“About whom? The gatekeeper? He’s a mile away by now. Your father?”
“He is on his way.”
He gave a cruel chuckle. “If, and I highly doubt it, but if he is on his way, he doesn’t have the sum Blackwood is demanding. Even the infamous Michael Wayland does not have two hundred thousand readily available. And no man would ever throw away such a sum on a daughter. You said it yourself, he won’t pay for you at all if you’re sullied. And I intend for you to be very, very sullied before he arrives. I rather think we’ll have days once we arrive to… relish in each other’s company.”
“You don’t know him!”
“No, but I know men. And, sweetheart, we’re all the same. Blackwood, Sinclair, your father, Stark, me. Liars, cheats, degenerates, sinners—every one of us. No one is coming to save you.” He punctuated the speech with another sip from the flask, which he tipped toward her in a mocking toast.
Eliza bit her tongue, refusing to give him more ammunition against her. But even as she did, her heart pounded a steady, staccato rhythm. Because somehow, against every odd, against logic itself, she knew. In her marrow, in her heart, in her soul, she knew—Benedictwascoming.
Chapter Forty-One
In the hourssince they had found the dropped ransom note—three neat lines of script naming Eliza, Blackwood Grange, and an obscene sum—Wayland had been a flurry of activity. He managed to gather an astonishingly enormous sum of ready coin and gold remarkably quickly. Though it was only a fraction of Ambrose’s demand, the twenty-five thousand Wayland assembled in a matter of hours was astonishing. Benedict hoped it would be enough.
Ainsley, the only one with a head on his shoulders amid the madness, insisted that Wayland travel with only five hundred—assuring them he would arrange a guarded transportation to follow with the other twenty-four and anything else he could gather when the lenders opened.
Still, the entire process took precious hours they did not have. A bundle of nerves, Benedict owned the weight of every single one.
At last, Wayland sat across from him in the finest carriage Benedict had ever seen. Ornate lace curtains blocked the afternoon light, and the seats were lined with plush navy velvet. Even the woodwork was a gilded mahogany.
Their journey had passed in silence for many miles at a pace that might have collapsed a lesser conveyance. Both men were too caught up in their worries to hold a worthy conversation.
A thought had been nagging at Benedict, refusing to leave even hours into the journey. He’d stood there, watching with wide eyes as no one made a single protest while Wayland emptied the club of every valuable that wasn’t nailed to the wall. Not only had no one complained, but those gathered hadofferedhim every liquid asset at their disposal. The women handed over every diamond and jewel—down to pocket change from the servants he employed. Each was extended with only a word of prayer for Eliza.
“You cannot pay him.” The statement startled Benedict, even though it had come from his mouth. He hadn’t intended to give voice to it.
“I’m not excited about it.”
“They’ll put you in the fleet.”
Wayland turned from the window. “Possibly, but doubtful. I have generous friends and one or two family members in influential places.”
“You’ve shuttered your club, your life’s work.”
Wayland merely blinked at him for a moment. “Lizzie is my daughter.Sheis my life’s work. I would kill for her. Die for her. Wayland’s, it’s only a club.”
The speech was delivered with such a matter-of-fact, calm tone. It left Benedict reeling.
“Sinclair—Benedict,” Wayland said, drawing his attention back to the man seated across from him. “Someday, if you are lucky enough to earn the privilege of being a father, you’ll understand. Men like your father, like Juliet’s… There’s something broken inside them. That he cannot love you and your sister as he ought is the greatest tragedy of his life, andmore devastating still is that he doesn’t even know it. And I am sorry for my part in it.”
“You didn’t?—”
“I didn’t force him, no. But I knew the sum would ruin him, and I upped the stakes anyway. My only explanation is that I was young, reckless, and had nothing. It’s easy to wager everything if you’ve never had anything of your own, if it doesn’t feel like yours. The reward is far greater than the risk. I hadn’t had time to grow attached to the sum, accustomed to it. There was the possibility of returning to the same state—not poor, but certainly not wealthy—I’d been in before I sat down at the table. Or the possibility ofeverything. I didn’t understand then the full weight of his wager. No wife, no children, no home of my own. I only thought in terms of pounds and shillings. I didn’t consider the people, the life, those pounds and shillings cared for.”
“If it hadn’t been you, it would have been someone else.”
“Almost certainly. But if it had been someone else, your father might have won.” A cocksure grin crossed his face.
“How do you do it if you’re not cheating?”
“I’ve never been able to put it into words,” he paused, considering. “Gaming, though, it’s all mathematics—probabilities. Those have always come quickly to me. It’s particularly easy with card games. The combinations aren’t infinite; there is a limited number of cards. As they’re discarded, the probabilities change based on the cards still in play. Even if I cannot calculate the precise odds, I just… feel it. And there’s the human aspect of it as well, understanding your opponent, reading their face, their body, learning their tells—the little things they do when they’re pleased or disappointed. Counting their drinks, learning their tolerance and encouraging them to skirt the edge. All that to say—I’ve no idea.”
Benedict considered the man for a moment. He had never experienced precisely what Wayland explained, but it madesense. “I box—with West. It’s how I’ve kept us from falling even further over the years. West is better at it, of course. But I think I understand what you mean.”
“I was knocked out by Johnson once,” Wayland said, conversationally.
“Nate Johnson?” Benedict asked, his brow hitting his hairline.
