Chasing Benedict (The Gentleman Courtesans Book 5)

by Victoria Vale

  When Benedict trudged into the kitchen the next morning—the only place in the house he was privileged to experience a warm fire—Dame Culpepper dropped a teacup and saucer at the sight of him. It took every ounce of his strength to stand tall and accept her wide-eyed perusal, along with that of ten other boys. Lionel gave Benedict a smug smirk from where he sat between two of the lads who had taken part in last night’s abduction and beating. Snickers and whispers passed between them as the dame approached, hands braced on her hips.

  “All right then. Which of them did this to you?”

  Benedict fairly trembled with the strain of remaining upright. The binding he had improvised from an old shirt torn into strips did little to support his ribs, which ached with every breath. He was aware that he looked ghastly, one eye swollen shut and purple, lip split and fattened like a ripe cherry. Beneath his clothes, he was a tapestry of mottled purple, red, and green—a depiction of violence and scorn.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Benedict replied, rolling one shoulder nonchalantly and biting back a scream at the pain it sent stabbing through his chest. “No one did anything to me.”

  Lionel’s smirk spread into a grin as his companions traded confused glances. Benedict glared at them, clenching his hands so tight his fingernails gouged his palms. He would be damned if they accused him of being a milksop as well as a molly. Telling Dame Culpepper what they’d done would earn him another beating, and piss in his shoes every morning for the rest of the term.

  “No one, you say,” the dame huffed, rolling her eyes. “And I suppose a ghost or demon pummeled you in your sleep?”

  Benedict smiled, the split in his lip opening and sending a trickle of blood down his chin. He wiped it away with the back of one hand. “I fell out of bed last night.”

  Sputters and guffaws filled the room.

  “You fell … out of bed?” Dame Culpepper asked, pursing her lips. She narrowed suspicious eyes, taking inventory of his battered state.

  “That’s right,” he said.

  “You would have me believe that a tumble off the bed is responsible for the state of your face?”

  “Benny sleeps like nothing I’ve ever seen, ma’am,” Lionel spoke up, taking a large bite of his toast. “Such tossing and turning about. One wonders why he doesn’t sleep on the floor and have done with it.”

  There was much nudging with elbows and whispers from the table, a handful of boys chiming in to lend truth to Lionel’s claim. Benedict pulled a sheepish expression, though it did little to ease the dame’s suspicion.

  Throwing her hands up, she bustled off to clean up the shattered porcelain, commanding Benedict to clean himself up at the basin before sitting at her table. All the while, she muttered under her breath about the stupidity of boys.

  It hurt his jaw to chew, but Benedict wouldn’t let the others see it. He stared at Lionel from across the table as he nibbled on burned toast and swilled weak tea. Lionel wasn’t bigger or stronger than Benedict—the sod had simply caught him unawares, with a veritable army of other boys. Man to man, Benedict could pound him into mincemeat and intended to at the first opportunity.

  He chose to bide his time for the rest of the week, allowing his battered body to begin healing. Lionel seemed to sense that a storm was brewing, lines of consternation creasing his brow whenever he caught Benedict staring at him with unflinching resolve. Surprisingly, Lionel ceased his usual jibes and derision—as if he understood what he had done with his little stunt. But Benedict wasn’t content with Lionel’s silence, or the possibility that his foe now understood that he was not to be trifled with. The message needed to be delivered loud and clear, leaving no room for doubt.

  So, ten days after he was dragged from his bed to be humiliated, Benedict found himself alone with his tormentor. By chance, they happened to return to their bedchamber before the three other boys they bunked with returned from their classes. Pausing on the threshold of the room, Benedict found Lionel crouched over a trunk he kept at the foot of his bed, oblivious that he was no longer alone.

  There was no gentleman’s code to be adhered to, no reason to alert Lionel to what was coming. After all, the attack against Benedict had been unexpected and unprovoked—and so would his vengeance.

