Chapter Text
Benedict was mostly glad Anthony’s home.
Well, of course he was glad Anthony’s home. The Viscount was here where he belonged - home with his Viscountess and his heirs, who were immediately his favorite nephews. It’s just that Benedict didn’t want to talk to Anthony, not immediately. Not until he and Sophie have settled things over this catastrophic mistress business. Not until Sophie no longer works at Bridgerton House as a maid, and he can proudly introduce her as his partner and love of his life. Not until he has had a chance to replace the ledgers he sketched over with duplicate ones that replicate the work he sketched over.
So, not until he got an elephant for My Cottage, or painted something so gorgeous someone buys it.
For the first week, he was able to get away with being the welcoming brother Anthony deserved without actually having any uncomfortable conversations. Thank God for John Stirling and dear, dear Colin. The men could go out and socialize like normal, because it was normal. And if he felt his elder brother’s damnedly intense eyes on him sometimes, he did not meet them, and Anthony would not speak out of turn. (Although Anthony’s looks, as though he knew there were something to be said, can wait until you speak first, were terrible to endure. If you endured a season of them, you became Viscountess.)
And thank God for Anthony’s children, who were most excellent protection against unpleasant conversations. Benedict was a little afraid of Miles. Miles looked like he might break - he was so very small and fragile. And Benedict liked to charm people, to make them smile and laugh. He did not know what charmed babies.
But Neddy was wonderful. Such beautiful looks, he said, tweaking Neddy’s nose, like his mother. He could tell Anthony was pleased by this. And such a gentleman he said, as he played with the golden ruffle around Neddy’s neck, like his father. Later, watching Neddy play, he said, so good natured, too and Eloise interjected, which he gets from neither one, and everyone laughs.
So, he thought he could rely on the children’s charming and distracting presence indefinitely. But in the end, he was snared by his own foolishness because he could not resist a moment alone with Sophie.
And it truly was a moment, just the barest moment. Everyone else had left the drawing room when she had entered to gather the tea things. He knew how much she wanted him to stay away, perhaps wanted him to leave the room. But he could not. He was drawn toward her like a magnet. It was deeper than desire, deeper than lust, deeper than any feeling Benedict had ever had for anyone he had ever wanted. She called to him like a newly discovered color that only he had ever seen.
“Please, you must go,” she murmured, looking at him out of the corner of her eye.
“No, I must speak with you! Sophie, I – I am sorry. I am sorry to have upset you.” He took her hand. “We must speak.”
“No. There is nothing to say. And certainly not here,” she hissed. The saucers and tongs clattered on the tray.
“It is my house! What does it matter where we speak?”
“I am going-“ she picked up the tray, froze with it for the barest moment, then bobbed a curtsey and murmured, “my lord,” as she left the room.
Benedict did not want to turn around. “Brother!” he said, his voice full of hearty false cheer.
“Benedict!” Sure enough, Anthony was standing in the entrance to the drawing room that was directly behind him. The exchange with Sophie must have been visible to him, including the part where she took her hand away.
But Anthony didn’t show it. He looked perfectly amiable. Benedict privately thought the beard made him look sterner, but his smile was warm, and those intense eyes were turned down – bright, focused, but not probing, or full of danger, or any intense feeling. He was not wearing a coat, which, for him, was relaxed indeed. “I’ve been looking for a chance to speak with you, can you come to my study?”
“Actually, I –“ he looked down at himself, still only in shirtsleeves, don’t do anything useful with my time, and you know that. He followed Anthony down to his study, rubbing his neck rather anxiously and testing out his smiles. Anthony could not be charmed, but he could be made to laugh, depending on….
Ah. Yes. Anthony must’ve been prepared for this conversation, because his desk was covered and open ledgers. And looking closely, the drawings were not the only problem.
“Ah,” he said again, looking at one of the many sketches of his Lady In Silver on a page of the ledgers denoted for the week of June 1st. “Later, I wondered why I could not find where to record the crop yields for the week of June 1st. Well, I’m sure they are somewhere. I just didn’t record them in the ledger. Because I…put this there, earlier.”
Anthony was standing behind the desk. He held one ledger, but studied another open on his desk.
“Well,” that hearty cheer in Benedict’s voice again “It’s only a week! I’m sure they are somewhere. I’ll help you find them – I’ll find for them myself, you needn’t worry about it” He traced his fingers over the face, now barely even a memory…,.
Anthony finally sat down, set down the ledger, and looked up at him. “Benedict. Do you have any idea how many of them are like this? How much you missed? Not just failed to record - failed to address? It puzzles me.” He did, truly sound puzzled – not angry, as Benedict would have expected. Just puzzled. “I was impressed with how well you managed over my honeymoon, truly. I trusted you to do just as well when I was gone for longer. Instead, our solicitor tells me he, frankly, told you what to do, when you worked at all. You failed to record weeks of yields. Not just a week. And you ruined work that I had been I doing, both from the past and projections set up for years to come, by drawing over and over this maid you are entangled with. To be perfectly honest, and I hate to say this, I’m disappointed.”
