Devil help him. He’d give one hundred quid to whoever got him out of this conversation.
He looked over at his wife, who was smiling and laughing. She playfully batted Harcombe on the shoulder with her fan, and the man turned deep red.
Help was not coming from that quarter.
He turned back to the debutantes to find Miss Grunt’s eyes alight and fixed at a point over his shoulder.
Behind him, Greenhill cleared his throat. “Their Graces the Duke and Duchess of Wildeforde and the right honorable Earl and Countess of Karstark.”
The energy in the room shifted—not that his guests would notice. But his staff? They went tense. Peter didn’t hide his anger, his lips pursed and jaw set.
Hairs stood up on the back of Benedict’s neck, and the chatter in the room suddenly sounded much farther away. It took a second for him to remember to breathe.
What were the Karstarks doing here?
He turned to Amelia, who gave him a barely perceptible don’t-ask-me shrug before going to greet the new arrivals.
Agatha Karstark looked even more ancient than she had a month ago. She wore a three-foot powdered wig—perhaps that was how she hid her horns—and a red, wide-skirted dress that looked more like a costume than a dress of today. The powder on her face had settled into the creases, creating a ghoulish effect.
Lord Karstark looked much the same as he had that night that he’d manipulated Benedict into this marriage—small and frail, but it was a façade. Karstark didn’t need a physical advantage to take advantage of others. He had power and money, which was enough to cow the young women unfortunate enough to work for him. They never lasted in his employ long.
Benedict looked over at Peter, who was tracking Karstark’s movements. His sister had worked for them a few months back, and it had not ended well. She was still reluctant to be alone and was skittish in the company of any man.
Peter needed watching tonight.
Benedict stretched his jaw. “Excuse me for a moment, ladies,” he said to the Grunt sisters. Taking a deep breath, he stalked toward the foursome at the entryway.
He would tell them to leave. With any luck, they’d refuse. Then he would grab Karstark by his breeches and toss him out the door.
Except he couldn’t, because Amelia got there before him, and instead of throwing them out, she curtseyed.
“Your Graces,” Amelia said to Wildeforde and his mother.
Benedict wondered if he were the only one in the room that noticed the slight tightening of her lips as she paid deference to her ex-fiancé.
Turning to the Karstarks, she said, “It’s a pleasure to see you both again.”
All eyes turned to him.
He wouldn’t bow. Not in his home. Not to these people.
It didn’t go unnoticed. Lord Karstark smirked, as if Benedict had just proved him right on some front.
Lady Wildefordetut-tutted. “Benedict, stubborn boy. You’re taller again. You’re putting a crick in my neck.”
It was the same welcome he’d received from her every time they’d met during his youth—always accompanied by a disapproving inspection. She’d made it repeatedly clear that he was not the friend she wanted for her son.
How he hated these people.
“Agatha, why are we here?” Karstark asked his wife loudly.
“I believe you’re satisfying your wife’s need to know everyone’s business,” Benedict said. A murmur rippled through the room.
Damn these people. If they weren’t going to try for civility, neither would he. Who showed up to a dinner without an invitation?
“My love…” Amelia’s tone was honeyed but her eyes flinty. Whatever their shared opinion of the Karstarks, it was clear they did not share a strategy for dealing with them. Her glare was as clear a warning as he was going to get.
“What a surprise to have you join us,” his wife said to them. “I’ll arrange some extra seating, though we may be a touch squashed.”