  He was across the room in a few rapid strides, taking a handful of Lionel’s hair. A shocked gurgle preceded a sharp cry as Benedict slammed Lionel’s head into the trunk. Once Lionel fell to his back, groaning and pressing a hand to his bleeding forehead, Benedict attacked. Trapping the boy between his knees, Benedict delivered blow after blow. His fists produced spurts of blood, then the satisfying crunch of Lionel’s broken nose. Attempts at self-defense were ineffectual in the face of Benedict’s unchecked rage. By the time the other boys arrived, Lionel’s face was a dappled mess of blood, swelling, and discoloration.

  Benedict reared away from the hands wrenching him off his enemy, chest heaving as he snorted like a bull. Two boys stared at him in wide-eyed shock and horror as the other helped a sniveling Lionel to his feet. His knuckles throbbed like the devil, and he could taste the blood that had speckled his face, but the triumph swelling within him couldn’t be denied. No one said a word to chastise him as he swiped a sleeve across his mouth before staggering to the washstand to clean himself up. By the time he’d finished, Lionel and his friends had vacated the room.

  Benedict flopped onto his bed and clasped his hands behind his head. There was no chance Dame Culpepper wouldn’t take one look at Lionel and know what had occurred. The woman might be a drunk, but she wasn’t a fool. There would be harsh repercussions for what he’d just done, with Lionel likely going unpunished. It paid well to be the son of an earl who made hefty donations to the school. Benedict’s status as a viscount’s cast-off, one who was so obviously unlike the other boys, made him vulnerable.

  However, he couldn’t bring himself to care about the whipping the headmaster would inflict on him; not when he had finally done the thing he’d been fantasizing about the entire term. Benedict had been concerned with angering his father and worrying his mother. He’d wanted to prove himself a gentleman his father wouldn’t have to be ashamed of. But one glance at the sparse accommodations he suffered compared to his bunkmates demonstrated that the viscount didn’t give a bloody damn about him. His father saw him much the way Lionel did—broken, backward, wrong. A lost cause who would never be his heir. What did it matter if he was a gentleman in deed as well as in name? Trying to adhere to such strictures had won him nothing. Perhaps, what he’d just done to Lionel would earn him some peace of mind and the safety to sleep through the night without being accosted.

  Staring up at the ceiling, Benedict grinned and decided that if it wasn’t enough, he’d happily pummel every boy in this house. If that was the way to build a reputation as someone to be feared, then so be it. They would never dig deep enough to unearth what it was that made Benedict so unlike them if they feared him. Their avoidance of him and his fists would keep him safe.

  Chapter 1

  London, 1820

  22 years later…

  As Lord Alexander Osborne, Earl of Vautrey, descended into the underbelly of a public house known as The White Cock, he couldn’t help but wonder just what he had landed himself in. Upon leaving Kent for London with one singular mission in mind, he never supposed he might find himself slinking into darkened basements reeking of sweat, blood, and ale, filled with the cacophony of men’s roaring voices. He was a peer of the realm, not some rowdy young pup fresh from university. His days of occupying such spaces in search of a thrill were far behind him.

  However, his determination couldn’t be assuaged from the matter at hand. Nearly four years ago, he had made the worst mistake of his life and intended to correct it. There was nothing he wouldn’t do, no place he wouldn’t go, no lengths he would avoid to win back the love of his life. If lowering himself to attending illegal bare-knuckle brawls in public house basements brought him closer to his goal, so be it.

  Alex sh
ouldered his way through the sea of bodies surrounding the spectacle taking place in the center of the bare, dimly-lit basement. Everyone shifted to allow him through, his height and breadth of shoulders showing a physical advantage over those who dared block his path, and his immaculate mode of dress denoting someone of importance. The crowd represented a hodgepodge of people from every level of the social hierarchy—tradesmen and factory workers standing shoulder-to-shoulder with gentlemen of means. The occasional woman could be found here and there—Haymarket whores and bedraggled laundresses a sharp contrast to the well-dressed ladies clinging to their gentlemen and eying the brawl with wide-eyed fascination.

  The White Cock’s position outside London kept them safe from discovery, as well as scrutiny. This was not the orderly tradition of a legitimate pugilist match; this was a melee, plain and simple, with the potential for only one man to come out on top. And anyone who was anyone already knew who that man would be.