“What? No, that- that’s not – that’s not Sophie, that’s….”the nickname sounded ridiculous. “That’s the Lady in Silver. I danced with her at Mother’s masquerade, at the beginning of the season. She entranced me. But I could never locate her. I was…fixated.”
Anthony stared at him, dumbstruck. “Do you think I am jesting with you right now?”
“No! And I am not jesting with you either! Why would you say that is Sophie?”
Anthony exhaled slowly and ran his finger through his hair. “I was not here for the masquerade. There will have to be…other conversations later, with people who were. Show these drawings of the maid to them. I don’t know what the story is behind why you keep calling Sophie the Lady in Silver, or why she was at a masquerade at all. It is all quite beyond me, and more importantly, quite beyond the matter at hand.”
“Which is?” Benedict felt a little dizzy.
“I am disappointed about your stewarding of the estate, or lack thereof. If I must make myself plain, I am very disappointed. But as I said, I have heard about Sophie the maid, and you. That you have entangled yourself with a member of my staff. A young woman. Propositioned her to be your mistress – oh God,” Anthony buried his head in his hands. “And compromised her as well, no doubt. Please don’t bother denying it.”
“Bit of a hypocrite, aren’t you?”
Anthony came out from behind his desk and stared into the fire, which was how Benedict could tell Anthony was speaking to him as a brother and not only as the Viscount. “I proposed to Kate the next morning or tried to. I was free to do so, and she to accept. But, my God. A young woman on the Bridgerton staff. Servants protect each other, you know, and word will get out that this is a morally corrupt household, unsafe for young women to work at, that they could be approached by a young lord with unwelcome attentions.”
“They were not unwelcome,” he said, offended. “I would not do such a thing. How can you accuse me of that? Do you not remember what I told you of the Cavendar household, of her background? Sophie – she kissed me.” He could not help but feel this was a weak, rather juvenile finish.
“It does not matter!” Anthony brought his fist down, slowly, onto the back of a velvet armchair. “You are not listening, Benedict. In nearly every situation, they would be, and so that will be the word. Did she herself not explain this to you?”
Had she? “Why would she? It is irrelevant. You didn’t hire her, Mother did. And you did not approach her. I did.”
“That does not matter either. She is my staff, in my household. The reputation on this household is my responsibility.” He turned to look at Benedict. “You have disappointed me with your behavior on this. Deeply. because this is much worse.”
Anthony was not scolding him as the Viscount, at least not entirely. It was worse – added to that was the betrayal and disappointment of a brother who had trusted him. Suddenly Benedict felt terrible. So terrible, in fact, that he was furious.
“Would you stop?” he said harshly. “This conversation is over. It is unnecessary, and it is none of your business. I love Sophie. In fact, I plan to marry her. So they were not unwelcome attentions, and this has nothing to do with other maids.”
Benedict saw, before him, Anthony’s expression pass from shock to hot anger to the cold anger that served him most effectively. He took the chair behind his desk once more, and when he spoke, his voice was level and frosty. “Let me see if I understand you. You think you will marry this girl, the consequences of which unimaginable for everyone. Not just you. Yet you refuse – rudely- to discuss about the consequences of what you have already done because you find it unnecessary.
“Yes. Exactly. I am not a child, I do not need to have my every choice reviewed with you, or to be lectured after if you find them wanting. As I said, Sophie and I are none of your business. My decision is made. And if you are to become so angry and petty every time you return home to find one of us has slipped your surveillance to make a choice you do not want, perhaps you should simply not return!” he snarled. “This conversation is over,” he shouted – because he could truly shout when he wanted. And then turned began to storm – because he could truly storm out of a room when he felt like it – away.
“I swear to God and our dead father,” came the cold hard voice of the 9th Viscount Bridgerton, “the next time we discuss this and you say ‘the conversation is over,’ or ‘ I will not discuss this further’, instead of speaking and listening about this like a grown man and a gentleman, I will take it to mean you are done talking and ready for me to bend you over my desk and take a strap to you for your abominable conduct.”
Benedict did not turn fully around; only enough to meet the wall of his father’s study. He did not meet Anthony’s eye. He did not meet the eye of their father, staring down from the wall. He did not want to address either of them – he did not even want to give Anthony the respect of facing him. “Fine. By God and our dead father. Since I refuse to discuss this with you ever again, it doesn’t matter.”
Despite the fire, Benedict suddenly felt cold. He tightened his coat around his neck, but it did not seem to lessen the sudden cold that had settled, heavy, on the back of his neck. Even as he turned to go, his eyes snapped, most unwilling, to his father’s portrait, as if they had been commanded there. Just as they nearly made contact with his father’s gaze – a gaze which, in death, could read every corner of his soul – he managed to turn them away, spooked, and finally, finally, achieve the goal of escaping the room.
Wasn’t love supposed to make you a better person? Benedict kept away from Bridgerton House, made sure not to appear where Anthony was, and did not feel very much like a better person. When Sophie at last quit Bridgerton House, he breathed a sigh of relief. But will they accept us? She fretted. They are good people. I know how much you care for them. I care for them. I want us to accept us.
He kissed her and kissed her and kissed her. I care not. I care for you. Leisure, Sophie, my silver muse, my love. Come back to bed. Do not think of it.