It Takes a Scandal

Chapter 19

The invitation from Stratford Court caused a commotion when it arrived at Hart House. Mama was beside herself; she dashed off a note to Papa, who had gone to London on business, that he must return as speedily as possible to dine with the earl and countess. She told James he would accompany them, no matter what other plans he had made. Penelope, the sly opportunist, asked for a new gown and shoes, and was immediately granted permission to go into Richmond and order them. Abigail, too wrapped up in her own happy daydreams, barely acknowledged the invitation.

“You don’t seem surprised, Abby,” said her smiling mother.

“No, Lord Atherton mentioned it when we saw him in town the other day.”

Mama’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Nor do you seem especially pleased.”

“Oh, I’m sure it will be delightful.”

Mama studied her a moment longer, then went to shut the door. She came back and sat beside Abigail on the sofa, taking the embroidery hoop from her hands. “What happened between you and Mr. Vane yesterday?”

“We strolled in the garden and talked.”

“You were in buoyant spirits when he left.”

She smiled. She couldn’t help it. “I’m in love, Mama.”

A thin line creased her mother’s brow. “What of Lord Atherton?”

“He’s charming and very handsome,” she replied, “but he’s not the man I love.”

Her mother sighed. “Vane hasn’t spoken to your father.”

“No, but Papa said he would respect my choice.”

“He will take your desires into account,” Mama corrected her. “There are some strong arguments against Mr. Vane.”

“But there are equally strong explanations.”

Mama pressed her fingertips to her brow. “I’m afraid to ask.”

“Don’t you want me to be happy?” She scooted closer to her mother. “Mama, he’s a good man. He’s a war hero! His father went mad, it’s true, but that has nothing to do with the son. And madness is what led old Mr. Vane to wander off one night.”

“But then what happened to him, dear?”

“No one knows. No one,” she repeated forcefully. “Sebastian looked for him—why wouldn’t he?” Her mother raised one brow, and Abigail slashed one hand through the air. “Does it serve him at all to be thought a murderer? To have his estate tied up because his father can’t be proven dead? It doesn’t even make sense, Mama.”

“But it is a black mark, and a very alarming one,” replied her mother. “We want you to be safe as well as happy, Abby. And unfortunately the rumors, to say nothing of his motives in pursuing a girl with a large dowry, are not to his credit.”

She set her jaw. “When you married Papa, he was just an ambitious young man, reading law in his father’s office. He had very little. What made you risk yourself on him?”

“Do not start, young lady.”

That was the warning tone. Abigail subsided; she wanted her mother’s support, not an argument. “You’ve always called me very sensible. I’ve met handsome men before, fortune hunters and rogues, and not been swayed by their flattery. Why don’t you trust me now?”

Her mother didn’t answer for a long moment. “I suppose it’s easier to trust when you refuse them. There’s much less at risk then.” She sighed. “Oh, Abby. I do want you to be happy. But Mr. Vane must prove himself worthy of you. If he cannot . . . Better a broken heart now than a lifetime of regret.” She rose. “There’s no reason to rush into anything. I must go send our acceptance to Lady Stratford.”

Abigail nodded as her mother left. That was better than an outright refusal, but less than she’d hoped for.

At least Sebastian had agreed to attend the Stratford dinner. She didn’t want to think how awkward that would be without him.

Sebastian walked up the once-familiar drive to Stratford Court with very mixed feelings.

On one hand, he would see Abigail. Since their parting and informal betrothal, he’d been counting the hours until they would meet again. He hadn’t seen her since that glorious day in the Hart House garden, despite daily walks along her favorite paths in the woods. For that alone he could thank Benedict for this invitation.

But on the other hand, he had little doubt that Lord Stratford would be no more cordial than he’d been the last time Sebastian was here seven years ago, hobbling on crutches and seething with resentment over the riverfront acres. Just the thought of the earl’s response made his spine stiffen and his jaw clench. If Stratford provoked him . . .

If Stratford provoked him, he would do nothing. He was not that angry young man anymore. Nothing Stratford might say or do could spoil this evening. He forced his shoulders to relax as he shed his coat and handed it to the butler. He barely saw where the footman led him, straining his ears for the sound of her voice. And just as he went into the grand drawing room, he heard it. She turned at his entrance and smiled, so beautifully he thought he could face down a hundred Stratfords, just for the sight of her.