  Alex spotted said man, his bright blond head standing out like a beacon. Alex’s breath caught in his chest, and despite wishing to be anywhere but here, he was completely captivated. Grime and sweat covered a broad, naked back rippling with powerful muscles, and tufts of unruly, overlong hair swept the thick column of his neck. Sinews in his arms bulged and stretched taut as he threw powerful blows at the opponent before him with massive fists. The clearing amid the crowd was filled with brawling men, each fighting to be the one still on his feet when the dust cleared.

  A cheer went up from the crowd when one of the competitors fell beneath the ferocity of the blond beast, out cold. Stumbling past three men grappling with one another for dominance, the beast accepted a small pint offered to him by a man standing on the fringes of the audience. Alex watched in disbelief as half the bottle was drained in a few gulps, then tossed carelessly aside. Sucking in his breath, Alex nearly bellowed a warning just before a stodgy man brought his joined fists down across the blond man’s broad, naked back. With an annoyed snarl he whirled, bringing his knee up between the other man’s legs, then throwing him to his back with a quick uppercut. As the attacker went down, Alex was graced with the full potency of Benedict Sterling.

  Hair fallen into his eyes and lips peeled back into a feral sneer, he was alluring in his ferocity, as magnetic as he was frightening. There was so little of the young man Alex had befriended at Eton, though some things about him would never change. He was larger than before, wider through the shoulders with slabs of muscle bulging in his chest. The changes of time made him seem like some otherworldly creature —an avenging archangel breathing fire, smoke, and ash. Alex couldn’t look away, hypnotized by the display of raw power as Ben tore through every man who stepped into his path with powerful right hooks and sharp uppercuts, his knuckles red and raw.

  This was the same man who had pummeled every lad at Eton who dared to cross him, who’d learned that the skill of his fists could earn him the money to better his circumstances.

  When Alex had been moved into Dame Culpepper’s house in place of Lionel Blackburn, Ben became one of his roommates. It hadn’t taken him long to realize why the change had been made. Lionel was seen sporting a swollen eye and broken nose, and Ben looked no better. What Alex had not expected was to watch Ben beat nearly every other boy under Dame Culpepper’s roof over the subsequent fortnight.

  One would think such mercilessness would be enough to warn other boys away, yet Alex had observed an opposite effect. Every lad seemed compelled to test their mettle against Ben, only to be sent limping away with bloodied lips and blackened eyes. Seeing this as an opportunity of sorts, Ben had begun placing bets on his own fights, which prompted others to do the same. By the middle of the following term, Ben had decked out his corner of their room with the comforts afforded by his winnings, and Saturday night fights became regular events.

  Ben endured the harsh punishments of the headmaster without flinching. He’d thrown the scathing letters of his father into the fire before continuing as he pleased. He had always struck Alex as such a compelling figure—alone and willing to take on the entire world in a fight.

  Alex wanted to believe that nothing had changed—Ben was as determined and independent as ever. Only, anyone who knew Ben well could see how time had altered him. There was an unrelenting hardness to him now, one that had obliterated any trace of vulnerability.

  It was all Alex’s fault; he knew that. He had done this to Ben with his cowardice and fear. This drunken man staggering about the basement of a public house as the crowd egged him on was not the one Alex had come to love all those years ago. Yet, he was unshaken in his determination. As long as there was breath in his body, Alex would fight for what he wanted. And what he wanted was Ben, for the rest of his life. The parts of Ben that had called to him in their youth were still there. Alex could see them as clearly as he could Ben’s blue eyes and white-gold hair. It was those things Alex would have to appeal to if he wanted to gain back what he’d lost—Ben’s hidden vulnerability, his courage, his strength.

  There was only one problem, and it made itself apparent as Ben delivered a final blow to the last man standing, claiming his victory. As he stood over the poor, unconscious lout at his feet, Ben raised his head and caught Alex’s gaze. The impact of fiery, bright blue eyes stabbed through him like a heated fireplace poker. Those sapphire depths glittered with malice and disdain, and years’ worth of secrets held between them. Alex suppressed a shudder in the face of a truth he could no longer run from.

