Her grating voice wrapped around him as he hovered, lying in wait and trying to keep hold of everything he’d eaten throughout the day. Laughter floated up from the cluster of ladies, Cynthia’s practiced and false. She was the perfect representation of a woman groomed to claw her way into the beau monde. Her family’s desperation for status, and the viscount’s need to marry Benedict off to anyone who would have him had made their engagement a perfect one—save for the fact that Benedict, even if he were attracted to women in any way, would never desire someone like Cynthia for a bride.
A lull in the conversation provided Benedict an opening. Four heads swiveled toward him, and Benedict offered a polite bow. He kept his gaze on Cynthia, who stared back at him with cold calculation hardening her dark eyes.
She had changed very little, and looked as if she’d stepped right out of Benedict’s memories. How could he have stood in any room with Cynthia and not know she was there? Being face to face with her now made him go cold, as if a sheet of ice coated the surface of his skin.
“I beg your pardon, ladies,” he said in his most cordial tones. “You all look lovely this evening.”
Giggles and flickers of fans were followed by choruses of ‘thank you, Mr. Sterling,’ and ‘you’re too kind.’ Cynthia remained silent, lips compressed.
Benedict grinned, her discomfiture emboldening him. “Miss Milbank, I haven’t seen you in an age. I pray you have been well.”
“Quite well, Mr. Sterling,” she replied. “Thank you.”
“I will admit to crossing the room in the hopes that you had not promised the next dance to anyone else. Please say you haven’t … I’ll be wounded if you are.”
Sly glances and flirtatious smiles came from Cynthia’s companions, and Benedict indulged them with an upward tick of one eyebrow. Cynthia’s chin jutted defiantly, but he could see that she realized she’d been trapped. If she cut him, rumors would swirl as to why. Their short-lived engagement wasn’t a widespread fact, but the connection between their families was.
Forcing another one of her humorless smiles, Cynthia accepted his proffered hand. “You are in luck, Mr. Sterling.”
“Splendid.”
Benedict placed her gloved hand on his arm, stiffening in revulsion at the nearness and scent of her. His stomach roiled as his mind sprung forth with things he’d rather forget. This woman and her father had conspired with the viscount to trap him into an unwanted marriage, and added further trauma to what had already been an impossibly difficult time in his life. He would not forgive them for it.
“Ah, a waltz,” he murmured as they entered the dance floor. “You are permitted to dance it, are you not? While still unmarried, you are certainly old enough to be allowed a waltz.”
Cynthia’s fingers dug into his forearm. “It is impolite to remark upon a lady’s age, though I should not expect decorum from an impertinent wastrel such as yourself.”
Benedict kept his gaze over her shoulder as they positioned themselves for the dance, every part of him rebelling against her nearness. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, conjuring up a more desirable situation. His mind inundated him with memories of guiding Alex through the steps. Instead of being annoyed at the thought of Alex, Benedict was relieved. There was something comforting about the memory of leading Alex through the steps, chuckling when a mistimed step resulted in sore toes.
Will you dance tonight? … You were always a magnificent dancer.
The first refrain of the music jarred Benedict back to the present, and he led Cynthia into the dance. She executed the dance with a stiff awkwardness that forced him to compensate.
“I am surprised you approached me this evening,” Cynthia remarked, her tone suddenly light and nonchalant. “A few years ago, you could not be away from me quickly enough.”
“I didn’t ask you to dance so we could rehash the past. I was never going to marry you, and you were foolish to believe our fathers could bring me to heel.”
“And you were naive to think calling off our engagement wouldn’t result in consequences. I warned you not to do it, but you didn’t listen.”
“You are right,” Benedict conceded. “I underestimated how vindictive you could be.”
“You destroyed any chance I had of making a good match.”
“Your father did that, with help from mine. Or have you forgotten that after I refused to go through with the engagement, the three of you conspired to drug me beyond comprehension so you could slip uninvited into my bed?”