Still, it was odd meeting the family after all these years. Lady Stratford, still as slender and chilly as he remembered, treated him as a complete stranger. Lady Turley—once Lady Elizabeth Lennox—was reserved but gracious, making only a small acknowledgment that they had ever met; her husband, Viscount Turley, he didn’t know. Lady Samantha smiled at him, but with a flicker of awkwardness. Sebastian, his memories of her freshened by confiding in Abigail, spoke politely to her before moving on. Benedict was at his most charming, even condescending to shake his hand. And Lord Stratford . . .

The earl looked down his prominent, hooked nose. Sebastian bowed, ignoring the scorn in his glittering eyes, and after a moment Stratford made a motion that might be called a nod. Then he turned his back and walked away, which suited Sebastian perfectly. He joined James Weston, who was entertaining the younger ladies with a story from his recent visit to London involving an opera singer and a dog who got loose on the stage during her aria.

At dinner he was seated at the middle of the table, between Lady Turley and Mrs. Weston. Abigail was at the end, near Lady Stratford and Benedict, where he couldn’t see her around the enormous epergne in the center of the table. He refused to be ruffled by anything, and spent his time making conversation with Mrs. Weston, who told him all about Milo’s training. All in all, it was a better evening than he had expected.


It was after dinner that things began to deteriorate.

“What shall we do?” asked Benedict when they had all retired to the drawing room. To Sebastian’s immense relief, the gentlemen had not remained in the dining room over brandy for more than a quarter hour. Aside from a few subtly malicious comments from the earl, that had passed quickly enough.

“Cards,” suggested Lord Turley.

“Riddles,” countered his wife.

“Perhaps a bit of dancing,” said Benedict jovially.

“That would be lovely,” said his mother with a regal smile. She turned to Mrs. Weston. “Have you any objection to the young people dancing, Mrs. Weston?”

“Not at all!”

“Brilliant.” Benedict rubbed his hands together. “Elizabeth, would you play for us?”

“Am I not invited to dance, too?” She laughed even as she laid one hand on her belly. It had come out during dinner that she was expecting her first child.

He grinned. “If you won’t play, I shall have to, and that would be a great tragedy for everyone.”

She tapped her brother on the arm. “Very well. For you—and to spare our ears.”

Benedict turned, but Sebastian had already foreseen what was coming. There were three young ladies: Abigail, Penelope, and Samantha. There were four gentlemen who might dance: Benedict, James Weston, Lord Turley, and Sebastian himself. Perhaps it hadn’t been deliberate that Benedict suggested dancing, but Sebastian didn’t think it was beneath him to name an activity that would put Sebastian at a disadvantage. And the last thing he intended to do was watch Benedict take Abigail by the hand and dance with her while he sat lamely by. If it ruined his knee for all time, he was going to dance with her tonight. He bowed to Abigail. “May I have the first set, Miss Weston?”

There was a shocked hush in the room. Sebastian ignored it, keeping his gaze fixed on Abigail. Her eyes widened, but then a bright, delighted smile split her face. “Of course, sir.” She put her hand in his, and he smiled back.

“Lady Samantha, will you do me the honor?” James Weston bowed to that lady, who looked startled. She murmured an agreement, although not without a quick glance at her mother.

Benedict recovered quickly. “Miss Penelope.” He made a flourishing bow. “Will you?”

“With great pleasure, sir.”

Sebastian thought he’d never heard Penelope speak so kindly to Benedict, but he forgot about that as he led Abigail to join the figure. Her brother and Lady Samantha lined up next to them, separating them from Benedict and Penelope—not that it mattered to Sebastian. Once upon a time, he’d been very fond of dancing, and tonight he was going to dance with Abigail. Napoleon himself could line up next to them, and Sebastian wouldn’t have cared. Barely three feet away, Abigail smiled at him, her gray eyes as bright as stars.

The first few steps were a bit uncertain; it had been a long time since he’d danced. But Abigail subtly motioned which direction, and his feet began to remember. Every time he took her hand or caught her in his arm, he remembered: this was how it felt to be normal. This was how it felt to forget about his wounded leg and give himself over to the joy of dancing with a woman.

