The Countess Conspiracy

His brother grimaced. “That much is obvious. But…”

The clock was still ticking, those seconds seeming to come faster and faster.

“You don’t need to have a but,” Sebastian said. “You can just leave it at ‘Well done, Sebastian, I’m looking forward to attending that meeting.’”

“Attending?” His brother’s nose wrinkled. “You think I’ll be in attendance? I made it clear to you that the Society was a respectable organization. And you think to prove something by dazzling their best minds with mathematical conjuring tricks?”

“God, Benedict,” Sebastian said. “That…”

Hurts, he might have said. But that simply word didn’t encompass the sting he felt, the ache deep inside. He’d wanted to bridge the gap between them. He’d hoped it was possible.

“That’s unfair.” He looked away. “I don’t think I could prove anything to you. You’ve made that perfectly clear. But I thought you would at least give me a chance.”

“A chance? A chance at what?”

Sebastian raised his chin. “A chance to prove that I’m your equal. That no matter how many missteps I’ve made, we can have something in common.”

Benedict set his jaw. “But you want more than that. I know how you operate. Of course you want me to approve of you. You thrive on bedazzling others, and it grates on you that you can’t fool me. You’re all spark and no substance. Look at this circular making the announcement. It’s utterly ridiculous. ‘In honor of our two-hundredth anniversary gala, we are pleased to present a series of lectures on the future of trade, given by the thinker of the century.’ Then they name you.” He let out a hearty chuckle. “Tell me, Sebastian. How is that not a joke?”

Sebastian’s stomach sank. “‘Thinker of the century’ is a little overwrought,” he said stiffly, “but if the most important, intelligent people in your Society think I have something worthwhile to say, couldn’t you consider the possibility?”

Benedict stood. “You forget. I understand you. They didn’t grow up with you. Every person who meets you today walks away with stars in his eyes, blinded by brilliant lights. But I’ve seen you all my life, and you can’t hide from me. Behind your jokes and your pleasant words and your flashing smiles, you’re nothing.”

Sebastian felt as if his brother had thrust a sword through his stomach.

“The rest of the world will give you all the accolades it has to offer. But someone has to remind you of the truth about yourself, and that person is me.” He pushed the circular back to Sebastian. “You want to know what I think of this? I think that my Society has made a mistake—a horrific, bleeding mistake—and when you’re finished wreaking your usual havoc, I will be left to clean up the damage.”

Sebastian couldn’t say anything. He grappled for words—anything—but they all slipped away from him.

“Next time you think to make me proud? Don’t besmirch the name of an organization I love.”

Benedict spoke as if he were offering Sebastian kind, loving advice. Sebastian’s hands were growing cold.

His brother pushed to his feet. “Do something real, and I will recognize you for it. But this…”

It should have been obvious long before now, but Sebastian hadn’t wanted to admit it. His brother stood before him, his face a dark thundercloud, his arms crossed over his chest. Perfect Benedict, he’d thought. Benedict never set a foot wrong. Benedict always set so high a standard with his own conduct that Sebastian could not help but fall short of the mark.

Perfect Benedict was a liar.

“I see,” Sebastian heard himself say. “I thought I was at fault for the distance between us. But I was hardly alone. There is nothing I can do that will make you think well of me. You’re sending Harry to his grandmother because you don’t think I’ve accomplished enough to raise your son? How many pounds has she earned in business?”

Benedict frowned. “That’s hardly the point.”

“Isn’t it? You want your son to have an example of gentlemanly conduct. How many lectures has she delivered to your bloody Society?”

“You’re out of line, Sebastian. Don’t curse.”

“You cursed yourself, not two minutes ago!” Sebastian glared at his brother. “When was she inducted into the Royal Society? At what age? What papers has she published?” Sebastian took a step forward. “It’s not about what I do. It’s not about what I don’t do. It’s about the same damned thing, Benedict—the thing that this has always been about. I am someone—someone intelligent and capable—and you’ve never seen anything good in me. Well, I’m done trying to prove I deserve your respect. You’d never grant it to me, no matter what I did.”

Benedict drew back, his cheeks turning pink. “What a terrible thing to say.”

“Oh, it’s terrible, all right. Imagine living it,” Sebastian said. “Imagine growing up, knowing that the person whose good opinion you most wish to win has already deemed you good for nothing. All my life I’ve let you tell me that I was nothing but a fribble—a pointless, ridiculous, foolish rake, someone who contributed nothing to the world. But you know what? I have a lot to be proud of. Try it, Benedict. Tell me one good thing about myself.”

His brother’s jaw worked. His nostrils flared; he looked away. “Well. You’re likable—I’ll grant you that. It has always been your undoing: You’re likable. Everything has always come so easily to you—friends, women.” He shook his head. “Money. Prestige. Life is a game to you. The rest of us struggle through, trying our best to leave the tiniest of marks. And you just have it all handed to you without lifting a finger. Because you’re likable.”

Christ. Benedict couldn’t even give him a compliment without turning it into an insult.

“I can’t help it if people like me.” Sebastian folded his arms. “And I have not had everything I wanted simply handed to me.”

“Name one thing, Sebastian—one thing that you’ve wanted that you haven’t received.”

Sebastian looked away. “Your approval.”

“Oh, one difficulty! Very good. After more than three decades of easy sailing, you’ve discovered one thing that cannot be had for the price of a joke and a smile.”