“I will inherit whether you like it or not,” Benedict reminded him. “And I’ll do it regardless of how I behave or dress or speak.”
The viscount turned to face him, the afternoon light revealing the silver strands interrupting the blond shade of his hair. Those gray strands, as well as the tiny wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, were the only hints to the viscount’s age. He was as brawny and robust as ever, and Benedict supposed he could appreciate that he might inherit that same agelessness.
“I have decided to take you in hand,” the viscount said. “Your days of a bachelor’s idle pursuits are at an end. While I am in London, I intend to compile a list of eligible ladies for you to consider. You will choose the one who suits you and pursue her for marriage. Your reputation will not matter in the face of the family fortunes and estate, as well as your status as my heir. A few months of reformed behavior and public courtship should position you nicely as a groom for your future viscountess. You will marry her and do your utmost to sire an heir within one year.”
Benedict’s lips quivered, amusement overtaking his annoyance. He searched his father’s face for any trace of humor, but found none. Of course he found none—the viscount didn’t possess a humorous bone in his entire body.
Shoulders quivering with barely-suppressed laughter, Benedict stared at his father with defiant glee. “No.”
The viscount raised an eyebrow. “No?”
“That’s right. No to your list of ladies, no to your stipulations of marriage and an heir. No to all of it.”
His father rolled his eyes as if dealing with a petulant child. “You intend to be difficult. I expected nothing less, which is why I’ve taken precautions to ensure my directives are followed to the letter.”
Benedict wanted to tell his father to sod off, then quit the room. But, he couldn’t afford to ignore the viscount’s threats without knowing the totality of his plans. His father had taken him unawares once, nearly breaking Benedict in the process. He couldn’t allow that to happen again.
“What precautions?”
Now the viscount was practically overflowing with glee, his eyes glittering with malicious intent. “I paid Dr. Pruett a generous sum to accompany me to London. As of now, he’s been put up in a Mayfair hotel to enjoy the lavish accommodations his own funds cannot afford. However, he can be summoned on a moment’s notice to take you in hand should I deem it necessary. His methods in treating the insane are very effective … as you well know.”
Benedict’s blood ran cold as a dozen memories flooded his mind—being immersed in tubs filled with ice-water, held under until he couldn’t breathe through the pain of a thousand icicles pricking his skin. His skin crawled as if assaulted with leeches, his throat burning with acidic bile as he recalled the taste of purgative potions that had nearly caused him to starve.
He didn’t fear much, but the threat of a mad-doctor was enough to shatter his bravado. The viscount knew this, his expression like the cat who ate the canary as he watched Benedict process his ultimatum.
“That’s right,” he said. “If you cannot be coaxed to the altar, then you can be declared insane. After all, only a madman prefers the attentions of his own sex over those of a woman. Such foul acts are an abomination in the eyes of God. I could have you declared incompetent and disinherited. I would rather see my title go to one of your distant cousins than have it sullied by a twisted, corrupted sodomite!”
Benedict shot to his feet, that word jabbing through his spine like the sharpest of daggers. His knuckles ached when he clenched his fists, but the rest of him was on fire, ready for a fight. Benedict would never forgive himself for the carelessness that had led to the viscount learning his secret. He had been paying for it ever since.
“Call me that again—”
“It’s what you are,” the viscount spat, his disgust clear. “And if it means protecting my legacy, I’ll expose you to the world for the disgusting creature you’ve become.”
Benedict bared his teeth in a feral grin “No one will believe it. You see, part of my damaged reputation is due to my connection to a certain woman. Everyone in London has seen me in her company, and knows I spend several nights a week at her lodgings. I’ve also been seen entertaining whores in public on a frequent basis.”
The viscount scoffed. “They will believe the word of a respected peer over that of a notorious scapegrace.”
“I’m willing to take that bet.”
A tense silence filled the air between them, neither man willing to back down or show weakness. It was the bane of Benedict’s life to know the person he loathed most in the world was also the person he had inherited the majority of his traits from. Not only his looks but an uncompromising stubbornness that could rival that of an ass. His quick temper, his athletic reflexes, the ability to read people and exploit both their weaknesses and their best qualities—all inherited from the man who had made his life a constant torment.
The viscount broke first, turning away and striding toward the door. “I realize that my unexpected arrival has caught you off guard. Defiance is typical of you, so I will excuse your impertinence for now. What you need is time to think and to consider all the ways I could make your life a living hell if you refuse to comply.”
“You will never control me again,” Benedict ground out, staring at his father’s back and wishing the heat of his anger was enough to burn away flesh and bone until he was staring at the empty hollow of his father’s chest.
The viscount glanced at Benedict over his shoulder with a mocking smirk. “You have one week to make your final decision. For your sake, I hope you will choose the right one.”
Benedict remained where he stood once his father had departed, the heavy tread of his footsteps carrying him upstairs. It annoyed him to no end that the viscount would be in residence for the foreseeable future, with Benedict impotent to do anything about it. The house belonged to his father, after all, though he preferred to reside in the country.