All too soon it was over. Abigail curtsied, beautifully flushed from the dancing. He bowed, and they shared a smile. He could swear he knew what she was thinking—You dance far too well to be the cripple you name yourself—and he had to admit she was right. His left knee ached, but no more than usual after a long walk through the woods. It was nothing to the thrill of pleasing her. He even danced another set, this time with Penelope as Benedict claimed Abigail. He still got to dance with Abigail again when the partners changed, and that was all he cared about.

After the dancing, Mrs. Weston summoned her daughters for a quiet word. Sebastian took the opportunity to discreetly stretch his leg. He had learned that it stiffened up after exercise if bent, so he took a turn around the room.

Benedict intercepted him. “I’d like a word,” he said in a low voice.

“Another time, my lord.” Sebastian kept his eyes on Abigail. God above, he felt alive and vital in a way he hadn’t in years. Holding her in his arms, proving he could dance like a normal man, had sent his spirits soaring. But it was the look in her eyes that made his heart leap. He almost wanted to thank Benedict: this dinner had been a bloody brilliant idea, and the dancing an even better one.

“Miss Weston,” said Lady Stratford in her cool, clear voice. “Perhaps you would favor us with a song? Your mother tells me you’re quite accomplished on the pianoforte.”

“I’m sure no one could surpass Lady Turley’s beautiful playing,” said Abigail with a smile at the lady. “But I would be delighted to play for you.” She got up and made her way toward the instrument.

“Now, Vane,” Benedict growled.

He glanced at his one-time friend. “Can’t it wait, my lord?”

Benedict lifted his chin, his eyes blazing with challenge. “No.”

He took another glance at Abigail, seating herself at the pianoforte. Lady Samantha had gone with her, and was spreading out a selection of music. He would rather hear her play than listen to anything Benedict had to say, but he didn’t want to cause a scene. That wouldn’t achieve his other goal tonight, to set the elder Westons at ease about his fitness as a husband. “Very well.”

Benedict led the way to a small green salon, where Sebastian dimly remembered being once before. “Old Samwell scolded us here,” he said without thinking, naming the earl’s steward from nearly twenty years ago. “For stealing oranges from the orangery.” He’d endured it facing a portrait of some long-dead Stratford ancestor from the time of the Stuarts, with a long curling mustache and a faintly amused air, as if he found the steward’s tirade as annoying as Sebastian had. And once Samwell was done, Sebastian and Benedict had collapsed into a fit of snickering about it.

“What?” Benedict frowned at him before recognition flickered in his eyes. “Oh yes. A long time ago.”

Sebastian glanced around the room. The same Stuart ancestor smirked down at him from the wall. “It’s not changed a bit.” He faced Benedict, who most certainly had changed. “What did you wish to discuss, my lord?”

“There’s nothing to discuss.” Benedict’s expression grew smooth and hard. “I merely wanted to let you know that I intend to marry Abigail Weston.”

He almost smiled. “Did I miss an announcement at dinner?”

“I haven’t proposed yet, but I will.”

Once he would have laughed. Now he thought about doing the same thing, although not in any spirit of goodwill. “You seem very certain she’ll accept.”

“I have reason to be.” Benedict’s smile was edged with gloating.

“Oh?” He leaned on his cane and raised his brows. “What is that?” He felt fearless tonight, brimming with confidence. Abigail wouldn’t accept Benedict; she was in love with him. And he was in love with her. Recklessly he discounted any and every obstacle, every argument he himself had once made against marriage. He knew her, in a way Benedict never would or could. He knew what made her heart beat faster and what made her laugh. He knew what moved her and what aroused her. He was an idiot to let pride cost him a chance at real, lasting happiness. He knew—he knew—that if Abigail had to choose between them, she would choose him. Part of him almost itched to propose to her tonight, just so Benedict could get his comeuppance.


Benedict scoffed. “Do you even need to ask? Don’t you think she looks very much at home here?”

“She’s not something your father can buy for you,” said Sebastian.

The other man’s face darkened. “How dare you suggest that.”

“No? You were the one who invited her here. No doubt seeing how fine a home you can offer her, at some point in the future, bears some influence.”

“Envy doesn’t become you.” Benedict heaved a sigh and looked bored.

Sebastian shrugged. “No. It’s not envy. I know I have nothing much to offer her but myself. Only she can decide if that’s enough.”

“Be damned if she will!”

He raised his eyebrows. “Someone else will decide for her?”

