The Countess Conspiracy (20 page)

She read and read until there was no room for want. Until she’d reduced herself to pure thought and work, a being with no feelings, no sensations, no desires. None of that had ever served her anyway.

But thoughts were insidious, and if there was anything her scientific work had taught her, it was this: Almost every organism, no matter how small or how large, yearned to reproduce. It was a desire bred into every cell, and she could not drive it away, no matter how harmful she knew that want to be. She could only keep her yearning at bay.

Sometimes at night, she failed.

She felt the bed beneath her back that night, and remembered the feel of her husband on top of her, pushing inside her, leaning down to her as if for a kiss.

The first few years, he’d whispered words of encouragement and affection.
Darling
and
sweet
and
good.
Later, he’d lapsed into silence.

Near the end, though…

What the hell is the use of you?
He’d whispered in her ear as he took her.
Selfish bitch.

Those were the words that punctuated his thrusts. And with every passing cycle—every few months—she’d proved him right, subliming like ice in winter, turning into so much vapor.

Selfish. Pointless. Bitch.

How many more lovers do you need?

Only one more.

But Violet could never be anyone’s
one more.
She was a blacksmith’s puzzle made by a fiend. All anyone could do was be driven mad by her
.

She let out a breath in the darkness. Lily. She would visit Lily tomorrow, and Lily would need her.

And oh, Violet needed to be needed. At the moment, she needed it more than anything.

Chapter Twelve

T
HE SUN WAS HIGH AND
S
EBASTIAN’S JOURNEY
from London had been pleasant. He’d managed to bury all of Violet’s revelations deep in his heart. He hid them in the pleasant sun, in the too-humid air presaging some later storm.

It had been a week since he’d last seen his brother and not quite that long since he’d first met with the leadership of the Society for the Betterment of Respectable Trade in London. He couldn’t have hoped for a better response from them.

His brother, however…

He made his way through his brother’s house, led by the servants, and came into his brother’s study. He didn’t say a word. He just handed over the circular he’d brought with him.

He could hear the clock ticking seconds away. He didn’t dare count them; he didn’t want to know how long it would take Benedict to realize what he was reading.

His brother smoothed the page in front of him against the desk and shook his head. He seemed to move so slowly. Once again, he frowned and started reading for the third time.

Benedict’s lips twitched into a frown. His fingers tapped against the table, as if he could change the words if only he jarred the paper hard enough. He read through the end for a third time, and after his eyes had stopped moving down the page—long after—he simply stared at the paper.

Sebastian couldn’t breathe. Some part of him still felt like he was still a younger brother, dancing around the older, showing off some skill that the elder had perfected years before.
Look,
he wanted to say.
Look what I did.

But it was more than that.

Look who I am.

All these years he’d let his brother tell him he was nothing, that the sum total of his accomplishments were the jokes he’d made, the wrath he’d incurred from respectable people outraged by his words.

But Benedict was wrong.

Finally his brother shut his eyes and shoved the paper away.

“Sebastian.” The word came out on a sad sigh, and he shook his head as he spoke. “How the hell did you manage this one?”

“Am I supposed to feel ashamed?” Sebastian asked in surprise. “I went to visit the Society in London. I talked with the leadership there. They were interested in my work on shipping, and even more interested to hear about the application of numerical methods to trade.”

His brother grimaced. “That much is obvious. But…”

The clock was still ticking, those seconds seeming to come faster and faster.

“You don’t need to have a but,” Sebastian said. “You can just leave it at ‘Well done, Sebastian, I’m looking forward to attending that meeting.’”

“Attending?” His brother’s nose wrinkled. “You think I’ll be in attendance? I made it clear to you that the Society was a respectable organization. And you think to prove something by dazzling their best minds with mathematical conjuring tricks?”

“God, Benedict,” Sebastian said. “That…”

Hurts,
he might have said. But that simply word didn’t encompass the sting he felt, the ache deep inside. He’d wanted to bridge the gap between them. He’d hoped it was possible.

“That’s unfair.” He looked away. “I don’t think I could prove anything to you. You’ve made that perfectly clear. But I thought you would at least give me a chance.”

“A chance? A chance at what?”

Sebastian raised his chin. “A chance to prove that I’m your equal. That no matter how many missteps I’ve made, we can have something in common.”

Benedict set his jaw. “But you want more than that. I know how you operate. Of course you want me to approve of you. You thrive on bedazzling others, and it grates on you that you can’t fool me. You’re all spark and no substance. Look at this circular making the announcement. It’s utterly ridiculous. ‘In honor of our two-hundredth anniversary gala, we are pleased to present a series of lectures on the future of trade, given by the thinker of the century.’ Then they name you.” He let out a hearty chuckle. “Tell me, Sebastian. How is that
not
a joke?”

Sebastian’s stomach sank. “‘Thinker of the century’ is a little overwrought,” he said stiffly, “but if the most important, intelligent people in your Society think I have something worthwhile to say, couldn’t you consider the possibility?”

Benedict stood. “You forget. I understand you. They didn’t grow up with you. Every person who meets you today walks away with stars in his eyes, blinded by brilliant lights. But I’ve seen you all my life, and you can’t hide from me. Behind your jokes and your pleasant words and your flashing smiles, you’re nothing.”

Sebastian felt as if his brother had thrust a sword through his stomach.

“The rest of the world will give you all the accolades it has to offer. But someone has to remind you of the truth about yourself, and that person is me.” He pushed the circular back to Sebastian. “You want to know what I think of this? I think that my Society has made a mistake—a horrific, bleeding mistake—and when you’re finished wreaking your usual havoc,
I
will be left to clean up the damage.”

Sebastian couldn’t say anything. He grappled for words—anything—but they all slipped away from him.

