The Countess Conspiracy

  As if Sebastian wouldn’t have figured out something was wrong from the way his brother’s chest heaved. But he hadn’t come here to argue with his brother over water.

  He folded his arms and watched his brother work the pump handle. Benedict’s strokes were uneven, his breathing labored; the water came out in uneven spurts, and when the pail was half-full, his brother stopped for a moment. He turned his head, coughed, and spat on the ground. Sebastian saw a hint of pink, and he clenched his fists.

  “Here,” Sebastian said, “let me—”

  “No.” Benedict didn’t even look at him. “I’m not an invalid, you know.”

  Sebastian tried not to roll his eyes. “Of course you aren’t,” he replied sarcastically. “Pretend we’re children. You’re a knight, and I’m your squire. I’m just performing menial labor as a good squire should.” He tried to pull the pail from his brother’s grip again.

  But Benedict refused to let go. “I’m not a knight,” he said through gritted teeth, “and we’re far too old for games of make-believe.” He yanked the handle away from Sebastian.

  “I mean to go on as if nothing has changed. A gentleman has his dignity, after all.”

  “Oh, dignity,” Sebastian said, with a levity that he did not feel. “By all means. Dignity above all.”

  Benedict was ten years older than Sebastian. Their father had passed away before Sebastian could walk, so he’d played the role of father as often as he had brother. He flashed Sebastian a warning look—one Sebastian knew all too well. He’d seen it so often growing up. One time it had meant Don’t you dare bring that puppy home. On another occasion, it had meant Tell Mother how that vase broke, or I’ll do it for you.

  Sebastian had never been easily cowed. He made a face at his brother—scrunched nose, wrinkled mouth. But when it came down to it, Sebastian had always told—about vases and puppies alike—and his heart wasn’t in it. Defiance was only amusing when the stakes were low.

  Benedict took the bucket to the side yard, where a small stove sat against the wall. He stoked the fire, poured a portion of the water into a kettle, and waited. Sebastian followed behind, trying not to glower at him.

  Benedict finally spoke. “If my heart gives out because I cannot bear the trivial weight of a saddle or a bucket of water, I will gladly count it my time to go.”

  “Still not funny,” Sebastian muttered.

  “Still not a joke.”

  No. Benedict wouldn’t joke. He’d always been so sober, so direct. So easy to rile up, truth be told. He was the perfect brother: He worked hard, received high marks in school and higher praise for the evenness of his temper. Everyone respected him—including Sebastian. He was too good to hate. Perhaps that was why fate had decided to pull the cruelest trick on him.

  “I’m going to die,” Benedict said matter-of-factly. “Maybe in a month. Maybe in a year.” He shrugged. “But then again, so might you. So might anyone.”

  Sebastian opened his mouth to argue—and then shut it again. Convincing his brother to take the necessary precautions was a battle for another day; a day, perhaps, when a doctor was present, able to provide a rational, sober counterpoint. Today, he had something more important to discuss.

  Benedict tapped the kettle, gauging the temperature.

  Sebastian knelt beside his brother. “Look, Benedict. I want to talk to you about what will happen to Harry.”

  “I told you already. There’s no need for you to worry about being saddled with the boy. I know how full your schedule is. He’ll go to his grandmother up in Northumberland. She’s agreed to take him.”

  When Benedict had sat Sebastian down and told him what was going to happen, Sebastian had been too shocked to make sense of the news. It had all come too swiftly—the confession about his brother’s heart, the methodical way Benedict had gone about setting his affairs in order. Sebastian hadn’t been able to say a word in response, let alone a sentence in objection.

  He’d felt every inch of the gulf that had opened between himself and his brother. He hadn’t even been able to say, “Don’t worry, Benedict. Violet does most of the work.”

  “Harry’s seven,” Sebastian said quietly. “Mrs. Whiteland has visited once in his entire life and she was cross with him the entire visit. He scarcely knows her, and she doesn’t love him.”

  His brother didn’t glance at him. “Maybe not, but I’m sure she’ll do her duty.”

  “I should have him,” Sebastian said.

  “You’re busy,” Benedict said. “With…”

  With the lies Sebastian had told over the years.

