Page 33 of Chasing Benedict
Simmons silently readied him for the trip, sensing Benedict’s mood. Throughout his toilette, Benedict reminded himself that he was still in control. Alex seemed willing to do anything to have the smallest pieces of Benedict, which gave him the advantage.
With that thought fixed firmly in his mind, he descended the stairs behind the footmen carrying his things to Alex’s waiting carriage. Simmons was on his heels, urging the servants to take care with his master's luggage. As they reached the ground floor, the viscount appeared from within the dining room—devoid of his coat, with a napkin dangling from his fingers. Peering through the open front door, Benedict spied Alex approaching from his waiting carriage. Behind him, the coachman assisted the footmen with his baggage.
Recognizing Alex, his father frowned and then turned back to Benedict. “What the devil is this? When did you begin associating with Osborne again?”
Benedict grinned at his father’s expression of consternation. The viscount might have discovered the truth about Benedict years ago, but when it came to Alex, he was left to wonder. His father knew them to be old school friends but had never caught wind of their secret connection. He stared back at Benedict now with suspicion, seeming to silently ask if this was what he assumed it to be.
“Ah, careful,” Benedict murmured under his breath. “He’s Vautrey now. Besides, a man can resume a prior acquaintance with an old friend.”
Alex was upon them now, having declined the butler’s offer to take his coat and hat. “Good morning.”
Benedict offered a bow, as was proper, lips twitching with amusement as his father was forced to do the same. “Vautrey, you remember my father … Viscount Sterling. Father, my good friend, the Earl of Vautrey. He has graciously invited me to enjoy the countryside with him in Kent for a few weeks. You will be glad to have the house to yourself, I’m sure.”
The viscount narrowed his eyes at Benedict, a muscle spasming in his jaw. “I see. How … gracious of him.”
Benedict furrowed his brow as Alex cleared his throat and studied a painting on a nearby wall. Benedict shook his head, certain he only imagined the strain between them. His father was merely being an ass and making Alex uncomfortable. The two had only met a handful of times, when he and Alex had been home from Cambridge. Alex had been as much a fixture in his life back then as Aubrey and Dominick.
“I do believe your baggage is secure,” Alex said to Benedict, still pointedly ignoring the viscount. “Are you ready?”
“Almost,” Benedict said, moving closer to the door and peering out at the street. “I’m waiting for … ah, here he is. Fisher, you’re right on time. Come and meet the earl.”
Benedict couldn’t help another smile as Alex cast a curious glance at the man standing on the front step, a worn and dusty valise held under one arm. John Fisher’s clothes were years out of fashion, his heavy paunch of a belly threatening his waistcoat buttons. But then, the man had been a Corinthian work of art in his days of glory as one of London’s fiercest heavyweight pugilists. He now plied his trade as a boxing master for men like Benedict, who were willing to pay to keep the man at their beck and call.
“I hope you don’t mind,” Benedict said, casting Alex a smug look. “I have a match next month to train for and can’t allow myself to grow lazy and soft while we’re in Kent.”
“My Lord,” Fisher drawled with a graceless bow.
Alex’s nostrils flared as he eyed Fisher. Benedict’s jaw ached from a smile that wouldn’t abate as he watched Alex struggle with his tongue. He had no choice but to let Benedict have his way, and they both knew it.
“Of course,” Alex relented. “Mr. Fisher, you can share the second carriage with my valet and Mr. Sterling’s man.”
“I’m that grateful, my lord,” Fisher said before glowering at Benedict. “You’ve been brawling behind my back.”
Benedict shrugged as Fisher took in the faded bruises along his jaw and under his eye. “Fish must swim, Fisher.”
“Hmph,” Fisher muttered. “You’ll pay for it, mark my words.”
“Looking forward to it,” Benedict called at the man’s retreating back. Then, Benedict waved a hand toward the open door. “Shall we, Vautrey?”
Without another word, Alex preceded him to the door.
The viscount took hold of Benedict’s arm before he could follow, his lips twisted into a hard sneer. “Have you forgotten my ultimatum?”
Benedict feigned surprise. “Of course I haven’t forgotten. I thought we had settled the matter to both our satisfaction. You ordered me to find a wife, and I told you to go fuck yourself.”
His father’s grip tightened, his face flushing a furious shade of red. “You insolent little—”
“Yes, yes,” Benedict said, snatching his arm free. “We both know you despise me and hate that I will be your heir. I’m a twisted, broken sodomite, and you will expose me as such if I don’t comply. Except … I don’t think you will. You see, I think you’ve run out of tricks to use in bringing me to heel and are bluffing. Exposing me destroys your precious legacy, and we both know you love that more than you’ve ever loved me or anyone else in your life.”
In all actuality, Benedict knew very well that the viscount wasn’t bluffing. However, Cynthia currently posed the greatest danger to not only him, but those closest to him. By placing a few hundred miles between himself and his father, Benedict could buy himself more time to distinguish the second most pressing threat.
The viscount looked as if he might grind his teeth into dust or suffer an apoplexy. For a long moment, he and Benedict merely stared at one another, neither willing to back down and both taking the measure of the other.
“This isn’t over,” the viscount whispered, a steely edge to his words. “I will still be here when you return, and Dr. Pruett remains at my beck and call. I warn you not to challenge me in this. You cannot win.”
Benedict offered a derisive smirk to hide the trickle of dread threading through him. Hecouldwin, but only if he managed to outwit his father.
“I suppose we’ll see,” he replied before donning his hat and going after Alex.
