Prologue
“My lord, you have received a note.”
A chill ran through Benedict as he looked up to see his butler holding out a letter for him. His heart turned over in his chest as he picked it up to reveal that yes, this was precisely as he had feared. The wax held no seal.
“There is no need to wait for a reply,” he said to his butler, trying to speak as nonchalantly as possible. “I will ring the bell if I need anything.”
Marks, his long-suffering butler, nodded but said nothing, turning on his heel and walking back toward the door. In a moment, the door was shut tightly behind him again and Benedict was left alone.
The Earl of Knightsbridge.
His name was written in a sloping hand on the front of the letter. The sight of it sent another flurry of fear all through him, making him shudder. What is it they would be demanding this time? Everything in him wanted to throw the letter in the fire, unopened and unread, but Benedict did not dare to do so. The first time he had received such a note, he had ignored it entirely, thinking it to be nothing more than mischief on someone’s part. Perhaps an acquaintance looking to frighten him. But then his mother had been injured whilst out on a gentle walk around the grounds, and Benedict had been forced to reassess the matter. The note that had arrived after that had told him that if he ignored any further letters, then his mother might not only take a tumble the next time. Ever since then, he had been forced to obey.
With a heavy heart and reluctance in his spirit, Benedict snapped open the wax and unfolded the letter. It was brief, as it always was, telling him what he was expected to do next.
Set food and wine out in your cellar, the note said. This evening and the next. And do not go anywhere other than your bedchamber from dusk until dawn.
A shudder ran through him as he rose from his chair, flinging the note into the fireplace. It caught at once, the embers setting it alight and turning it into nothing but dust. Leaning heavily on the mantlepiece, he looked down at the grey ashes and felt his heart sink to the floor. He had no other choice but to obey, even though he did not know what was happening or why he was doing so. Who required food and wine for the next two days? Who would be present within his own house—albeit his cellar—forcing him to remain in his bedchamber? Groaning, Benedict let out a long sigh and closed his eyes. With his grand estate close to the open sea and a cellar with a door that led to the beach itself, Benedict had very little doubt what his cellar was being used for. The beach itself was shrouded by cliffs and crags, meaning that small boats certainly could come and go without being noticed by anyone.
“Smugglers,” he muttered, raking one hand through his hair. “I am sure of it.”
And yet, despite this certainty, there was nothing that Benedict could do. The estate was his and yet it felt as though it belonged to someone else entirely. He had no control over who came and went from his cellar, no other choice but to do as he was tasked. He did so out of fear—fear that his mother would come to great harm, should he refuse to obey. That knowledge made him furious beyond measure, for no one wanted to be pushed toward obedience out of anxiety and terror. And yet that was precisely what was being done to him.
“Benedict?”
The door opened at once, without even so much as a knock, and Benedict was forced to turn around, his hands clasping behind his back and what he hoped was a look of indifference on his face.
“Yes, Mother?” he asked, allowing himself a rather obvious sigh which she either did not notice or chose to ignore. “You have entered again without knocking, I see.”
His mother, with her dark hair now streaked liberally with grey and flashing green eyes that Benedict knew he himself had inherited, stood with her hands on her hips.
“Knightsbridge,” she said firmly. “We are to go to town for the Season, yes?”
Benedict groaned inwardly but said nothing. His mother had been very insistent indeed that they go to London for the Season but he, of course, had not been able to accept given all that was going on at present. He dared not step away from his estate for fear that it might become overrun with his enemies, who would then be able to use his estate as they pleased. Or they might punish him for leaving without their agreement.
“I do not think so, Mother,” he said as she arched one eyebrow. “I have plenty to do here and—”
“You did not linger in London last Season, Benedict,” Lady Knightsbridge stated, her eyes still fastened to his. “And you would not take me to London for the little Season either.”
“I am well aware of that, Mother,” Benedict replied as calmly as he could as he wandered away from the mantlepiece. “But if you wish to go to London, there is no reason why you cannot do so yourself.” He shrugged one shoulder. “I have no wish to attend this Season.”
His mother eyed him carefully but said nothing, leaving Benedict in a somewhat uncomfortable state. He knew all too well that his mother would not accept the simple explanation that he had just given her but would, in fact, require the truth from him. A truth he had no intention of giving.
“I—I can make arrangements for you to attend, Mother, of course,” he added when she said nothing. He began to turn toward the window, not wanting to continue looking into her glaring eyes. “The townhouse can be easily prepared and—”
“Need I remind you that you are in need of a wife?”
The words flung him back a step and he stumbled, turning to look at his mother. “I am aware that I need a wife, Mother, but it is also for me to decide when I will marry, is it not?”
“You have no brother to take over this line if the worst should happen,” his mother said starkly, throwing up her hands as though he were being deliberately irritating. “Why should you wait?”
Benedict could give her no answer. How could he tell her that, whilst he had been in London last Season for a short time, he found no one that appealed to him—and he certainly could not abide the thought of marrying someone who did not even capture his interest.
“And you are quite determined not to go to London,” his mother continued, clearly exasperated. “You are being ridiculous and quite foolish, and I do not understand why.” Shaking her head, she dropped her hands to her sides. “Well, if you will not go to London, then London shall have to come to you.”
Benedict’s heart seemed to stop as his mother continued to speak, although it now appeared that she was speaking more to herself than to him, for she began to murmur to herself, counting things on her fingers and nodding as though she were making a good many plans. He did not know what to say, his stomach tightening as he watched her with careful eyes, his heart beginning to quicken with panic. Just what did his mother intend?
“Yes, I think that should do it,” she said, somewhat briskly. “Mayhap you will find one of these young ladies suitable.”
“Mother,” Benedict said slowly, his brows lowering over his eyes. “What is it you intend to do?”
She lifted her gaze to his, her eyes clear. “A house party,” she said briskly. “That is what we shall have. A house party. A most excellent one at that. I shall be in charge of the invitations, of course. And the menu. It need only be a few days with us. A little less than a sennight, perhaps.” Her smile brightened and she lifted one shoulder. “Of course, if you find no one of interest at the first house party, then you shall simply have to host another one.” Her shoulder dropped although her smile lingered. “And mayhap even a third.”