The Countess Conspiracy (31 page)

He was smiling as he was shown into his brother’s study; even Benedict’s careful indifference, his refusal to look up as Sebastian entered, couldn’t dampen his good mood.

He’d made up his mind the last time he’d seen his brother. It did no good to argue with Benedict. He’d tried his damnedest; there was no point upsetting his brother.

His brother paid him no attention for another five minutes, and eventually, Sebastian seated himself on the other side of the desk and began to whistle.

It was a cheap younger-brother trick, but an effective one. After the third off-key iteration of
God Save the Queen,
Benedict’s annoyance outgrew his ability to ignore Sebastian.

“Can you stop that?” Benedict demanded, finally looking up.

“Stop what?” Sebastian asked innocently. “Was I doing something?”

“That awful warbling.”

“Oh, sorry,” Sebastian said with just enough excess apology dripping from his voice. “I didn’t realize you disliked Queen Victoria. I should have picked a different tune.”

“I like the queen—” Benedict stopped. Despite himself, his lip twitched up in a smile. “No, Sebastian. You’re not going to get me that way.”

Sebastian dropped his pretend innocence and leaned forward. “For the record,” he said, “you asked me to come out here on
urgent
business and then ignored me when I arrived. If you don’t want me to play the annoying younger brother, leave off playing the too-important older one.”

Benedict met his brother’s gaze and sighed. “Occasionally,” he muttered, “you have a point. I thought about what you said to me last time. About how—perhaps—I might judge you harshly. I wondered if there was any justice to your remarks.”

Sebastian held his breath and sat forward. “Oh. Then I really
am
sorry about the whistling.”

Benedict didn’t blink. “I thought about it for weeks until I saw a notice in the paper—a little half-inch description—about a talk you delivered in Cambridge. A scientific talk.”

Sebastian swallowed. “Yes. Well.”

“You told me you were done with scientific work.”

“Yes. I…am. Sort of. That was…more in the way of wrapping matters up, see, presenting some final work.”

“That’s what I told myself,” Benedict said. “But now I see I was making excuses for you. What the devil is this?”

He held up his newspaper and pointed to a notice.

Malheur to Deliver Seminal Remarks on Inheritance in Two Days.

The subheading read:
Promises to be Explosive and Controversial.

“Ah,” Sebastian said. “Aha, ha. Right. That. I see how that looks.”

“Right?” Benedict repeated in disbelief. “
That?”

“It’s…” He leaned in. “Can you keep a secret?” he asked hopefully.

“A potentially explosive and controversial secret?” Benedict said dryly. “Maybe. That depends. What kind of secret is it?”

Violet had told her sister. Everyone would know by evening two days from now. And his brother deserved to hear it directly from him. Sebastian let out a breath.

“My work on inheritance.” He swallowed. “You were right. I’m a fraud.”

Benedict’s eyebrows lowered. “What? What on earth are you saying?”

“Do you remember Violet Rotherham? Now Violet Waterfield, the Countess of Cambury?”

“I could hardly forget her,” Benedict said. “Considering she lived half a mile from us when we were younger. But I don’t see how she is relevant.”

“The work isn’t mine,” Sebastian said. “It’s hers. And in a few days, we’re announcing it. So, you see, this isn’t going to be a presentation by
me.
It’s going to be one by her.”

Benedict sat back in his chair and blew out a breath. “No. I don’t understand.”

“Everything I’ve presented? It’s all been Violet’s ideas,” Sebastian said. “I helped a little. We worked together on some of it. But she’s the brilliant scientist. Not me.”

His brother rubbed his forehead, and his mouth flattened. “Everything really does land in your lap.”

“No, no. It’s actually been a lot of work to keep up,” Sebastian said. “I had to learn everything the way she knew it, and…ah…”

“It lands in your lap,” Benedict repeated. “My God. You don’t even
try.
You really don’t. It’s like angels come down and anoint you with scientific knowledge, except it’s not angels, it’s Violet.”

“Yes. She’s really clever, you know.”

“No, I didn’t know. Nobody knew but you.” Benedict stood. “How do you do that? Honestly, Sebastian—how do you do it? I
knew
you were a complete fraud, but this is beyond even my ability to comprehend. It’s like the entire universe is conspiring to let you cheat at life.”

“No,” Sebastian said, “I’ve just always really liked Violet, you know. I’ve always known she was marvelous, even if no one else seemed to notice.”

Benedict ignored this. “It’s as if God himself were stuffing aces up your sleeve. How do you get something like that to just fall from the sky for you?”

“I don’t know!” Sebastian said. “Maybe it’s just because people like me.”

His brother folded his arms over his chest and glared at him. “Oh, you’re going to throw
that
in my face, are you? I’ll have you know people like me, too. Plenty of people. I have friends—many friends.”

“I’m sure you do,” Sebastian said in puzzlement.

“I have friends, and yet somehow,
I
have never received credit for one of the greatest scientific advances of our time.”

Sebastian stared at his brother. He’d vowed not to argue, but that was too much. “When you thought it was
mine,
it was nothing to speak of. But now that
I
didn’t do it, it’s one of the greatest scientific advances of our time?”

Benedict stared at him—stared ruthlessly and silently, stared until Sebastian wanted to look away. Then he slammed his fist on the table. “Fuck.” He sat back in his chair, a pained look on his face. “Oh, fuck.”

“And now it’s worthy of profanity,” Sebastian said. “Nothing I have ever said until this point has provoked you to use foul language, but
that,
apparently, will push you over the edge.”

