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Pollock puffed out his cheeks, turning back to Benjamin. “That was a test of character, to say the least. Do you suppose his daughters are as insufferable as he is?”
Benjamin bit the inside of his cheek. “Like pigs on a farm.” He paused. “Perhaps he’s run off to put one on a leash for you.”
“Don’t,” Pollock warned through a laugh, pointing. “God in Heaven! If I had known the lords of my father’s county were invited, I never would have come. A day’s worth of riding for this.” He shook his head. “It must be worse for you, sir. I suppose you’re not used to their antics.”
“There are men like Butland everywhere, I assure you,” Benjamin admitted.
He looked over the ballroom, taking stock of the guests. For all their riches, they were playing a game: vaunting their wealth, their relations, their inherited merits. To what end, he could not fathom. If Benjamin was as well-off as they were, he wouldn’t bother with such dull parties, for one.
“Even at war?”
Benjamin started. “What did you say?”
Pollock seemed at a loss. He pulled at his cravat. “Before Butland arrived, you were saying something about returning from the War.”
“Oh, of course,” Benjamin mumbled. For a moment, he had thought… Well, it didn’t matter now. “Yes, even amongst naval officers. Things weren’t much different, like London transplanted to the sea. The captains bought their titles, and the sorry sods lucky enough to be promoted couldn’t measure up.” He set his glass down on the sideboard behind them. He was only pretending to drink, anyway.
“You would think things like titles and money wouldn’t matter at war.”
Benjamin smirked, but his heart pinched, betraying him. “They matter everywhere.”
“And that is what led you to write? Being at sea?” Pollock asked with genuine interest.
“You could say that, yes.”
It wasn’t a complete lie, of course. The only reason he was bothering with this farce of an evening was to secure more patrons. More readers meant more money. With enough of it, he and his friends might have a chance at living comfortably. They deserved that and more for what they had suffered on the Continent.
His stomach churned as he cast another sweeping glance over the ballroom. There was a buzzing by the doors where more guests were pouring in. He tried to peer through the large windows looking over the entranceway, but the drapes had been drawn.
How strange, he thought,to be on the inside looking out and not the other way around. He had spent most of his life dreaming of leisure. From what he could tell, it wasn’t all it was chalked up to be—not by a long shot. To think his mother had given her life for this.
It would do him no good to consider the matter now.
“My good man, did you hear me?”
Pollock’s voice sounded from beside him. Benjamin snapped his head from the windows. “No, I fear I was elsewhere entirely.” He reached his hands up to run them through his hair, then remembered himself and straightened up. “What was it you said?”
Pollock brushed his absence away and gestured for the archway leading out to the antechamber. The entire hall had swiveled in its direction. “I said, the guest of honor has arrived. Look sharp, old chap.”
Benjamin looked, but not a thing about it wassharp. In fact, he felt rather dazed. The tides of guests curled around themselves, their multicolor ensembles parting like the sea. In strode a new collection of pretenders, their party headed by a man Benjamin had not seen in years. His breath hitched.
The man was smaller than he remembered but not wizened. He stood proudly, taking in the room as one might take in the sight of dinner, like he owned the hall and everybody in it. One of his hands was curled around a silver-topped cane, which matched the details on his fine velvet suit. His grey hair had been swept back, his whiskers had lost their color, but the squared angles of his face were unmistakable. Time had done nothing to erode his charisma.
“I know that man,” Benjamin muttered mostly to himself.
“I can’t say I’m surprised,” Pollock replied, seemingly quite dazed himself. “He’s the Queen’s nephew—lauds over half of Southern England and then some.” He smacked his lips and intonated, “The Duke of Gamston,” as though the man were the leading figure of a play.
“No,” Benjamin spoke low. “I mean, Iknowhim. My mother once served the Duchess.”
“Golly, you are full of surprises. You sayshe used to.Was she dismissed?”
“Yes.” Benjamin paused. “For a time.”
He turned on his heel and snapped up the glass he had set down, debating downing the acrid punch at once. He steeled himself and wiped his mouth with the dark cotton sleeve of his jacket instead. If he had known the Duke was on the guest list, that he was adrattedhonored guest, he would have cast all ambition aside for the evening.
He loathed the man, plain and simple. They had worked his mother to the bone, him and his wife. They had trapped her in servitude and called it loyalty—but there was nothing loyal about what they had done to her. She had been cast aside without second thought when she fell pregnant by Benjamin’s father. Only ruination followed as it was wont to do when it came to women and their bastards.
His knuckles grew white along the edge of the table. He pushed himself back and turned around. It would do him no good to go back on his plan now; damn what the Duke might do if he found out who he was. He swiveled back to Pollock, who was still watching their entrance.