Cynthia swiveled her head toward him, causing a near misstep, which Benedict corrected with a sharp turn. “You certainly rose to the occasion readily enough,” she spat.
“I was out of my mind with opium, and never consented to your advances,” he hissed, his face flushing hot. He was fairly trembling now, feeling as if some monstrous beast had awakened within him and fought to burst free of his skin. “Did you honestly think forcing yourself on me would gain my compliance? I wouldn’t have you if my life depended on it.”
Her laughter pierced his eardrum like a dagger, and he nearly hurled her away from him then and there. “Suppose I told you that your life did depend on it … as well as the lives and social standing of your friends.”
“This old threat?” he scoffed. “It has grown tiresome. You do not know enough to publicly accuse us, and the fact that I know you are the London Gossip means that if I go down, I will take you with me. If you can be sure of nothing else, you be certain of that.”
A viper’s smile appeared, and Benedict half expected a forked tongue to flick from between Cynthia’s lips. “You could take me down with you, that I know. But, you might wish to withhold judgment on how much I know and what I’m willing to do with that information. You may have temporarily outsmarted me by changing the logistics of the operation, but I was determined to uncover the truth. I kept digging. Do you want to know what I discovered?”
“The suspense is killing me.”
“Along with the account given to me by Lady Carlotta Thrush—who conducted an affair with Mr. Dominick Burke and is willing to risk her own reputation to publicly tell her story—there was the rather diverting story I was told by a Madame Hershaw. You know, the old windbag is quite fond of you, as well as the obscene piles of money you paid her to provide a shelter for your secret enterprise.”
Benedict’s heart stuttered, his pulse quickening in his throat. Madame Hershaw had provided an office for him in the back of her shop, and a discreet way for clients to meet with him and negotiate their contracts. The woman was a modiste caring for a crippled, widowed son and three young grandchildren. Benedict’s payments had gone a long way toward helping her provide for her family. She would never set out to expose him without provocation and Benedict had given her none. After vacating his office, he had bestowed enough money on Madame Hershaw to keep the family afloat for a year or more. As well, his presence in her shop had increased her business tenfold.
No, she couldn’t have turned on him, and that left only one other possibility.
“What did you do to her?” he demanded.
“Oh, nothing as nefarious as you might think. I simply made her aware of my intention to expose the names of all the men involved in the Gentleman Courtesans in my paper, and that if she doesn’t aid me in that endeavor I will name her as your co-conspirator. Once she was made to see that her business would be ruined unless I painted her as an innocent victim blackmailed into helping you, Madame Hershaw was more than willing to see things my way.”
“You bitch,” Benedict growled. “You sneaking, cowardly little bitch.”
“Now, now,” she crooned. “I’m not finished yet. Perhaps you should reserve your epithets until after I’ve given you the other piece of information I uncovered. You see, there is a certain gentleman who one of my guards witnessed in the act of buggery some weeks past. When threatened with exposure, this gentleman offered anything for my man to keep his secret. As I trade in information, my servant was able to extract the
most titillating bit of gossip. Imagine my surprise to know that there are men who have frequented your business for the use of male courtesans. It was easy enough to deduce which of you was depraved enough to take on such clients. Of those closest to you, all have gone on marry, and one has even begun breeding. I find it interesting that you, Mr. Sterling, have never been publicly connected to any woman … or that the little love nest you keep with Lady Celeste Browning has seen a number of other male visitors over the years. Were you in residence when they called, I wonder?”
Benedict showed no outward reaction to Cynthia’s revelation, though he was a turbulent swell of panic and fury inside. This woman was far more dangerous than he’d ever supposed, and proved that by reminding him she was willing to hurt anyone standing in her way. Madame Hershaw, this mysterious gentleman who had likely been one of his past clients, his friends.
Taking a deep, slow breath, he forced himself to remain outwardly calm. He hadn’t lost yet.