“No,” Benedict grated out. “Listen to me, Sebastian. I need you to do me a favor.” His breath was growing ragged.

“What?” Sebastian snapped.

“You know how I said that if I couldn’t yell at my brother, there was no point in living?” A light sheen of sweat popped out on Benedict’s face; his skin grew waxy and pale, his breaths becoming short and shallow.

A cold chill settled over Sebastian.

“Well,” Benedict said grimly, “I was wrong. I would rather live.” He looked over at Sebastian. “Get that doctor. Please.”

S
EBASTIAN WAITED IN THE HALL FOR HOURS
, pacing until he knew every squeaking floorboard by heart. His hands were cold, his heart heavy. When the doctor finally left the room, Sebastian accosted him.

“How is he?”

The man gave Sebastian a brief look. “He’s alive,” he said. “He’s conscious.”

“Thank God.” Sebastian let out a breath of relief.

“He wants to see his son.”

“Of course. Of course.” Sebastian nodded. “I’ll make sure Harry’s brought up immediately.”

The doctor glanced at him. “You’re his brother? Sebastian Malheur?”

“What is it?”

“Don’t take this personally,” the doctor said. “But I advised him that he needs to rest for a little while. To avoid anything that will upset him.”

“Oh, good,” Sebastian said. “Is he finally going to take your advice?”

The doctor glanced over at him. “Yes,” he said. His mouth pinched, as if he had unpleasant news to deliver. “He asked me to tell you to stay away for a handful of days, until he’s sure you won’t bother him.”

Chapter Twenty

“I
N SUMMATION,”
S
EBASTIAN SAID
, “today, I think we have managed to offend or kill all our nearest relations.”

He was standing on the other side of the gardener’s shed. Violet smiled, because that was what he wanted her to do. Because she could tell by the way he looked about, so distracted, his smile not quite settled on his face, that he was worried about his brother. Because jokes—even terrible jokes—helped make the awful feel bearable.

“Your cousins are still friends with you,” she said. “And I haven’t talked to my mother yet, so we’ll have a fresh catastrophe come tomorrow.”

“Ah, yes. Them. Perhaps we could aim your mother at Robert and Oliver. If anyone can frighten them off, it’s her. Heaven forbid we have any friends at all.”

“Only you could make a joke at a time like this,” she told him.

“What, two days until the world discovers the truth?” He grinned, as if there were nothing in the world but her. As if her talk and her worries were all that mattered, and his were nonexistent.

“I was talking about your brother.”

He poured a tumbler of brandy and brought it over to her. “Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow—well, the day after tomorrow—we will be shunned.”

She cast him another sidelong glance, but let the matter slide away. If he wanted to make light of it, who was she to stop him? “Speak for yourself,” she said, but her tone was light. “Tomorrow I’m talking to my mother. I dread that more than anything. After her, the rest of the world will seem like a walk in the park.”

“All the more reason to drink.”

He pushed the tumbler at her again, and this time she took it from him. The liquid was amber; it sloshed about a little, leaving trails on the glass. Its aroma, thick and heady, volatilized in the air. Even the vapors coming off it were potent.

“You’re trying to make me tipsy,” she commented.

“So I can have my wicked way with you.”

It seemed a joke, but still her heart thumped at that. That was the thing about Sebastian; he made everything seem a joke, especially those moments when he cared the most. She contemplated him over her glass of spirits.

Even her fear was beginning to fade. He’d spent the last days holding her, making no demands at all, letting her become accustomed to the feeling of being wanted, of wanting again. As if he knew that once want became familiar, that shot of panic would began to dissipate, turning to mind-fogging vapor.

“I once drank half a bottle of thistle spirits,” she informed him. “If you think an inch of brandy will do me in, you are sadly mistaken.”

She tilted back the glass. The liquor burned her tongue—a pleasant burn.

He wasn’t drinking.

It took the smallest cues to understand Sebastian. He wore his smiles and his jokes as assiduously as another man might wear a cravat—an item of apparel that was not to be taken off except among his most intimate acquaintances, and even then, only under great duress.

He’d related the story about his brother offhand, glossing over the argument and what had been said with a simple, “He was angry and had every right to be,” and then mentioning that he’d ended the visit by fetching the doctor. He’d made no comment about his feelings, as if he didn’t want to share his worry.

“You don’t have a glass,” she informed him.

“No. It’s a wicked trick on my part.”

“Oh?” She looked at him. He was smiling as if nothing were wrong, as if he had not a care in the world. As if he expected to lift her burdens and his own, too. She curled her finger at him. “Come and join me.”

He came to sit beside her.

Violet took another sip of the liquor—a longer draft this time—and set down her glass. Before she could lose her nerve, she kissed him. Their lips met. His mouth opened to hers, and she traded him that sip of brandy. Their tongues met in a heady mix of warmth and spirits. His hands pulled her close. She could have lost herself in the taste of him, the warmth of his hands sliding around her waist, but not this time.

This time, she wanted him to lose himself. She let it start as a soft, sweet, comforting kiss, and then let it grow, her hands running down his chest, until what arced between them was headier than the brandy they shared. The kiss went back and forth between them until she felt almost tipsy.

When the taste of brandy dissipated, she pulled away.

“You see?” He was breathing heavily. “It’s a wicked trick. That’s what happens when you kiss a rake of my stature; I scarcely have to do anything, and you seduce yourself.”