The Countess Conspiracy (Brothers Sinister #3)(8)

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 dislikes Harry’s grandmother?”

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