  Sebastian reached out and brushed his brother’s shoulder. “No, I’m not. After what you told me the other day? I’m giving it up. I have a few loose ends to wrap up, but…” He waved a hand in the air. “That’s the end of it. You should never think that I’m too busy for you, Benedict. Or for Harry.”

  Benedict let out a long, slow breath, but he still didn’t glance Sebastian’s way. He simply picked up the kettle and poured a little water into the pail. He mixed the hot and cold waters with his hand, testing the temperature as if Sebastian hadn’t spoken. But Sebastian could see the expression on his face. His brother looked like he’d been mounted and stuffed. As if Sebastian had just made a dreadful faux pas.

  “Harry needs someone solid,” his brother finally said to his pail of water. “Someone respectable.” He twisted his lips into a smile, but still didn’t meet Sebastian’s eyes. “You’re an amazing godfather, Sebastian. The best uncle Harry could hope for. You’ll buy Harry his first horse and take him to his first gentleman’s club. But a godfather is not a parent. And you…”

  He spread his hands as if to sketch the dimensions of a widening gulf.

  “Yes?” Sebastian said. “What about me?”

  That stuffed look became more pained. “Don’t make me say it, Sebastian.”

  “Come, Benedict. I’m not that bad. I’ve never outspent my income, nor drunk to excess—at least, not since I was fifteen, and that was at your wedding. I’ve fathered no children outside of wedlock.”

  “Not for lack of trying,” his brother muttered.

  Now was not the time to educate his brother on the ways to avoid that particular risk.

  “I do not use opium,” Sebastian continued. “Nor do I despoil my servants. I have never killed a man. I haven’t even wounded anyone seriously. And I love Harry. You know that. I want him.”

  His brother shook his head. “We’ll both be happier if we don’t have this conversation, Sebastian. Don’t force it.” He stood, picked up the bucket, and trudged into the stable.

  Sebastian jumped to his feet and followed after.

  “I’m not without faults, I know, but—”

  His brother straightened and turned to him. “It was a very nice list you made just now. You’re right about one thing: As scoundrels go, you’re relatively benign. But did you notice that every item on your list was something you had not done? You haven’t drunk to excess. You don’t have creditors. Tell me, what have you accomplished?”

  Sebastian stared at Benedict. It had been so long since anyone had said that to him—so long since his dearest relations lectured him to make something of himself that at first, Sebastian thought he’d misunderstood.

  “I beg your pardon?” he asked. And that’s when he remembered: His greatest accomplishment was a lie, too.

  But Benedict didn’t know that. “Oh, yes.” His brother’s lips thinned. “You’ve championed those odd theories of yours. Three-quarters of respectable England hates you.”

  “Half,” Sebastian replied with a smile. “It’s really only half. Judging by my correspondence, it may be as little as forty-eight percent. And of those, only a small number want to cause me bodily harm. The rest just wish to have me gagged or thrown in prison.”

  Benedict frowned, as if he didn’t realize the last comments were a joke. “There’s no point in splitting hairs over the precise percentage. What portion of the country even mildly d
islikes Harry’s grandmother?”

  “Most of the country has never heard of her.”

  “Your infamy,” Benedict said sharply, “hardly recommends you. Years ago, I told you it would cause problems for you, but you didn’t listen then.”

  Sebastian hadn’t thought it relevant. What did it matter, if people he didn’t give one fig about didn’t care for him? He’d never realized that his brother stood among the ranks of those who disliked him. Benedict had made a few offhand remarks, but what older brother worth his salt would pass up the chance to make snide comments? But then, Benedict hardly knew the man Sebastian had become. Was it any surprise that he’d been taken in by the role Sebastian played for everyone else?

  “Maybe that’s so,” Sebastian said with a nod, “but I love Harry.”

  “So do I,” Benedict said. “But look at the facts of the matter. Your grandfather was a duke. Your father was a wealthy industrialist; you inherited a sizable portion when he passed away. You haven’t gone into trade or governmental service or the army. You were born with every advantage, and what have you done? You’ve made yourself the biggest scoundrel in all of England.”

