Page 9 of Chasing Benedict
Benedict was on his feet then, suddenly filled with energy. He didn’t particularly desire his father’s presence, but wouldn’t resist a chance to needle the man. There would be no ejecting him from the premises, as this townhouse belonged to the viscount. Benedict merely chose to reside here to annoy his father, knowing that news of his debauched lifestyle and the bevy of colorful people coming and going from the house would reach him in Norfolk. Perhaps if Benedict acted enough the ass, his father would grow irritated and return to the country.
Neglecting to accept his shoes from Simmons, he trudged to the washstand. The face that greeted him in the mirror was haggard and drawn, the jaw riddled with more than a days’ worth of beard. His side-whiskers were untamed, his blond locks tousled and standing on end. The swollen eye was marred with a black and red bruise, the corner of his mouth reddened. Flecks of dried blood stained the linen he used to wash his face. He smelled like a distillery and looked like hell.
Perfect.
Padding down the stairs, he followed the rumbling tones of the viscount’s familiar voice to the drawing room. The doors hung open to reveal a pair of footmen working together to remove a portrait from over the mantelpiece, while his father looked on. Hands on hips, he shook his head in disgust at the pockmarks and gouges riddling the portrait of himself. Benedict’s stiletto was still embedded in his father’s right eye, straight through the pupil.
“Pardon me,” Benedict murmured, yanking his stiletto free of the canvas as the footmen passed by. “I believe this is mine.”
The servants moved on without a word, though a palpable tension had settled over the household. The entire staff was in Benedict’s employ, to prevent the spread of gossip about his proclivities. They were all well aware of the animosity between him and the viscount.
Leaning against the door frame, Benedict pressed the pad of one finger lightly against the tip of his knife. “My lord.”
Lord Malcolm Sterling narrowed ice-blue eyes at Benedict, his anvil of a jaw thrusting forward when his lips pursed in disdain. “Benedict.”
The crisp diction of the single word did nothing to mask the fact that his voice was nearly identical to Benedict’s. Standing before his sire was like looking into a mirror—one that showed Benedict an unwelcome future. It had taken Benedict years to stop hating himself when his face and voice had been inherited directly from someone he despised. For, if he could look so much like his father and someday be forced to take on the title of viscount, Benedict was in danger of becoming just like him. It was the one thing he feared and avoided with every fiber of his being.
“You sent no word of your impending arrival,” Benedict challenged, refusing to break his father’s stern stare. The man had a way of stripping a person to the bone with his eyes, showing in his expression that he could see all of Benedict’s secrets and found him lacking in every respect.
“This house belongs to me,” his father retorted. “I am not obligated to announce my arrival to anyone, least of all you.”
Benedict entered the room, dropping into the nearest chair and slouching with the stiletto clenched in his fist. The viscount scowled, raking Benedict from head to toe with clear disapproval written all over his face. He could feel his father assessing every aspect of his appearance that didn’t align with that of a gentleman.
It had been this way between them since Benedict was a boy—the youngest of three sons, contrary in every possible way. For the viscount, Benedict’s constant refusal to conform to some lofty aspiration of nobility was the thing that made him a disappointment. It was the reason his father had spent years stewing over the fact that the son he hated would inherit everything he owned.
The deaths of his brothers had ruined the Sterling legacy, and for reasons beyond Benedict’s comprehension, his father chose to place the blame for that squarely on his shoulders. It didn’t matter that he’d been hundreds of miles away at Cambridge when a carriage accident had taken both Esmond and Francis in one fell swoop. Benedict hadn’t been driving the carriage which, traveling in the dark and fog, had overturned on an old and notoriously dangerous bridge—sending the footman, four horses, and his brothers to the bottom of a river. Only the coachman had survived, and he had nearly drowned trying to save the others. None of that mattered to the viscount. All he knew was that his favored sons were gone, and Benedict was all he had left.
“How long do you intend to remain?” Benedict asked, partly to annoy his father, but mostly for his own peace of mind.
The viscount’s appearance in London would draw added scrutiny to Benedict’s already salacious reputation—something he usually welcomed but didn’t need just now.
“Until the matter of your public disgrace has been dealt with to my satisfaction.”
The viscount held up a folded broadsheet in one hand, making Benedict aware of it for the first time. The fight against his own curiosity was lost, as it seemed his father didn’t intend to explain without prompting.
“What is that?”
The viscount cleared his throat and looked to the page. “I have here a copy ofThe London Gossip, released only today. The author has dedicated an entire section of her paper to you. It reads, ‘rumor has it that the Honourable Mr. S has been seen about Town debauching himself with a vigor most unusual—even for him. He has been spotted at several gentleman’s clubs, soused beyond coherence. A rather diverting scene was reported to have taken place at Boodles some weeks past, during which Mr. S left destruction in his wake in the form of broken furniture and overturned glasses. One cannot help but wonder where Viscount S is and why he has yet to take his wayward son in hand. Such unseemly behavior does not reflect well upon the family name, which was once highly respected. It would seem Mr. S is determined to rip his father’s legacy to tatters. This writer wonders why.’”
The viscount hurled the paper at Benedict with a snarl once he’d finished reading. Benedict bit back a string of curses, not because he wanted to avoid his father’s censure, but because he didn’t want the man to know how deep his dread went at the revelation thatThe London Gossiphad resumed delivering her daily papers. He had gone to great lengths to cut off the popular publication's circulation, but true to form, the wily woman known to the public only as The London Gossip had outwitted him. Again.
He pushed the paper off his lap in a show of childish defiance, taking great pleasure in the way his father’s nostrils flared, lips pinching in disapproval. “I hadn’t realized you devoured gossip sheets like some nosy society matron. Has country life grown so boring, then?”
The viscount’s face reddened as he pointed an accusing finger at Benedict. “When such publications make note of your ridiculous behavior and cast aspersions on my good name, I take an interest. Did you not think word of your exploits wouldn’t reach Norfolk?”
“Of course not. I merely thought you had come to understand by now that I will do as I please. Your trip is wasted.”
“I think not,” his father said, hands folded behind his back as he moved toward a window overlooking the street. “I have given you ample time to weary of your own destructive habits. As you have clearly become a slave to your vices, it falls to me to ensure your future, as well as that of the Sterling name.”
Benedict stiffened, his stomach churning as he anticipated what was coming next. This wasn’t the first time he and his father had clashed on this subject, and it seemed the viscount was not to be swayed.
“If I wanted your assistance, I would ask for it,” Benedict said. “My life is arranged to suit my needs, not to fulfill your expectations. You have made it clear that I will never be good enough to fill your shoes, so why should I exert myself trying?”
“As distasteful as it is for us both, you are my heir. The time has come for you to act as such.”
“I am not Esmond, and you cannot make me in his image no matter how much you might wish to.”
“You aren’t half the man your brother was, on that we agree.”