He waited until the slam of a door resounded through the house before moving, taking deep, rapid breaths to keep a fit of temper at bay. Just now, he wanted to turn every piece of furniture into kindling, shatter the porcelain and glass across the rug, and pound at the walls until they were riddled with impressions of his knuckles.
But, there was no time for that. His father’s arrival had just thrown all his plans off-balance, adding yet another complication to a problem of epic proportions.
Benedict took the stairs two at a time, determination propelling every step. Experience told him that his father’s threat wasn’t idle, and after years of struggling to bring Benedict to heel, he might finally be ready to play the final card in his deck. That pressing issue was secondary to the real reason Benedict was suddenly in a hurry to leave the house.
He stormed into his room, startling Simmons—whose face appeared from the doorway of the washroom, eyes wide and questioning.
“Sir, I’ve just finished preparing the shower-bath and water for shaving. Shall I—”
“Yes,” Benedict said, already yanking his shirttails free of his breeches as he raced toward the door to the washroom attached to his suite. “I am in a hurry, Simmons. Step lightly.”
“Of course, sir.”
Benedict felt Simmons’s curious gaze as he breezed past, working his fall open. The entire household would speculate over what went on between father and son—and if any of the maids had overheard the conversation downstairs, talk would spread to every servant under this roof by nightfall. Benedict had no need to fear that the gossip would travel outside this house. He had painstakingly selected discreet, loyal servants. As well, Simmons, his butler, three of the footmen, the cook, and one of the scullery maids all had something in common with him. They were too busy keeping the fact that they were attracted to their own sex a secret to go about telling others that Benedict was a molly.
Leaving wasn’t an option, either. It annoyed the viscount to no end that Benedict had claimed the family townhouse
as his personal residence. It amused Benedict to make a space that belonged to his father into his own domain. If Benedict remained in residence while his father was in London, it might drive the man back to Norfolk. Though, that was a long shot and Benedict knew it. His father would remain until he had his way, which meant Benedict needed to formulate a plan to put a stop to this idea of a forced marriage.
Benedict should have no problem doing this now the matter of Alex had been settled to his satisfaction. He refused to expend another ounce of energy thinking of his former lover. They were finished, and the sooner Alex understood that, the sooner he could return to Kent and leave Benedict in peace.
Settling those matters for the time being and pushing them to the back of his mind, he turned his thoughts back toward The London Gossip. As he bent to pump the fresh, warm water from the bottom of the shower-bath into the top chamber, he fairly trembled with fury at the thought of her. Tipping his head back and closing his eyes, Benedict pulled the cord and allowed the steady shower of water to rinse away the grimy feeling of having slept in his clothes.
For almost a year now, the Gossip had been toying with him, using the details of his life as fodder for the society gossip-mill. In the beginning, it had been easy enough to ignore. She hadn’t written anything about him that the rest of the ton didn’t already whisper behind his back. It wasn’t until she’d begun digging into the operations of his secret agency that Benedict felt compelled to put a stop to her malicious ways once and for all.
The idea of putting his friends to work as male courtesans in secret had been born of a desire to help them. Like him, they had all been in dire financial straits with no other means of gaining steady income. Hugh, David, Dominick, and Aubrey had readily gone along with the idea, trusting Benedict to protect their secrets and orchestrate their arrangements. For his part, Benedict received a small percentage of each courtesan’s earnings, though he had amassed a tidy sum by his own means. Unlike his friends, who could escort their keepers about London under the guise of respectability, Benedict was forced to conduct his own liaisons in secret. A man couldn’t spit in Town without it landing on a man who either knew he was attracted to his own sex, was curious about relations with other men and wished to experiment, or who were in denial about their own natures. Benedict’s skill at sniffing them out and making them want him badly enough to pay whatever he asked had reversed his circumstances and helped scratch the physical itch resulting from lack of intimacy with anyone since Alex. The other things Benedict had to go without—closeness, affection, camaraderie—none of them mattered anymore. He had taught himself not to need them, and the men who’d paid to keep him at their disposal over the years seemed content for their arrangements to be about mutual pleasure and nothing else.
As stories about the mysterious Gentleman Courtesans swept through high society like wildfire, The London Gossip had begun using her paper to vilify the courtesans—calling them a foul corruption she intended to ferret out and expose. Benedict’s folly had been thinking her harmless, a mistake he would never make again. The woman’s vendetta against the courtesans had been one of self-righteous indignation and an inflated sense of so-called morality. Her hostility toward Benedict had felt far too personal, and after a visit to a dear friend with the right connections, he had discovered exactly why.
He scrubbed furiously with a cake of cedar-scented soap, knowing that the cloying scent of lily-of-the-valley was only a figment of his imagination. It had been his first clue to the identity of the anonymous London Gossip, who always obscured her features whenever they crossed paths. The scent had niggled at a long-buried memory, one he had actively worked to forget—along with recollections of the attentions of the mad-doctor. There were parts of his past he had chosen to eliminate from his mind, but some things simply couldn’t be outrun.