  Sebastian felt his fist clench at his side, but he refused to let his anger show. He tried for a lazy smile instead. “But at least I’ve been superlative about it. That’s worth something.”

  Benedict winced. “Yes, Sebastian,” he said quietly. “You have been superlative.”

  That’s when Sebastian realized precisely how high a price he’d paid. Benedict himself had followed in their father’s footsteps, taking over the factories and the machinery of trade that Sebastian had ignored. He was quiet, responsible, and competent. They’d grown as far apart as two brothers could be. Oh, he’d known that his brother despaired of him—but he’d always thought it was a loving, brotherly sort of despair, the kind where he clapped his hand on Sebastian’s shoulder and called him incorrigible.

  But this was disapproval with a bite, a vicious reproof that would rob him of his brother and his nephew all in one blow.

  “You’re wrong,” Sebastian said quietly. “I’m much more than you’ve credited me with.”

  “Hmm.”

  “I understand,” Sebastian continued, before his brother could launch into a second list of complaints, “why you’d think that way. Over the last years, I’ve hardly given you the chance to know me.”

  “I know you,” Benedict contradicted. “I know you very well.”

  “I’m not like you,” Sebastian said, “but I think we have more in common than you think.”

  “Oh?” Benedict raised an eyebrow in disbelief.

  “My choices have meant that you haven’t had an opportunity to see that,” Sebastian continued, “so I should be the one to bridge the gap. You want me to do something that you’ll understand? Very well. Trade, it is.”

  His brother snorted. “Sebastian, you can’t just announce that you’re going to take up trade. It takes years.”

  “Mmm.” He had no intention of dedicating his life to trade—but he did have an idea, one that had tickled his fancy the other day as he was reading an account in the newspaper. His idea was a little thing, but it would be something they could talk about. They might have a conversation based on something other than lies or Benedict’s disapproval.

  “Oh, no,” Benedict said. “I know that look on your face. You’re coming up with a plan. A Sebastian-like plan. I know how you operate. You’re going to come to me and tell me you’ve gone into trade, when we both know it will be some sort of trick.”

  “No tricks,” Sebastian said, already distracted by thoughts of what he would have to do. “No cheating.”

  His brother snorted. “Neither of us needs more money, Sebastian. I don’t want you to engage in speculation. The last thing I need to worry about on top of everything else is my brother’s solvency.”

  “There will be no need to worry.” Sebastian smiled at his brother. “I promise I won’t risk any more than four or five thousand pounds, which I can well afford to lose. But I meant what I said. I’m done with my work as a scientist. And…” He looked up, meeting Benedict’s eyes. “And you are important to me. You’re right; it’s not about the money. It’s about having something we can talk about.”

  His brother took a step back. “My God, Sebastian. I almost think you’re serious. When are you ever serious?”

  “I’m serious about you,” Sebastian said. “You’re the only family I have left. Harry is…he’s the closest thing I have to my own child.”

  “It’s hard to take in. You’re never serious about anything.” His brother considered his words. And then—because Benedict was perfect, and he didn’t believe in exaggerations, he added, “Except Violet.”

  Violet. God, thoughts of her felt like the memory of a missing limb.

  Another man might have seen Violet’s eyes at their last meeting—so calm and collected—and thought her unaffected. Sebastian thought about her hands. She always showed her emotion in her hands. Her hands had been clenched tight, wringing together in an anguish that had not come out on her face. He felt sick, thinking of what he’d said to her.

  I have standards, and you don’t meet them. Truth, but truth twisted to sting. Just because she pretended not to have feelings didn’t mean he could outrage them at will.

  “More serious,” he said. “You know Violet and her interest in botany. She’s never missed one of my lectures. It’s the only thing she respects me for.” That, he was afraid, was the bitter truth. “I gave that up, but I’m not surrendering you.”

  His brother looked at him. “That means a lot to me, Sebastian.”

  It was a start. After five years of growing distance, Sebastian finally had a start that he could improve upon. His brother smiled at him; the moment grew almost uncomfortable,

  Before it could stretch into awkwardness, the stable door burst open.

  “Uncle Sebastian!” A blur of child rushed into the stable. “Uncle Sebastian! What did you bring me?”