Benedict flushed. “I meant she won’t choose you, Bastian.”

Somehow the childhood nickname cut deeper than anything else Benedict could have said. Sebastian inhaled a long breath to keep his composure. Benedict seemed to realize a moment too late what he’d said; he turned his back and walked toward the door. Before he had gone more than a few steps, though, the door opened and the Earl of Stratford stepped inside.

“Well, Vane, that was a pretty display.”

Sebastian didn’t know what the earl meant, so he made no reply. He couldn’t stop the instinctive tensing of his muscles, though. The Earl of Stratford had been a fearsome figure seven years ago, and his aura of menace hadn’t dissipated much since then. Even Benedict stopped and stood a little straighter.

Stratford folded his arms and cocked his head. “A cripple dancing! That might win the ladies’ pity, but not much else.”

“I’ve never wanted anyone’s pity.”

“Not even when you came to beg me to return what your father legally sold?” Stratford’s eyes gleamed in contempt.

Sebastian would regret that visit to the end of his days. He’d been distraught, barely twenty-three, with a shattered knee and a father raving about demons trying to kill him. He had begged the earl to reconsider the sale, thinking that if he could somehow restore that one part of his life, it would make the rest better, too. “He wasn’t in his right mind when he signed that document, and you knew it.”

Stratford affected a look of exaggerated surprise. “How could I have known?”

“Fifty pounds for eighty acres of good land.”

The earl had a cruel smile. “I offered him one hundred pounds. He insisted more than fifty was too generous.”

Sebastian felt as taut as a bowstring. His hand tightened on the handle of his cane. “How sporting of you to acquiesce so easily.”

Stratford shrugged. “Why let an opportunity go to waste?”

Sebastian looked from father to son. How many times had he sympathized with Ben over his father’s cold and calculating demeanor? Even now Benedict gave no sign of disagreement; he just stood listening, his mouth flat and his expression distant. “I expected nothing more of you, sir.”

“I suggest you make your final farewell of Miss Weston tonight. Benedict brought her here for approval, and I have decided to give it.” He looked at his son. “Her dowry is acceptable, and I grant you she’s pretty enough. If you want her, have her. I expect you to conclude the business within a week.”

“Father,” said Benedict in a low voice. Something about it touched distant memories: Ben, complaining that his father was impossible to please. Ben, worrying over the unavoidable punishments for falling short. Ben, bruised and quiet after it was administered. Sebastian had hated the earl all those years ago—still did—but now he looked at Benedict and wondered why he put up with this abuse still. But perhaps Benedict was more like his father than he realized. After all, when Sebastian had told him what Stratford had done, Benedict had taken his father’s side so staunchly, he hadn’t spoken to Sebastian again for seven years.

Not for the first time, it made Sebastian angry. Benedict had no choice but to submit to his father as a boy, but he was a man now. Sebastian wanted to punch Benedict’s face for speaking so callously about marrying Abigail, but the earl’s careless presumption that if his son wanted her, he would have her, enraged him. She was far more than a pretty heiress, and she wasn’t Stratford’s to award.

“Well done, Ben. Now all you have to do is get her approval.” Sebastian glanced fleetingly at the earl. “I expect it will be easier to obtain than your father’s ever was.”

“You impudent rat. Don’t you speak to my son that way.” Stratford glared at Benedict. “Are you going to take that, from a mad cripple? What sort of man are you?”

“He’s going now,” said Benedict through white lips.

Sebastian nodded. “I’ll reserve my felicitations until I see the notice in the papers.” He turned toward the door.

“Good riddance,” growled Stratford. As Sebastian made to pass him, Stratford turned and stood blocking his path. Intent on escaping the noxious presence of the earl without giving way entirely to his temper, Sebastian didn’t pay enough attention to where he was. His cane caught on the side of Stratford’s shoe just as he put his weight on his bad leg—and just as Stratford twitched his foot to the side, sending the tip of the cane sliding over the polished floor. He tried to catch his balance but it was too late; he crashed down onto his injured knee, barely throwing out his hands in time to keep from landing full flat on his face.

For a moment he thought he would pass out. Pain seared up his leg, even worse than when he’d first been shot, and his stomach heaved on instinct. He nearly bit through his tongue to keep the howl of agony at bay. It was all he could do to stay on his hands and knees, shaking as his every nerve tightened in anguish.