“I fail to see why you would tell me all of this rather than expose it to the world. When last we met, I asked you what you wanted, and you weren’t ready to tell me then. But, I don’t think I need you to. You want to repay me for tossing you over.”
They came to a stop as the music’s final notes dispersed through the room and stood facing one another, shoulders squared.
Cynthia never looked away from him, her mouth twisted into a grotesque sneer. “There is something I want more than your public downfall, and if you want me to keep my mouth closed about what I know, you will give it to me.”
For the sake of the eyes watching, Benedict offered his arm. She took it, and a current of heated malice flowed between them as they made their way off the dance floor.
“I’m waiting,” he grumbled, knowing she currently had him over a barrel and hating her even more for it.
“Your refusal to marry me after ruining me—”
“After you ruined yourself by taking advantage of my drugged state,” he interjected with a sharp glare from the corner of his eye.
“Semantics are unimportant. The fact is, my ineligibility for marriage has left me dependent upon my father—a circumstance I am sure you understand. Your invention of the Gentleman Courtesans freed you from the viscount, and I want the same.”
“And you think I can offer you that?”
“I know you can. With the money you’ve earned with your indecent activities, you are more than capable of ensuring I can live the rest of my life as I please.”
Realization dawned on Benedict, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. “Name your price.”
“Fifty-thousand pounds. It is far less than I could have asked for, but I’m not entirely unreasonable. Consider it restitution for what you did to me.”
Benedict could hardly believe her gall. She had aided his father in violating him, yet could stand here and so smugly make demands of him? Jerking his arm out of her hold, he turned to face her. They now stood on the edge of the bulk of the crowd, going unnoticed by those reveling around them.
“And if I refuse?”
“You can expect an issue of The London Gossip dedicated solely to exposing the truth about you and the Gentleman Courtesans—including the involvement of Madame Hershaw, Lady Browning, and Lady Dane. Fifty thousand pounds is nothing in the face of ruination for everyone you hold dear. The mention of your male clients is sure to be included as well.”
Benedict was rapidly losing the battle with his body, his nape prickling with sweat. His stomach threatened to embarrass him at any moment.
“I am a patient woman,” she added. “I’m willing to give you three weeks to produce the funds before I print my story. I understand you need time to fully grapple with the implications of all this. You see? I can be generous.”
Benedict glowered at her, not trusting himself to speak. He swayed on his feet, suddenly mortified to realize he might swoon. His mind clouded with too many thoughts to sift through, and he was drowning.
A lifeline appeared in the form of Celeste, who materialized at his side like an angel. She took Benedict’s arm, but kept her fiery gaze on Cynthia.
“Begone, you foul creature,” Celeste commanded. “Or I will scratch your eyes out in the middle of this ballroom and damn the ensuing gossip.”
Cynthia offered her chilling smile, snapping her fan open and wafting it before her face. “Mr. Sterling, you know where to find me.”
Benedict choked down bile, craning his neck to search for an avenue of escape.
Sensing his crisis, Celeste gently steered him toward one of the ballroom’s side doors.
“Come with me,” she said. “The duchess is a thoughtful woman who always makes drawing rooms available for a reprieve from the crush. Steady now … we’re almost there.”
Benedict breathed easier once they were free of the bright lighting and cloying heat of the ballroom, and he numbly allowed Celeste to guide him through an open door. Once safely inside, he paced away from her, jerking at his cravat—which seemed to have formed a noose about his neck. Fumbling with the nearest window, he jerked it open and sucked in deep pulls of fresh, cold air.
“Ben?” Celeste called from the doorway. “What can I do? What did that witch say to you?”
Benedict bowed his head and slowed his greedy breaths to a steadier rhythm. “I cannot speak of it just now, Celeste. I need time … I need …”
What did he need? His entire life was disintegrating, after years of building a fortress of wealth and independence around himself. He had thought himself so clever, outfoxing Cynthia in their little game. Benedict had never expected her to uncover his closely held and most dangerous secret.
“Ben?” Celeste prodded.
