly is Lord Pemberley threatening the Duke of Wexford?" he asked. "Most gentlemen possess a healthy instinct for self-preservation."
Damien's jaw tightened. "I may have punched him," Damien said, as though the admission itself offended him.
For one perfect second Benedict stared at him in silence, his brows lifting.
Then he burst into loud, unrestrained laughter, leaning back in his chair and clutching at the table for support.
"You what?" he gasped between laughs, dabbing at one eye with the heel of his hand.
Damien remained entirely unmoved, though his fingers curled once against the back of the chair.
"It was justified," he said coolly.
"Oh, I have no doubt it was," Benedict chuckled, still grinning broadly as he shook his head. "I simply wish I had witnessed it. Did he squeal?"
"He flew rather well," Damien replied, his tone dry enough to parch the room.
That only sent Benedict into another fit of laughter, one hand pressed to his stomach as if he might split in two.
"I knew I should have attended the soiree at Amberhall," Benedict declared at last, wiping at his eyes. "Instead I was trapped discussing sheep with my steward."
Damien allowed the corner of his mouth to twitch for scarcely a heartbeat before the gravity of the matter settled once more.
"It was foolish," he admitted quietly. "I should have exercised greater restraint."
Benedict's smile faded. "What happened afterwards?"
Damien looked towards the closed door before lowering his voice.
"At the wedding breakfast," Damien said, as he recalled the moment, "Augustus approached me."
Benedict's brows lifted. "And?"
"He noticed the scarf Seraphine wore," Damien replied, folding one hand behind his back as though that might keep the memory in order.
Benedict frowned, his fingers drumming once against the arm of his chair. "What of it?"
"He recognized the silk," Damien said, his voice dropping a fraction.
Realization slowly dawned across Benedict's features. He leaned forward, the humor draining from his expression. "Silk from France?"
Damien gave one curt nod, his mouth flattening.
Benedict sat back in his chair and let out a slow breath. "How did Seraphine come by such a thing?" he asked carefully, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "Was it some family heirloom?"
"No," Damien said at once, his gaze hardening. His voice remained level. "I gave it to her." Silence settled heavily between them. "It arrived on my most recent shipment."
Benedict slowly rubbed both hands over his face before exhaling through his nose. "Oh." He looked at Damien for several moments. "Oh, I see."
Damien moved around the table until he stood beside Benedict's chair. Leaning down slightly, he spoke quietly enough that even the walls themselves seemed unlikely to overhear.
"I do not expect you to become entangled in my trade."
Benedict remained silent.
"It is my crime," Damien continued evenly. "Mine alone. What passes through the Channel passes because I command it. The Crown would show no mercy if the operation were discovered." He straightened. "I know I have your confidence, Benedict," Damien said quietly, his voice low and controlled.
His green eyes hardened as he held Benedict's gaze. "But I will not have you punished for my choices."
Benedict regarded him steadily for a long moment, then gave a slow nod, his expression sobering. "Your secret dies with me," he said at last.
Damien inclined his head once, the smallest acknowledgement. "I know."
Another silence passed.
Finally Benedict clasped his hands together. "So," he said briskly, "what precisely do you require of me?"
"I need Pemberley found. He made a threat regarding Seraphine.
You see she was the reason I punched him and his pride has been hurt.
So now I believe he is going to go after her and blackmail me.
" Damien's answer came without hesitation.
"I need to know where he goes, whom he speaks with and whether he intends to act upon his threats. "
"And?" Benedict asked, leaning forward in his chair.
"And nothing more," Damien said, his tone clipped as he folded his arms.
Benedict studied his oldest friend for a long moment. "You intend to deal with him yourself."
Damien neither confirmed nor denied it. His silence proved answer enough.
Benedict sighed. "I know precisely the man."
Damien looked up.
"My solicitor occasionally employs an investigator named Gantry," Benedict said tapping one finger against the armrest. "The fellow is remarkably discreet," he added, glancing at Damien with a knowing look.
"He uncovers secrets other men fail even to notice," Benedict finished, folding his hands neatly over his waistcoat.
"And," he added with a crooked grin, "he believes confidentiality is considerably more profitable than honesty. "
Damien considered the information. "Can he be trusted?" He fixed his gaze on his friend’s face.
Benedict gave a small, knowing shrug, one hand idly smoothing the front of his waistcoat. "With sufficient payment? That buys you his trust." A slow smile touched his mouth as he leaned back in his chair. "To the grave."
A measure of tension eased from Damien's shoulders, and he exhaled through his nose before giving a curt nod. "Good," Damien said tersely. "Then send him a letter to meet us and we shall dine as we wait," Damien added, his tone brooking no argument.
Benedict blinked. "We are discussing treason and blackmail," Benedict said, rising from his chair with a shake of his head.
"We still require being fed," Damien replied, already reaching for the door.
"I appreciate a man with priorities," Benedict said dryly.
Damien opened the door and regarded the waiting footman with cool composure.
"Luncheon," he instructed calmly. "For two and bring parchment, quill and ink pot. We will be sending an urgent letter."
The servant bowed at once, hands clasped neatly before him. "At once, Your Grace."
For the first time since Lord Pemberley had uttered his veiled threat, Damien felt as though events were once again moving according to his design. Augustus had made one fatal mistake.
He has threatened my wife. And I've never been known to leave debts unpaid.