  Alex still loved him as much as ever—had never stopped loving him—yet there was nothing in Ben’s eyes now but hatred.

  And rightfully so.

  Raising his chin, Alex returned Ben’s stare without flinching. He had weapons of his own in this battle of wills, and didn’t intend to back down.

  Ben’s nostrils flared, and his jaw clenched and undulated as if he ground his teeth. A ripple of desire overwhelmed Alex, even now, in this undesirable place. But Ben was here, and that made Alex content to remain, no matter how unwanted he might be. If he had his way, the icy tension between them would soon abate, and the wounds of the past could be healed.

  As Ben finally turned away, receiving handshakes, congratulations, and a heavy-looking purse containing his winnings, a sliver of doubt niggled the back of Alex’s mind. Had too much time passed? Had he wounded Ben to the point of no return?

  No, he refused to believe it was too late. From the moment they met, their paths had become intertwined. Though Alex’s had deviated for a time, it had led him right back to Ben. Alex had a feeling it would always be that way. He was a hopeless romantic, and in their earlier years, Ben had been, too.

  Alex hoped that part of Ben still lived, even if it happened to be locked away in some deep recess of his heart. It was the only hope Alex had left.

  Alex waited only an hour before demanding entrance to the room where Ben disappeared to recover following his fight. He paid a barmaid a few shillings to apprise him of Ben’s location, a room where he was wont to linger for beefsteak and a drink after a fight. Instead of charging to the abovestairs, Alex had settled at the bar for a whiskey, ruminating over what he would say once he was alone with Ben for the second time in as many days.

  Their first encounter had not gone well, though Alex would have been a fool to expect otherwise. He had been foolish last night, forgetting his carefully calculated plan to remain in control and not to do anything stupid. Alex had done well at first. Having landed on Ben’s doorstep immediately after arriving in London, he blustered his way past the butler to lie in wait. Alex had expected Ben to be furious at his intrusion into a life that had not included him for some time now—yet, hope was a strange and potent phenomenon.

  Hope was what had driven him to try to plead his case, and when that didn’t work, he’d done something reckless. Staring down into his half-empty glass, Alex relived the moment—as he had over and over throughout the succeeding day—when he had realized winning Ben back was more than a deep desire; it was an inesca
pable imperative.

  “Hello, Ben,” Alex said when he appeared on the threshold of the darkened study.

  Beams of moonlight filtered through the windows to illuminate that shock of bright blond hair and the brilliant white of shirtsleeves exposed by Ben’s lack of coat. Alex had waited over an hour for him to return home, but would have endured an eternity beyond that if necessary.

  The door rattled in the frame when Ben slammed it.

  “What … the bloody fuck … are you doing here?” he demanded. His slitted eyes were locked on Alex with the intensity of the blazing sun.

  Alex knew that expression well, could see the flex of Ben’s jaw that indicated he was clenching his teeth. His fists trembled at his sides as if he wished to thrash Alex within an inch of his life. But if there was one thing Alex had never been frightened of, it was Ben’s fists. Ben only harmed those who attempted to harm him first—or, it would seem, those willing to step into the ring with him. Alex was in no danger here.

  “I should think that was obvious,” he replied, slowly approaching Ben from his side of the room. Surely you’ve heard the news. Katherine, she … died.”

  His throat constricted on the last words, grief twisting violently in his belly and clutching at his heart. Alex had been aware of his inclination toward men since boyhood, and that had never changed. His marriage was one of convenience and necessity, but his wife had been the best of women. Katherine might not have appealed to him in a carnal way, but she had been his friend, his confidant, his solace after being forced to give Ben up. Her death had been a devastating blow.

  Ben sneered at the mention of Alex’s late wife. “So I have heard. You have my most sincere condolences, though I fail to understand why her death would bring you to my doorstep.”

  Alex couldn’t help a smile, hearing the strain in Ben’s voice. He took no delight in the other man’s anger or pain, but knowing he felt anything at all boded well for Alex. “Oh, Ben … you were never any good at hiding your emotions.”