“No.” The word came from his throat rough. “It would not be worth it.”
He got his horse and went out to the cotton fields that day, needing the distance from his family and space to come to terms with what he must do. But the next morning, despite all, he called at her house.
“You are not welcome here.” Her aunt barred the door as though he were a barbarian who would storm through if hindered.
“By you, or your niece?”
Her nostrils flared. “She does not wish to see you again.”
“Then she should tell me so herself.”
“She told me so in no uncertain terms, sirrah. She said she was mistaken in encouraging you to imagine she had any particular attachment to you.” Her gaze raked him with distaste, as though he did not even merit disdain. For nearly a decade Ben had been the recipient of such appraisals from his schoolmates, even his masters at university. He thought he had become accustomed to it.
“Then good day, madam.” He bowed, mounted his horse, and rode to her uncle’s warehouse office.
Stack met him with a wary, anxious face that suggested he knew perfectly well Ben’s position in Madras. Ben spoke to him briefly and clearly, and without awaiting a reply departed. He would not be gainsaid in this matter.
That afternoon, a half-Japanese manservant presented himself for work at the Madras home of Mr. George Stack. The Englishman employed the native without question. When the family departed for Bengal the following morning, the new manservant went with them. Thereafter, every three months, a letter arrived for Ben wherever he was. Like clockwork.
Even then he never wondered if what his mother and her aunt had said about Octavia was true. He had not wondered until she came to his house with a fiancée then kissed him anyway. Until she became a player in a game between wealthy men, at least one with something to hide.
Perhaps Crispin’s possessiveness had to do with Styles. Something Ben did not wish to consider. But he knew he must. He needed to learn the truth, and he needed it to justify his suspicions. Because if it was not her fault that matters had gone as they had seven years ago, then it was his. And that simply could not be.
Chapter 11
To SINK. To force a vessel under the surface of the water.—Falconer’s Dictionary of the Marine
The following day Ben set off with his gentlemen guests for another interminable morning of spraying birdshot at flying targets.
“Up to my ears in contested lading bills,” Lord Gosworth grumbled, pouring iron pellets down his gun barrels.
“You and I both.” Lord Crispin watched the earl load his weapon. “Still, soon as I am back in town I’ll be stopping in at Tattersall’s for a new set of carriage horses.” He turned to Ben. “Do you know of any fine animals coming up for auction, Doreé?”
Ben lifted a brow. “Only what anyone might.”
Crispin grinned. “Always seeming to know news of the trade before anyone else does not qualify you as generally omniscient, is that it?”
Ben studied the man. The baron was roughly his own age, well set up, and he never showed himself poorly amongst ladies or gentlemen. Nothing flickered in his gaze now, no hint of secrecy, guilt, or even ire.
“I am humbled by your praise, sir, if praise is intended.”
“Of course it is. If I had half your blunt, Doreé, I’d be a happy man indeed.”
“Got yourself a pretty little girl there.” Gosworth set the gun cock to his shoulder. “Should be perfectly happy already.”
Crispin blinked. Twice.
Wings pounded the air. The earl fired, the blast echoing across the field. A bird dropped.
“Fine shot, my good man!” Nathans shouted from a distance, saluting with his gun. “Fine shot.”
“Fool of a novice,” Lord Gosworth mumbled. “He’ll get himself killed waving his piece around like a schoolboy.” He moved toward his prize.
Crispin’s gaze seemed to struggle for focus. He looked straight at Ben, his regard uncustomarily cloudy. Ben’s breath slowed. As a boy he had been taught to recognize the moment of weakness in his adversary, and to take advantage of it.
“Lord Crispin,” he said quietly, “may I assist you in any way?”
Crispin’s brow pleated. “I— No.” He looked toward his partner. “Nathans, you know. Not accustomed to gentlemanly sport.” But his tone lacked conviction, and his brow remained beetled.
Ben nodded, and continued after the earl toward the thicket.
After dinner, he encouraged the gentlemen to enjoy a round of billiards, instructing the footman to maintain full glasses. Conversation turned to business. Lord Gosworth complained of tea smugglers undercutting the profits of honest traders, drawing round agreement. Someone mentioned recent opposition in Parliament, another the blasted missionaries poking their noses into everything. Crispin remained subdued.
Pennworthy took his leave early, preoccupied with his wife and colicky infant. The others bade good-night at intervals until finally only Nathans remained, as Ben had hoped. He invited him to the library nestled in a far corner of the house and ladled brandy into him until the man finally fell upon the divan with a mighty snort.
Ben poured himself a drink—his first of the evening—and sipped it pensively, watching the bluff fellow snore and despising himself for what he was about to do.
He set Samuel to guard outside the library door and made his way to the other end of the house. Lady Nathans reclined in the drawing room, alone, where according to Ben’s servants she had been every night until late. Waiting for him or some other lucky fellow.
“Your husband, it seems,” he leaned his shoulder against the doorpost, “has some trouble holding his liquor.”
She barely batted a lash. “But you haven’t, apparently, my lord?” She unfolded herself from the sofa with feline sinuousness, assessing him from brow to toe. Appreciation shone in her narrow emerald gaze, and clear intentionality. “How convenient for you.”
He laid aside his regret. For the moment. “For both of us, my lady.”
She moved toward him, a studied provocatrice.
“He mentioned something before he dropped off.” Ben mimicked intimacy with his tone. “A matter preying upon his mind lately concerning his partner.”
She halted inches away, the unmistakable scents of Parisian perfume and promiscuous female twining in his nostrils.
“Oh, no, that is impossible. My husband hasn’t any mind upon which a matter might prey.” She slid the tip of her tongue along the berry-red curve of her lower lip.
“You are harsh on him, I think.” He allowed his gaze to dip to her bosom covered by a thin gown more suited to London than the countryside.
“But, you see, he is rather harsh on me.” She tilted her chin up, her chestnut curls glistening in the candlelight. “In one particularly unpleasant manner.”
“What manner is that?”
She traced a fingertip along the lapel of his coat to his waist. “He has no idea how to please a woman.” She paused and her tongue darted out again to moisten her lips. “Carnally.”
Her actions and words roused nothing in him, neither desire nor surprise. Women like Priscilla Nathans had always spoken to him in this manner, as though he understood bestial nature better than civility.
“Pity for him,” he murmured.
“Pity for me,” she replied, her fingers descending. “Until this moment.” She cupped his groin.