He was no true gentleman, of course—he didn’t have the complexion for it, nor the leisure. Not that it mattered. The lords in attendance couldn’t see beyond the tips of their noses, which were colored red not by sun, but by overindulgence; the ladies fluttering their eyelashes behind their brilliant-dappled fans.
The room was draped from top to bottom with red silk tapestries and ribbons, most likely left over from Christmastide just passed. Chains of ivy had been fastened to the beams, running from the musicians’ balcony at one end of the room to the other. Glass chandeliers sparkled overhead, matched only in their luster by the twinkling of crystal glasses on the refreshment tables.
Every inch of the place was colored gold with wealth, making Benjamin sick to his stomach.
The guests had been called to the ballroom, but no dancing seemed to be underway—for which he thanked his lucky stars. A few ladies had shot him wary, curious glances with a touch of desire in them too. He supposedhe didlookfairly handsome,catchinga sidelong glimpseat his reflection in a nearby set of windows. His double-breasted suit was darkly opulent; his cravat a dazzling white. He had swept back his dark, unruly hair, and his sideburns had been shaved to a point along his jaw.
Despite all this, not a single chaperoning mother had sought to make introductions, and Benjamin had never felt more relieved for his lack of fancy friends.
Still, he had found himself trapped in conversation, by an acquaintance of a friend of the host, Lord Singberry, or some such thing—his wife had extended Benjamin an invitation. The man’s name was Pollock—Mr. Rafael Pollock—whose father was a baron and mother a Spanish heiress. He seemed almost as uncomfortable as Benjamin, clutching his glimmering glass of punch for dear life. He was speaking with another man, who slurred his name so badly that Benjamin had no chance of understanding it. And the topic of discussion wasBenjamin's second favorite thing: money. Since the first was his own self.
“...which is why,” the drunken lord drawled, “it is most unwise to overhaul plots the tenants have tended to for generations. Really, you would think your father knew this, Pollock. He’s in no situation to act the philanthrope now.”
Pollock was visibly disquieted by the man’s rambling, and Benjamin had to mask his amusement. “I will be sure to relay your advice, my lord, but my father is not so destitute as you think. He owns half of Milchester—and some farms further out.”
“A burgh like Milchester is hardly worth the trouble. A money pit is what it is,” he further slurred. What remained of the man’s blonde hair, all three stands of it, wafted in the breeze from an open window close by—the night was unusually mild for January. “No, the way I see it, you should do ol’ Milly a favor and do as he did.”
“Which is to say?” Pollock mumbled.
“Marry a woman with twice your wealth and pump her full of heirs.” The pot-bellied lord let out a most vulgar laugh, sloshing his drink about and doubling over.
Pollock hopped back, his dark eyes narrowing in disgust. Doubtless, he would have sprung further away had the man’s grip not been a vice on his shoulder. “Really, Lord Butland, the ladies will start to look.”
“All the better, for catching a wife,” the drunkard—Butland, Benjamin noted with a discreet snap of his fingers—laughed some more. He shot back up, wiping his eyes. “Ah, but fat chance you’ve got of bagging a wife with this pretty cad standing next to you.” Butland turned, and Benjamin leveled the man a look that cautioned him against speaking. He spoke anyway, “So, what it is you do?”
Benjamin sucked in a breath. The last thing he needed was for people to start looking over. He would need to subdue the man. Quickly. “I write,” he declared, with a sweep of his hands.
The lord blanched. “You what?”
“I write,” he repeated. “Things,” he added less convincingly.
“Are lords in the business of writing things these days?” Butland pressed. Beside him, Pollock was clearly relieved to have escaped his interest, wiping away a cast-off drop of liquid from the lapel of his jacket.
Benjamin breathed a laugh. “I can assure you, I am no lord.”
“Our friend is one of the writers Lady Singberry invited as part of the recital,” Pollock explained offhandedly, then seemed to curse himself as Butland turned back to him. “I believe. I’m sure the man knows more of himself than I do,” he added, throwing Benjamin back to the wolves.
“Right, right,” Butland mouthed. “Are you any good, sir?”
“Oh, I’m the best.”
“You’re not very chatty for a writer.”
“I let my work speak for myself, my lord,” he replied, failing to note his difficulty in speaking like he had a plum in his mouth. One false move and his charade might come undone. The lord looked at him as though waiting for more, but Benjamin merely smiled. He would wait as long as it took for the man to leave.
A few seconds did the trick, as Butland suddenly announced, “Well, gentlemen. I should get back to my wife and daughters.” With that, he dawdled away, throwing all parting etiquette out of the window.
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?”