But then, dimly, he heard the earl speak. “Clumsy, too,” said Stratford in mild contempt. “You’re barking mad already if you thought any woman would want you over my son, Vane.” He walked away, sending the cane rattling across the floor with a flick of his toe.

Christ. He had to get out of here. It had been a mistake to come after all. Everything he’d gained by holding his own and facing his tormentor—and dancing with Abigail—was wiped away by the prospect of lying retching on the floor. Sebastian gritted his teeth and raised his head, praying he could get back on his feet unaided. If he had to crawl out of Stratford Court . . . he would, but it would be bitter. Slowly, carefully, he brought his good leg forward. Nausea roiled his stomach again as he had to rest his full weight on the hurt knee. He paused to take a deep breath, bracing himself . . .

A hand appeared in front of his face. Benedict, white-faced and grim, bent down.

“He doesn’t need your help, Benedict,” said Stratford from the other side of the room, where he was pouring himself a drink. “He doesn’t need anyone’s help. The Misanthrope of Montrose Hill!”

Sebastian looked up at Benedict. Neither said anything. Slowly Sebastian raised his hand, and took Benedict’s proffered one. With a firm pull, Benedict helped him rise, then handed him the cane. Sebastian gave him only a curt nod, setting the cane alongside his wounded leg. The knee throbbed as though a red-hot knife had been driven into it, but he refused to make a sound of discomfort. Slowly, gingerly, he turned, making sure the cane was firmly settled every second.

“You look a bit ill, Vane.” The earl sipped his drink. “Leaving early, I daresay; what a pity.”


And now he was being thrown out. There was no mistaking the meaning in Stratford’s words. For a moment he wondered if he could endure returning to the drawing room and taking his leave of Abigail, and then he decided against it, on the very real chance he would humiliate himself by blacking out.

“Thank you, Lord Stratford,” he said, still fighting waves of nausea, “for a magnificent dinner. Please convey my compliments to Lady Stratford.” Again he turned. “My Lord Atherton.” And he bowed, clenching his teeth against the renewed anguish.

Every careful step toward the door was agony, but he preferred to hobble like a cripple than go too fast and fall again. He left the green salon and felt a burst of relief, followed closely by dread at the prospect of getting home in this state. Oh God; he’d never make it. Montrose Hill might as well be on the moon. It was a long walk to the river, where he’d have to row himself across, then walk three miles or more uphill. He paused in the grand hall, trying to gather his thoughts. Was there any alternative?

“Mr. Vane?” Penelope Weston’s curious tone vanished when she saw his face. “Oh my goodness,” she gasped. “You look dreadful!”

He gritted his teeth and tried to smile. “Thank you.”

“No, I mean you look ill.” She touched his arm. “Come sit down.”

He raised one hand. “No, I—I was just going home. It’s time for me to take my leave.”

She gave him a searching look. “Let me get Abigail. You’re as white as a ghost—”

“No!” He closed his upraised hand into a fist and forced his voice back down. “Please don’t. As you said, I—I fell ill. Don’t get her.”

Penelope’s gaze dropped to his white-knuckled grip on his cane. Then she looked up, past his shoulder, and Sebastian heard the murmur of the earl’s voice. He couldn’t resist glancing back, too—the last thing he wanted the earl to have was the satisfaction of seeing him whipped and beaten—pushing himself a little more erect as he did. Stratford’s scathing eyes raked him once more before he turned and walked away, back toward the drawing room, but Benedict still stood there watching. For a moment their eyes met. Benedict hesitated, looking torn, then followed his father.

“That low-mannered wretch,” breathed Penelope beside him. She was glaring at Benedict’s retreating back with pure venom. She glanced back at Sebastian. “You didn’t fall ill, did you, Mr. Vane. You just fell. And he—” She stopped. “Let me help you, if you won’t let me fetch Abby.”

He managed to nod. He might not make it without her help. “Just outside.”

Somehow they made it down the stairs. Penelope hurried ahead and had the footman holding the door open when he got there. He had crossed the graveled drive by the time she caught him again, this time with her father’s servant in tow. “Adam is going to help you home,” she announced. “And if you protest, I will run inside and tell my sister you are severely wounded.”

Sebastian almost refused, until he remembered again how far it was from the dock to his home. He nodded once. “Thank you, Miss Weston.”

