In the Arms of a Marquess(6)

One corner of Creighton’s mouth quivered, but nothing more. Wise man.

“Right, my lord.” Creighton pulled an envelope from the collection of papers in his satchel. “This arrived at the office today.”

Ben barely glanced at the sealed missive before slipping it into his waistcoat pocket. He picked up the sword he’d set upon the table when he entered his study, hands perfectly steady despite the familiar uneven rhythm of his heart.

Every three months like clockwork such a letter arrived, brought across half the world along the fastest routes. A punishment he willingly self-inflicted, it was the sole remnant of the single reckless moment of his life. A moment in which he had lived entirely for himself.

Gripping the hilt of the épeé, he strode through his house. A liveried footman opened a door into a broad, high-ceilinged chamber.

“Bothersome business matters. My apologies, Styles.” He drew on his fencing glove.

The gentleman standing by the rack of glittering swords chuckled, a sound of open camaraderie.

“I wish I had that particular bother.” He took a weapon from the collection. “How much did you net this quarter, Doreé? Ten thousand? Fifteen?”

“You know I never concern myself with that.”

“You merely live lavishly on the proceeds.” Styles gestured to the elegant fencing chamber Ben had converted the ballroom into after he succeeded to the title six and a half years earlier and had the whole house gutted. His father had been enamored of India, and his town residence reflected that. Just as his third son did, in his very person.

The opulent style had not suited Ben.

“Just so,” he murmured.

“Come now, give over,” Styles cajoled. “We have been friends far too long for you to continue denying your extraordinary influence at India House. And I think it’s about more than all those manufactories and plantations and whatnot you own over there. Your family connections give you an unfair advantage over the rest of us struggling traders, don’t they?”

Not the advantage any of them imagined.

“I am a mere proprietor in the East India Company, just as you. No particular advantage to speak of.” Ben studied his former schoolmate from behind lowered lids. Walker Styles came from an old Suffolk family ennobled in the era of Queen Elizabeth. His aristocratic pallor, blue eyes, and narrow, elegant frame were proof of it. The latter also happened to make him a devilishly fine fencing partner. And his sharp competitive edge kept Ben on his toes.

Ben swiped his blade through the air.

The baron cocked a brow beneath an artfully arranged thatch of straw-colored hair. “Are you certain you don’t thoroughly control those fellows over at Leadenhall Street, despite your lack of apparent involvement?”

“Good God, quite certain,” Ben lied as smoothly as he had been taught as a boy. “There are those at Whitehall and Westminster who would be horrified at the mere suggestion of such a thing.”

“You are just like your brothers, Ben, all honorable self-deprecation. Jack of course was not so close-mouthed, the good-natured sod.” Styles laughed, digging a familiar burrow of grief through Ben. He still could not bear to hear his half brothers spoken of casually, even by the one man who had been as close to them as he himself.

“So be it.” The baron lifted his blade in salute. “The secret of your empire is safe with me, whatever it is.”

L’Empire de la Justice—the name Ben’s uncle had given it. An empire born of his uncle’s education in France in the years before the Revolution, nurtured by his horror over the massacre at Mysore, and supported by a vast fortune in cotton, spices, and saltpeter. Groomed his whole young life to someday rule it, for years Ben had danced like a puppet on strings at his uncle’s insistence in service to that empire. As the progeny of a lord, even a third son and foreign-born, he had entrée into certain sectors of European society that his Indian uncle never would.

His uncle hadn’t any idea what that entrée had truly entailed. Or he hadn’t cared.

But for seven years now Ben had been master of the empire that operated below the notice of polite society and most governments. And he was no longer a third son. Other men, like his associate Ashford, now did the dirty work.

His steel tip clicked on the polished floor.

“Allez,” Styles announced.

The play remained light at first, then grew more intense. But it lasted little time, no longer than it took Ben to disarm his friend.

Styles flexed his wrist, breathing heavily from his exertions. “I must learn that useful little maneuver.”

“In the normal course of things, you haven’t any need of it.” Ben wiped his face with a cloth and racked his sword.

Styles’s eyes flashed. “You haven’t either.”

“I will always have need of such skill, Walker. Your longtime loyalty blinds you to that, I think.”

“Humanity is a savage lot, Ben.” The baron’s voice was tight, his brow uncustomarily clouded.

“Perhaps. But exceptions to the rule do exist.” He extended his hand. With a moment’s hesitation, Styles clasped it. Blue-veined ivory met bronze.

Styles’s palm slid away. “Is it to be the theater for you tonight?”

“Lady Constance insists that I escort her.”

“Apron-led fool.”