Walking through to the library, he was sickened by the decadence of what was happening in his home—the giggling debutantes in their silks and pearls and the footmen with platters of hors d’oeuvres. Only miles away, men fearing their loss of livelihood, the ability to put clothes on their backs and food on the table, were driven to violence.
A voice in the corner of his brain—one that sounded suspiciously like his wife’s—reminded him of the good that men in his position could do. Did do. That except for the odd bottle thrown, Wildeforde had not been a target at the rally. In fact, none of the men in attendance were Wildeforde’s tenants.
He shoved the voice away along with any evidence that countered his current frame of mind. The aristocracy were the bad guys. Money and power corrupted men.
Even him.
The door to his study was already cracked open. He pushed it wide. The men inside did not hear his approach. They couldn’t have, or they wouldn’t have said what they did.
“A savage. But clearly not an idiot. He’s got money enough for this brandy.” It was the dry, raspy voice of Lord Karstark. That bastard.
“Rich as Croesus, but I wouldn’t want his wealth if I had to work for it. Ugh.” Benedict couldn’t see the man the thin voice belonged to, but he could picture him. Slight, soft, delicate, without the tan that marked Benedict as a man who spent time outdoors, without the bulk from heavy lifting or the calluses from working with his hands.
“Bournesmouth, please,” Karstark said. “You’d sell your grandmother for enough blunt to buy a new stallion.”
“Correction. I’d have my man sell the old biddy. That sort of transaction is beneath me.”
Karstark snickered. “This entire weekend is beneath us. Face it, gentlemen, we’re here for the entertainment, watching that unfortunate woman dance in an effort to win her way back into our good graces. Little fool. I saw her bosoms, you know. All splayed out for the world to see. Her nipples were like delicious drops of jam. Reminded me of one of the housemaids I enjoyed.”
Benedict’s vision went red at the edges—a roaring sound screaming in his ears. He covered the room between the door and the armchairs in three long strides, grabbing Karstark by his bloody neck ruffles and dragging him over the back of the chair.
Two others jumped up, yelling in alarm. Benedict ignored them and smashed his fist into Karstark’s face, feeling immense satisfaction at the crunch of bone and cartilage. He hit the man again as the lord’s pale and pathetic fingers pulled at the hand clenched around his neck.
Benedict was vaguely aware of the yelling of the other gentlemen. One of them clipped him across the back of the head with a book, but he just laughed.
A book? Seriously?
Releasing Karstark and letting him crumple to the floor, Benedict grabbed the book-wielding man by the waistcoat, lifting him and slamming him against the wall.
The man whimpered like a small boy. Benedict could smell the brandy,hisbrandy, on the man’s breath. How dare these men come into his home, mistreat his household, humiliate his wife, and then laugh with the hubris of the all-powerful. He leaned forward until his face was close enough to see each bead of sweat on the man’s brow. Their breaths mingled.
“Benedict!” Amelia’s horrified voice broke through the red fog encasing him. He dropped the man, who collapsed at his feet.
She was in the doorway, her eyes wide in horror, her hand pressed to her chest. For a moment, he saw himself as she must: a brute, a monster, hands bloodied, body shaking with rage. No better than an animal. His cheeks blazed, nausea tightened into bilious knots, and he turned away, unable to look at her.
“Go back to your party,” he said. He pushed past her into the foyer, where all their guests had congregated. Lord Karstark had crawled there, holding his nose, his shirt now red with blood.
He pointed to Benedict. “Not fit to be around people, attacking a man my age.”
There was a mutter of agreement from those gathered. Looking at Karstark, wig missing, clothes torn, he looked frail and feeble—like a victim rather than the predator he was. But he had all of these people fooled. Even Lord Bradenstock was looking at Benedict with disdain.
He wanted to defend himself, to expose Karstark for the vile, womanizing, abusive bastard that he was, but he could read a room. He wasn’t getting any sympathy for turning on one of their own.
“Probably time for you to go up, lad. It’s over.” The American drawl was ice down Benedict’s spine. All his efforts—turning himself into another creature, filling his house with those he most despised—had failed. Grunt and Harcombe would not be signing that contract now. And all of those people who depended on him would see him for what he was: a failure.
Before he could think of some response, any response, Greenhill waved at him frantically from the door. The butler gave an exaggerated nod toward the outside.
Damn.Could he not just have one catastrophe at a time?
He pushed through thetut-tutting guests until he was outside, drawing the cold air deep into his lungs, using it to brace himself. In the not-too-far distance, he could see torches—a line of them—coming toward the house.
“Get the guests into their rooms. I want two men at every window on this side of the building. Have Peter check to make sure every door and window is locked.”
“Y-yes, sir.” Greenhill waited for his master to precede him into the house, but Benedict could not go back in there. Not after what he’d just done. Not after he’d just shown himself for the animal he was. Not after he’d just destroyed everything Amelia had worked for. It was over between them now. How could it be otherwise? They were too different. Their lives were too different. He’d been an idiot to think it could have worked.
“I’ll remain out here. I’ll try to talk them down. Tell the men to wait for my signal. These are our friends. We don’t shoot unless we have to.”
Amelia’s face was bloodless as she stepped outside, but her voice was strong. “This is hardly the act of friends.”