“Go,” he murmured, slumping into the nearest armchair and squeezing his eyes shut. “I will be all right. I just need a moment. Return to the ball, and I will send for you when I’m ready to leave.”
Benedict felt her concerned gaze on him, but was unable to open his eyes. Within the dark void there was comfort, a temporary respite from an impending storm.
The door clicked shut, and Benedict slumped in the chair, feeling as if he had been pummeled from head to toe. The urge to march back into the ballroom and tell Cynthia that he’d die before giving her a single ha’penny was potent. However, he couldn’t discount what she knew or how she’d come to know it. He and his friends might be able to combat their exposure as Gentleman Courtesans, but Benedict wouldn’t recover from being outed as a sodomite. He might have brushed it off as a libelous rumor, if not for his father’s determination to bring him to heel.
With Cynthia’s claims as ammunition, it would be appallingly easy for the viscount to have Benedict committed and disinherited. While he didn’t care a whit about the title, he did value his freedom and would slit his own throat rather than allow mad doctors to have their way with him. While being hanged for sodomy was also a possibility, it wasn’t nearly as frightening as what the viscount had in store.
Benedict was jarred out of his reverie when the door swung open. A gentleman rushed through the door, then leaned against it. Benedict scowled as Mr. Martin Lewes stared at him with wide, frantic eyes. Benedict hadn’t spoken to the man in weeks, and saw no reason Lewes would accost him publicly. He had been engaged to the wife of his friend, Dominick Burke, and made it as far as the nuptial altar before she’d jilted him. The runaway bride had eloped with Dominick immediately, snatching her enormous fortune right out from under Lewes—who was desperate for funds to supplement the crumbling estate he would soon inherit.
“Lewes,” he snapped. “What the devil do you want?”
Lewes cleared his throat and took a timid step away from the door, wringing his hands. “I … I had hoped we could talk … negotiate.”
Benedict snorted and rolled his eyes. “We’ve been over this, Martin. You are destitute, and I am no longer willing to go on siphoning what little funds you do have. It bothers me to see you pawning your things to pay my fee. We’re done, and I will n
ot change my mind.”
Lewes’s wide, sky-blue eyes pleaded with Benedict as he came farther into the room. He was a pretty man, not to Benedict’s taste, but that never mattered where money was concerned. Not long after Lewes’s ruined wedding, Benedict had discovered him prowling Bowling Green in Marylebone in the dead of night—a well-known and convenient place for a man to find himself a renter for the night. The discovery that Lewes hid secret sexual urges didn’t surprise Benedict, as he had suspected the man from the start. A short conversation revealed that Lewes had never carried through with his plan to pay for a companion for the night. It had been far too easy to gain him as a client, though the man’s limited funds had made it a brief one. Now that Lewes’s appetites had been awakened, he’d become a chore to deal with. This was his third time approaching Benedict about resuming their arrangement.
“I can pay you,” Lewes pleaded, going down to his knees and resting his hands on Benedict’s thighs. His soft, manicured hands stroked upward, his gaze fixed on the fall of Benedict’s breeches. “Perhaps not as much upfront, but I’ll make it up, I promise. Please …”
Benedict pushed the invading hands away from his buttons and rose to his feet. “Get up. You’re making a fool of yourself.”
“Only because you so skillfully introduced me to pleasures I could never have imagined, only to take them away. I’ll give you whatever you want if you only consider it.”
Benedict stepped around Lewes. “For Christ’s sake man, have some pride! You’re kneeling on the rug like a besotted fool. I will not tolerate you accosting me.”
“I can be discreet … you know I can!”
Benedict paused halfway to the door, a sudden thought occurring to him. “Are you acquainted with Miss Cynthia Milbank?”
Lewes staggered to his feet. “Miss Milbank? I wouldn’t say I’m particularly familiar with her, but we have encountered one another on occasion.”
Chasing Benedict (The Gentleman Courtesans Book 5) Page 9