She had played her hand first, revealing that she knew the identities of most of the men in his employ. He had countered by cutting off circulation of her paper, buying himself time to prevent the exposure of his own secrets, as well as those of his friends. Now, she had revived their little war by finding a way to resume circulation of her paper, and her first issue had skewered him like a fish.
However, he still had the upper hand, for the woman didn’t yet know that Benedict had discovered her identity. Now that he had it, they were no longer on uneven ground. He knew his enemy better than she realized and would use what he knew to destroy her.
Resolved, he pumped more water to rinse himself, enjoying the warm deluge over his skin. In one corner of the washroom stood a copper tub he never made use of. Benedict had no idea why he kept the thing, as just looking at it conjured yet another memory best left locked away. Reason told him he was too old, too big to drown in a tub that he had to bend his knees to fit in, but the instincts of one who had endured unspeakable torture could not be rewritten. Bathtubs were off-limits for the anxiety-inducing affect they had on his broken mind.
Tearing his gaze from the empty tub, he strode into the bedchamber with one length of toweling wrapped around his waist while using the other to scrub at his dripping hair. Simmons waited at the washstand with a razor and steaming pitcher of water. Plopping into his chair, Benedict slouched and tipped his head back.
“After you finish my toilette, I need you to take a message to Warin Lyons—he lives over on Half-Moon Street. You remember the address?”
“Of course, sir,” Simmons replied while laying a damp, warm towel over the lower half of Benedict’s face.
The sound of razor to strop came next, almost soothing in its rhythm, like the ocean lapping at the shore.
“Good. Write nothing down. I need you to deliver this message verbally. Hail a hackney and take pains to ensure you aren’t followed.”
“Understood. The message, sir?”
“Tell Lyons I need him to meet me at Rowland-Drake Haberdashery in one hour.”
“Yes, sir.”
Simmons fell silent then, getting to work making Benedict look less like a vagabond and more of a gentleman. He had no care for fashion or the latest trends in men’s hair and such hogwash. Simmons was free to dress him as he pleased, as long as he adhered to Benedict’s preference for muted, neutral colors and shunned flamboyant embellishments.
Such thoughts inevitably led him back to Alex, who was as much his opposite in this regard as he was in every other aspect. The man was obsessed with fabrics and unusual color combinations, unafraid to be daring and reject the strictures of fashion as dictated by Brummel and his ilk. Most men could never carry off such eclectic style with grace, but Alex was in a league of his own. No one looked as well in cravats died shades of jonquil and burgundy, or waistcoats in contrasting hues of scarlet and tangerine—like the beacon of a robin’s breast.
A stirring in Benedict’s chest trickled downward as he recalled countless occasions upon which he had stripped Alex out of his finery, delighting in the distress he caused by tearing at buttons and casually throwing articles to the floor. His propensity for leaving his things lying around had irked Alex to no end, but Benedict could make him forget about the clothing strewn over the floor once he got his hands and mouth on bare skin.
Shifting in the chair, he stifled the niggling of arousal in his groin, annoyed with himself for the path of his thoughts. Benedict had left his past where it belonged—behind him—and that included the remnants of what he had shared with Alex. It had all been a lie, a pleasant diversion for Alex until the time came for him to legitimize his standing as a peer with a bride. Raising a hand to his temple, Benedict ran his first finger along the scar that stopped just short of his hairline. Two inches in length, the raised, puckered aberration often burned with phantom pains as imagined as a bathtub drowning that would never happen. But Benedict reveled in the pain. Pain was how he knew he was still alive, how he remembered to stay away from things that could hurt him.
And nothing had ever hurt him the way Alex had, not even his father who excelled at inflicting agony on him
. The reminder of where this scar had come from was enough to strengthen his will. Loving Alex had nearly killed him, and Benedict had learned to appreciate his life after fighting to make his own place in it.
Nothing and no one would take that from him. Not even the only person he’d ever truly loved. Clearly, Alex hadn’t loved him enough to stay. It was all Benedict needed to know.
Chapter 3
“The Earl of V has returned to London at long last! This author happened to spot him at a confectioner’s shop yesterday afternoon. However, it wasn’t the excessive sweets he purchased that gave me pause … but the garish display of attire as colorful as the inside of an artist’s paintbox. While half a year of mourning is appropriate enough for a widower, one must wonder how much the earl could have loved his countess if he mourns her loss with sweets and ostentatious waistcoats.”
-The London Gossip, 25 January 1820
Benedict had another call to pay before making his way to Rowland-Drake, the linen-drapery and haberdashery owned by his best friend. Coincidentally, the person he was going to see lived on Half-Moon Street, several houses down from Warin Lyons. However, he couldn’t be seen at Lyons’s residence, lest the man’s connection to the Gentleman Courtesans be uncovered. However, the lady he had come to speak with—Lady Millicent Dane—was the only person in London whose reputation could be called worse than his. The Gossip was also aware of Benedict’s connection to Millicent, and that her infamous secret parties had been used to conduct courtesan business. There was nothing left to hide, so Benedict boldly strode to her front door and knocked.
Chasing Benedict (The Gentleman Courtesans Book 5) Page 5