His foot had just touched the top step when Greenhill opened the door.
“Damn it, man. I can open my own bloody door.”
Greenhill just bowed. “Of course, sir. Might I enquire as to the state of the village?” His words, though calmly said, had an urgency to them. Of course there bloody was. He had family in the village. Friends.
Benedict raked his fingers through his hair. “The women and children are indoors. The riot is contained to the village square. Wildeforde and Oliver are working to ensure it stays there.”
The tension around Greenhill’s jaw and eyes remained. It mirrored what Benedict assumed was his own.
He clapped a hopefully reassuring hand on the old man’s arm. “I’m sure it will be fine. Let’s just take some precautions. Send Daisy up to Cassandra’s room. Don’t tell Cass what’s happening, just find some way to get her dressed. If we evacuate, she needs to be the first one out of here.”
He didn’t give a toss about their guests, but the thought of his sister in the house, while drunken men with torches surrounded it, was like glass shards spearing through his chest. She trusted him, and his choices had put her in danger. It was unforgivable.
“Will it get to that, sir? Evacuation?”
Benedict tried to give the old man an encouraging smile. “I hope not. Gather all the footmen, the men from the stables, any able body that isn’t wearing a dress. Tell them to meet me in the servants’ hall with whatever weapons we have.”
“Does that include the guests? Should we warn them?”
Benedict paused. This damned party had been Amelia’s dream for months. He hated that it was even a consideration, but it was. “No. There’s no point causing a stir if it isn’t needed.” He’d let her have this last thing before he left for America and she returned home to London. Before he never saw her again. The thought flayed him, but he shoved it away.
“Shall I fetch Lady Asterly? She was very concerned when you left.”
“No.” The word came out desperate and barely human.
Greenhill frowned.
“Let’s not worry her. The less she knows, the better.”
A tight cough sounded from behind him. He didn’t need to see Greenhill’s face to tell him it was Amelia. Of course it was.
He faced her.
To an outsider, she might have seemed relaxed, her hand casually resting on the banister. But there was nothing gentle in her expression. Her lips were thinned, and her head cocked. “I can assure you that a state of not knowing does not make any woman feel ‘better.’ Particularly under these circumstances.”
She looked him up and down. Her anger turned into fear, hurt, and empathy as she took in his appearance—the mud on his collar, the graze on his forehead, his wild hair.
“It’s bad,” she said. It wasn’t a question but a flat statement.
He sighed. There was no point keeping it from her. She’d uncover the truth soon enough. “It’s not good.” His voice sounded bleak. Hopeless, even to him.
Her face softened, and she crossed the room, gathering him into her arms. He couldn’t bring himself to return the embrace. He didn’t want her comfort, and he sure as hell wasn’t in a place to provide any. If she noticed, she didn’t show it.
“I really thought they’d listen to you,” she said into his chest, her words muffled by his coat. “You’re their leader.”
Benedict laughed darkly. If only she had seen the way they’d run him off that stage—and the disgust and loathing with which they did it. “I was never their leader, but I used to be one of them. Not anymore.”
He pried her arms from around his waist and held her back. There was enough to do, right now in this minute, without having to console her. And he couldn’t watch her cry.
He’d done this. All of this. She hadn’t wanted to marry him, but he’d insisted. Because he wanted to be good, to be a gentleman. He could have stopped the spectacle that was their house party, but he hadn’t. Because he’d prioritized her wants over the needs of those he should have looked out for.
He’d done this to all of them.
“Go back to your party, princess. You’re just in the way.”
Shock flitted across her face, disbelief. For a moment, she looked as if she was going to argue, her eyes bright and lips pursed. But then he drew back farther, released her arms, and severed all connection to her. He saw it, the moment she realized that he didn’t want her. Her expression turned to stone, cool and emotionless. She inclined her head and retreated to the drawing room, perfectly poised as she moved.
He was a cad, and every fiber of his being wanted to go after her, but he forced himself to ignore that weakness and turn to Greenhill instead. “Ten minutes and I want everyone in the servants’ hall. Be discreet.”