  “Bring you?” Sebastian said, carefully refusing to look in his brother’s direction. “Harry, why would you think I had brought you anything?”

  “Oh, come now, Uncle Sebastian, don’t tease—”

  Harry stopped abruptly, seeing his father in the shadows. “Oh, Papa,” he said, suddenly subdued. “I didn’t see you there.”

  Benedict’s eyebrow rose. “Spoiling my child, are you, Sebastian? Didn’t see fit to mention that earlier, did you?”

  “Would I spoil Harry?” It was important not to sound too innocent, or Benedict would know he was lying. He was just congratulating himself on hitting the proper note when his brother held out his hand.

  “Give me the horehound and nobody gets hurt.”

  With a grimace, Sebastian withdrew a packet of sweets from his coat pocket and handed it to his brother.

  “That thing we were talking about?” Benedict said. “That thing you wanted? Exercise a little discipline. He’s a boy, not a puppy, and I don’t want him spoiled.”

  “Aw, Papa.” Harry glanced from one adult to another. “Wait, what did Uncle Sebastian want? Was it about me? Is he going to take me on that fishing trip he mentioned last time he was here? Is he?”

  “You may have a single sweet after dinner,” Benedict said firmly, juggling the packet Sebastian had relinquished. “If you’ve been good.”

  “Yes, sir.” Harry bit his lip. “But what other thing were you talking about?”

  “Being good means you don’t ask questions,” Benedict said.

  That seemed like a really boring rule to Sebastian, but he held his tongue. If he had to field Harry’s incessant questions all day, he’d probably think differently.

  Sebastian glanced at Harry. “Doesn’t he…” Doesn’t he know that you’re dying?

  “No,” Benedict said easily. “I don’t believe in teaching a boy to ride a horse until he’s capable of comprehending the dangers.”

  “Can I show Uncle Sebastian the owl’s nes
t?” Harry asked.

  “Go ahead.” Benedict nodded to Sebastian. “But remember what we talked about, Sebastian. I’ll see you in the house.”

  Sebastian followed his nephew out the swinging stable doors. All he had to do now was meet Benedict on his own ground. To show him that Sebastian was more than what he’d seen. And once that was accomplished…

  He glanced down at Harry.

  Once that was accomplished, he’d see what else followed.

  “Are these fierce owls?” he asked his nephew as they exited the stable, trotting through the meadow. “Owls as large as dragons, with thick claws and razor-sharp beaks? Have we been sent by the queen to make them stand trial for their crimes?”

  “Yes!” Harry agreed happily. “These are—” He stopped. “Oh, no. I can’t. That’s…that’s pretending, isn’t it? Father said I’m too old for that now.”

  Another time, Sebastian would have pooh-poohed that concept. He would, in point of fact, have mentioned that he had an extra stick of candy in his coat pocket, and that only the finest owl hunters in the land received the Sweet Wand of Horehound as a reward when they vanquished a nest of the Poisonous Owls of Feathergloop.

  But Benedict wouldn’t like it.

  “Yes,” he said glumly, “it’s pretend. And if you say you’re too old for it…”

  He looked down at his nephew’s head—at that dark cowlick that didn’t quite sit properly, leaving Harry’s hair sticking up no matter how much he swiped it down. Sebastian mussed it fiercely, until the brown strands stood out from his nephew’s head like a halo.

  “Let’s just go look at the owls.”

  IT HAD BEEN TWO WEEKS since Violet had last seen Sebastian—two weeks that she had hoped would lessen the sting of his words. Somehow, she managed to pretend nothing was amiss—going about her daily tasks as if a gaping hole had not opened in her life. But routine didn’t help; it only reminded her of everything that she’d lost.

  It was proof of Violet’s disquiet that she had eventually given up pretending and come to this comfortable Mayfair home. From the outside, it looked like any genteel residence: white paint, black trim, flowers in boxes at the front windows. When Violet was let inside, there was the usual marble entryway, the normal formal sideboard. But there was also a small army of tin soldiers encamped on the wide steps leading up to the first floor, abandoned by their generals in the midst of battle preparations.