“How much have you lost?”
Benedict couldn’t remember his mother ever questioning his father before. He recalled the astonishment filling his slight frame.
“Stolen!”
“No one need steal from you! You hand it away in your greed and your arrogance!”
His father clambered to his feet once more, clutching at his mother’s violet skirts. “How dare yo—” he slipped on his own sick, pulling her down with him. Benedict’s mother collapsed on the floor with a sickening crack when her head met marble.
Benedict’s heart had stopped. He lived an eternity in the seconds between when his mother’s head smacked the floor and when her quiet groan jolted it back to life.
No sooner had she groaned than the door clanged against the wall. The elder Weston stood silhouetted against the moonlight. In the space between one breath and the next, he assessed the scene. Then he was yanking his father back, away from his mother’s prone form, and shoving him to the ground where he slumped.
Without a word, Weston was at his mother’s side, supporting her in her effort to sit up.
“I am well,” she insisted as she pressed a hand to her curls.
“My lady?—”
“I am well, only shaken. I slipped, and…” she shook away the half-hearted explanation as she rose. “Would you take his lordship to the study? That is for the best tonight.”
Weston agreed with a grunt, then half yanked Benedict’s father down the hall. The sound of flesh against wall, followed by, “Oh dear, I am ever so sorry, my lord,” caused neither Benedict nor his mother any particular concern.
Instead, his mother made a weary trek to the drawing room. There, he heard the distinctive clink of bottle against glass. Instead of a single clack, there was a jittery rhythm. Benedict eventually realized it was the shaking of her hands.
His mother hadn’t believed his father that night. And Benedict, still so young, didn’t understand the events, let alone such nuances. No, he believed the explanation he’d received the following afternoon from his father, his mother nodding along at his side—though paler than usual.
Had his mother been right all those years ago? Or had his father provided evidence to support his story? Did it truly matter in the end? The result was the same whether Wayland had cheated his father or not—Blackwood was left destitute, and Benedict was left to inherit the crumbling rubble left behind.
Chapter Ten
Benedict slept fitfullyand rose early—unwilling to allow his fruitless musings to continue. He arrived at the flower shop before the proprietor and followed the man inside.
“Fight with the missus?” he asked with a cheeky grin.
“Ah, no. I’m… courting a young lady.” The word tasted foreign. He’d never considered that aspect of his plan. Benedict had been intimate with more women than he’d have liked, but he had nevercourtedone. Was that the difference he now sensed with Eliza?
Surely that was it. Courting was meant to encourage affection, after all. The peace, the ease he felt when his arm brushed against her rib cage the day before—the way those feelings twisted incongruously with the strange fluttering in his chest. Paired with a summer illness, brought on by too many flowers. Those were the causes for such discomfiting sensations.
“Ah, I see. And what sentiment do you wish to express to the young lady?”
“I’ve recently learned she has a preference for violets, so might we start there?”
“A lovely choice,” he said, turning behind him to the many buckets that lined the wall, each filled with a different bloom. He located the violets and turned around with a few stems. “Innocence, faithfulness, loyalty, and, of course, everlasting love. Are those the feelings you’d like to express?”
Benedict’s chest tightened at the words, though which specific word was causing the sweat to collect beneath his cravat was impossible to determine.
“They’re her favorites,” he repeated, clearing his throat. “What else might you suggest?”
“Tell me about her.”
“She has dark hair, a little wild, but she tames it well. And her eyes are golden brown?—”
“Tell me abouther.”
“I was?—”
“No, you were telling me of her appearance. Tell me of her essence.”