“I don’t know why you won’t let me tell Abby anyway,” she added softly. “She’s a good nurse, very patient and sympathetic. And it’s not your fault—”

“Please don’t,” he interrupted. “Not tonight.” Not tonight, when he had danced with her like an able-bodied man. Not while she was still at Stratford Court, where the earl could blacken his name even further. He needed to gather himself and regain his composure before he saw her again. “My health isn’t really your concern.”

“No, but lying to my sister is,” she pointed out.

Adam had brought the punt up. Sebastian forced himself to move, limping down the dock and managing to lower himself into the boat without casting up his dinner over the side. Sweating and panting again, he looked up at Penelope, watching him with concern. “Good night, Miss Weston. Thank you.”

She waited until the boat was several yards from the dock before calling after him, “You can hardly keep it from her for long, you know. I’m the very worst person in the world at keeping secrets.”

He knew. No doubt she’d tell Abigail before the night was over, especially if Benedict made his proposal. The loathing in Penelope’s face when she watched Benedict walk away had been potent and plain. But the last thing Sebastian wanted was for Abigail to see him as he was now, on the verge of being sick all over himself. He clutched his knee with both hands so hard his fingers cramped, as if he could somehow squeeze the pain out of it. He couldn’t do more than nod in response to Penelope’s last warning. Abigail would learn about it, but she—and her parents—wouldn’t see him like this.

“Shall I fetch a doctor, sir?” asked Adam as he rowed.

Sebastian shook his head.

“My older brother was at Waterloo,” said the servant after a moment of silence. “Came home without his arm. He never wanted a doctor, neither. He barely got the priest in time.” He rowed a few more strokes. “My mum swore she’d beat me if I ever refused to see a doctor when one was called for.”

“I hope you won’t send her after me,” he said, trying to breathe through his nose.

“O’ course not. I was only thinking how Miss Abigail Weston reminds me of my mum sometimes. Kind and thoughtful but not afraid to speak her mind and impose her will.”

The thought of Abigail taking a whip to him almost made Sebastian smile. Then the boat scraped over the bottom as they came into the opposite shore, knocking his knee against the side and causing him to catch his breath. Adam climbed out and tugged the boat farther ashore, then gave him a hand. Sebastian took it gratefully, managing to stagger out of the boat without falling.

“I’ll have to run up to the house to fetch the gig,” Adam told him. “The family wasn’t expected back for another hour or more.” He paused. “Miss Weston’s direction was that I’m to take you right to your door, sir.”

Sebastian nodded, too exhausted to protest. It would take him an eternity to walk home, and he wasn’t fool enough to argue with the man. He sank down on a stone bench near the landing and listened to the servant’s footsteps hurry up the lawn.

He glanced across the river. Stratford Court was like a castle tonight, the windows aglow. Abigail had looked so beautiful, his fairy princess again in her pale green gown.

Well. Not quite his. Perhaps never to be his.

Perhaps it had all been for naught. Stratford Court was an awesome sight, and Benedict would make her mistress of it. Perhaps it would sway her. Perhaps her parents would persuade her to accept Benedict. Perhaps he’d been too long a misanthrope, too long alone. There was a raw, passionate attraction between them, but it might not be enough. Perhaps he’d been a fool to let his original perception waver, that she was meant for someone better. Just because she made him feel like a whole man again didn’t mean she wouldn’t be able to appreciate a suitor who really was a whole man. Perhaps he couldn’t compete with Benedict even if he tried.

Sebastian clenched his fist and pressed his knuckles into his forehead. No. He wasn’t thinking clearly now—the pain was warping his mood and thoughts. The girl he knew and loved wouldn’t be so quickly or so thoroughly dazzled by Ben’s title and fortune that she forgot everything else. She loved him; he knew it. She said she didn’t want Benedict.


Her parents, though . . . might not feel the same.

He shifted his leg gingerly. The thought of Mr. Weston’s sharp eye and even sharper ambition made him doubly glad he’d left Stratford Court. Mrs. Jones would wrap up his knee, and in a day or so he’d be back to normal; still limping, but no worse than before. It had been a bit of hubris, thinking he was well again, but his trust remained unshaken. He would go back to Hart House and take his chances. If Abigail didn’t want him, he had to hear it from her, not from Benedict.