“Next time you think to make me proud? Don’t besmirch the name of an organization I love.”

Benedict spoke as if he were offering Sebastian kind, loving advice. Sebastian’s hands were growing cold.

His brother pushed to his feet. “Do something real, and I will recognize you for it. But this…”

It should have been obvious long before now, but Sebastian hadn’t wanted to admit it. His brother stood before him, his face a dark thundercloud, his arms crossed over his chest. Perfect Benedict, he’d thought. Benedict never set a foot wrong. Benedict always set so high a standard with his own conduct that Sebastian could not help but fall short of the mark.

Perfect Benedict was a liar.

“I see,” Sebastian heard himself say. “I thought
I
was at fault for the distance between us. But I was hardly alone. There is nothing I can do that will make you think well of me. You’re sending Harry to his grandmother because you don’t think I’ve accomplished enough to raise your son? How many pounds has she earned in business?”

Benedict frowned. “That’s hardly the point.”

“Isn’t it? You want your son to have an example of gentlemanly conduct. How many lectures has she delivered to your bloody Society?”

“You’re out of line, Sebastian. Don’t curse.”

“You cursed yourself, not two minutes ago!” Sebastian glared at his brother. “When was she inducted into the Royal Society? At what age? What papers has she published?” Sebastian took a step forward. “It’s not about what I do. It’s not about what I
don’t
do. It’s about the same damned thing, Benedict—the thing that this has always been about. I am someone—someone intelligent and capable—and
you’ve
never seen anything good in me. Well, I’m done trying to prove I deserve your respect. You’d never grant it to me, no matter what I did.”

Benedict drew back, his cheeks turning pink. “What a terrible thing to say.”

“Oh, it’s terrible, all right. Imagine living it,” Sebastian said. “Imagine growing up, knowing that the person whose good opinion you most wish to win has already deemed you good for nothing. All my life I’ve let you tell me that I was nothing but a fribble—a pointless, ridiculous, foolish rake, someone who contributed nothing to the world. But you know what? I have a lot to be proud of. Try it, Benedict. Tell me
one
good thing about myself.”

His brother’s jaw worked. His nostrils flared; he looked away. “Well. You’re likable—I’ll grant you that. It has always been your undoing: You’re likable. Everything has always come so easily to you—friends, women.” He shook his head. “Money. Prestige. Life is a game to you. The rest of us struggle through, trying our best to leave the tiniest of marks. And you just have it all handed to you without lifting a finger. Because you’re
likable.”

Christ. Benedict couldn’t even give him a compliment without turning it into an insult.

“I can’t help it if people like me.” Sebastian folded his arms. “And I have not had everything I wanted simply handed to me.”

“Name one thing, Sebastian—one thing that you’ve wanted that you haven’t received.”

Sebastian looked away. “Your approval.”

“Oh,
one
difficulty! Very good. After more than three decades of easy sailing, you’ve discovered one thing that cannot be had for the price of a joke and a smile.”

“No,” Sebastian set his hands on the desk. “Your approval was the only thing I ever wanted as a child. All I have ever wanted was for you to be proud of me. For you to look me in the eyes and say, ‘Good work, Sebastian, I knew you could do it.’ But nothing I did was ever good enough for you. I tried and tried and tried, and no matter what I accomplished, no matter what I laid at your feet, I always got the same answer. What I did had no value.” He leaned forward. “That is
codswallop,
Benedict.”

Benedict tossed his head. “Oh, don’t try and arouse my pity. If you had done anything worth doing—”

“Do you know why I want your son?” Sebastian interrupted. “Yes, it’s because I love him. Yes, it’s because he’s a wonderful boy and I would count it an honor to raise him. But it’s also because I see you doing to him what you did to me. Nothing he does is good enough for you. All he receives are reprimands. ‘Stop playing make-believe,’ ‘You’re not old enough for real work,’ and yet, ‘You’re too old to play.’ Nothing he ever does is right. I want him because I want him to know that he’s good enough. Because I’m the only person in the world that believes that about him, and damn it, I do not want him to grow up like I did.”

Benedict’s eyes darkened. “You’re questioning
my
abilities as a parent?”

“Yes,” Sebastian said, “I am. You mucked everything up with me, and now you’re mucking it up with Harry. I’m not going to let you do that to him.”

Benedict sighed and rubbed his forehead. “You think I was too hard on you?” He took a step forward. “You think that you did your best, and I should have rewarded your substandard, foolish little efforts because otherwise, I might hurt your feelings?” His face was red. “You could have had my respect. It’s never been withheld. All you had to do was earn it.”

“Name one thing I could do!” Sebastian snapped. “Just try—name
one thing,
Benedict, that I could do that would make you say, ‘Well, Sebastian, you really are worthy of respect.”

Benedict’s mouth worked. “Just—just stop lazing about, and—”

“I have not lazed about!” Sebastian shouted back. “Look at me. Really look at me, Benedict. Look at who I am and what I’ve done. These things I’m putting before you—they’re not
accidents.
They are who I am. It’s not my fault that all you see in me is a ne’er-do-well.”

“I see what you are!” Benedict snapped back. “And what you are is a fraud.”

Sebastian felt cold all the way through. “No.”

But there was just enough truth in his brother’s accusation that his protest came out a mere whisper.

“You’re a fraud,” Benedict said, “playing at being a man. You’re a fraud, a fraud, a horrible—” He stopped mid-sentence, breathing hard. His face mottled red and he bit back the rest of his sentence.

And in that moment, Sebastian knew that his brother was right. He was a fraud—a horrible one—and even if Benedict didn’t know all the reasons, he had the right of it. He’d been afraid of losing his brother, and yet here he was, driving him away.