The room was large, with a mahogany desk at one end and two emerald leather armchairs resting beside a small fireplace on the other. Benedict crossed the room, intent on surveying the space. The drinks tray in one corner proved too great a distraction, catching his attention before he could gather any meaningful intelligence. He didn’t feel the disappointment too keenly; he hadn’t thought Wayland would have aGuide to Wooing My Daughtersbook atop his oversized desk.
Behind Benedict, the door slipped open and clanged shut again.
When he turned, he faced Michael Wayland. The man whose misdeeds single-handedly destroyed his father, his family, and his home.
Distracted by the scuffle downstairs, Benedict hadn’t taken the measure of the man. To his astonishment, Wayland was perfectly ordinary. The older man was shorter than he was, with dark hair highlighted by grey strands at the temples, and a crooked tilt to his mouth. His eyes, though… Benedict had no doubt where Eliza’s dark gaze originated from.
“Sinclair,” Wayland grumbled, assessing Benedict. “Drink?”
“Scotch.”
“Royal Brackla?”
Benedict nodded.
“Take a seat,” Wayland said, gesturing to the chairs beside the unlit fireplace with one glass-filled hand as he poured with the other.
The musky scent of the worn leather enveloped him, followed by the earthy, cedar note of good cigars. All that was missing was the musty, damp scent for Benedict to be transported to his father’s study, a small boy biting his lip?—
A glass appeared before his face, and Benedict grasped it automatically—ripped from his unpleasant reverie. Wayland took the unoccupied seat beside him.
The other man spoke as soon as Benedict raised the glass to his lips. “My daughter insisted you did not know me. Yet here you are.”
Benedict swallowed, meeting the older man’s gaze. “Here I am. You’re not a difficult man to find.”
“No, I’m not. AndIknow everyone. So why do I not know you?”
Benedict had known this question would come. He was pleased to find he could offer the truth. “I’m not much for gaming. And I’m rarely in town.”
“My dunner tells me you are at least comfortable at the table.”
“I didn’t say I was ignorant, merely disinclined.” Again, the smallest bit of tension abandoned Benedict’s spine at the truth. He knew all the common games—his father had insisted. He’d never found the enjoyment in them that his father did. While the blame for his circumstances rested on this man’s shoulders, his father’s penchant for the gaming tables hadn’t improved their financial situation.
“Why?”
“I’ve not the luck for it.”
Wayland raised a brow. “I’ve never found gaming to be luck.”
“That is what lucky men say.”And cheats.“I suppose I should let you know that I also lack the finances to afford the practice necessary to improve.”
“Do you?” Wayland asked. Benedict thought he recognized an intrigued note in the question, but the man’s face gave him nothing. A gambler to his core.
“I assume you’ve looked into me—my finances. Or will shortly hereafter. No point in lying about it.” Benedict gestured to the surrounding room. “You clearly have the resources necessary to gather any intelligence you wish.” It was the strategy he and Bella had discussed at length. Bella favored a lie, but in the moment, Benedict opted for the half-truth.
“And what will I find when I do?”
“An estate too large and too expensive to maintain for the land it rests upon.”And the family you stole everything from.
“So you’re here for my daughter’s dowry,” Wayland surmised.
“Not at all. I did not know who she was when I approached her,” Benedict supplied easily.
“Why, then, are you in town, since you visit so rarely?”
“My sister. She wished for a season,” he fibbed.
Wayland nodded thoughtfully for a moment. “And your reputation, how do you account for that?”
