“Why are you here?”
Wildeforde sighed, crossed to the nearby armchair, and sank into it. “Very well, if we’re not going to bother with conversation, I’m here on business. The Duke of Camden has requested an introduction. He has a proposition for you.”
The Duke of Camden. Benedict had sworn never to work with an Englishman with a title. That had been the whole point of pitching to Grunt and Harcombe. But there was an entire village of people in need of work. While Fiona’s latest project had potential, it wouldn’t be ready for production for a year or more. And there was no money coming from the Americans.
“I thought your lot didn’t do business,” he said, refusing to move from the door. He would probably take this opportunity for the sake of his people, but he didn’t need to welcome it.
“We don’t do work, but we do money. Therefore, we do business. Camden has discovered a coal seam running through one of his more far-flung estates. He needs a way to transport it, and given his propensity to need the newest of everything, I suggested yourTessie. Although for the love of God can you give it a decent name?”
“He wants Tessie? Despite the fact that she’s now five tonnes of twisted scrap metal?” His heart thudded at the memories of that night. The heat. The smoke. The slip of blood between his fingers. The heart-shattering agony as he watched Amelia leave. Benedict crossed to his desk and poured two glasses of brandy. He needed a drink to keep the visions away.
“I’ve told him the failure was not with the engine,” Wildeforde said gently.
He knew then. The truth of that night. Of course he knew. Wilde made it his business to know what was happening in and around his estates, and Jeremy’s death was no secret.
Benedict’s grip on the decanter tightened until his knuckles whitened. “No.” His voice was hoarse. “I was the failure.”
They were hard words to admit, but Benedict didn’t deserve the comfort of hiding his faults. It was his mistake, and he’d own it so the world could pass the judgment he deserved. His neglect had killed a boy and hurt those dearest to him.
The stark admission wasn’t enough for Wilde. The duke waited for Benedict to elaborate.
“Jeremy sabotaged the engine. He was angry with me. I hadn’t been around to notice.”
It was why he was working such long hours at the firm now. Why he was drinking each night at the inn. He would never not be around for his people again.
“You know that it’s not your fault, don’t you?” Wildeforde asked. “Feeling responsible and actuallybeingresponsible are two different things.”
“You sound like Amelia.” He gave a glass to Wilde and sank into the vacant chair.
“She’s an intelligent woman.”
“Which is why she left.”
Wildeforde didn’t contradict him. He knew Amelia almost as well as Benedict did. He would have known from the start that Benedict didn’t deserve her. That their union was destined to fail. The daughter of an earl and the son of a footman could never make it work. Not when they wanted such different things.
“So what are they saying about me in London?” he asked, swirling the brandy in his glass and watching it cling to the crystal.
“The usual rot. A violent brute that could crush a man’s skull between his giant hands. Uncultured, volatile. Not exactly untrue, although I’m surprised you care.” Wildeforde stretched out, kicking his heels up on the table between them, settling into the chair like it was old times. Like the past five years, the total fracturing of their friendship, hadn’t occurred.
It was bittersweet. There was no overlooking the damage wrought in the past, but Wilde was here now. He’d always turned up when Benedict was hurting, without fail, and so he’d come.
“Amelia cares, so I care.” And Benedict did. It would kill him to hear his temper had ruined her chances for happiness.
“If that’s the case, if you really care, then why are you here and not in London?”
“Because as you said, I’m an uncultured, volatile brute. She’s better off without me.” Benedict drained his glass and took Wildeforde’s when his friend offered it.
“She’s not happy, you know. I mean, she’s doing all the things the old Amelia would do—the parties, the dancing, the outrageous flirting…”
The crystal glass fractured beneath Benedict’s fingers.
“But she’s not happy.”
She’s not happy.Those words should be salt on an open wound. After all, didn’t he want her to be content? To find joy in her life where he couldn’t give it? Wasn’t that why he’d pushed her away and put himself through this torture?
Instead the words planted a bright seed of hope. One that needed stomping on. “I can’t make her happy. I’m the son of a footman. I’m a working man.”
“You’re the grandson of a marquess. You’re a future lord. You’re richer than half the men of theton, and you’re a deuced fine man. A good friend and a good leader. But certainly, stay here ruining the crystal she purchased if you’re happy to let her go.”
