The Countess Conspiracy

“No,” Sebastian set his hands on the desk. “Your approval was the only thing I ever wanted as a child. All I have ever wanted was for you to be proud of me. For you to look me in the eyes and say, ‘Good work, Sebastian, I knew you could do it.’ But nothing I did was ever good enough for you. I tried and tried and tried, and no matter what I accomplished, no matter what I laid at your feet, I always got the same answer. What I did had no value.” He leaned forward. “That is codswallop, Benedict.”

Benedict tossed his head. “Oh, don’t try and arouse my pity. If you had done anything worth doing—”

“Do you know why I want your son?” Sebastian interrupted. “Yes, it’s because I love him. Yes, it’s because he’s a wonderful boy and I would count it an honor to raise him. But it’s also because I see you doing to him what you did to me. Nothing he does is good enough for you. All he receives are reprimands. ‘Stop playing make-believe,’ ‘You’re not old enough for real work,’ and yet, ‘You’re too old to play.’ Nothing he ever does is right. I want him because I want him to know that he’s good enough. Because I’m the only person in the world that believes that about him, and damn it, I do not want him to grow up like I did.”

Benedict’s eyes darkened. “You’re questioning my abilities as a parent?”

“Yes,” Sebastian said, “I am. You mucked everything up with me, and now you’re mucking it up with Harry. I’m not going to let you do that to him.”

Benedict sighed and rubbed his forehead. “You think I was too hard on you?” He took a step forward. “You think that you did your best, and I should have rewarded your substandard, foolish little efforts because otherwise, I might hurt your feelings?” His face was red. “You could have had my respect. It’s never been withheld. All you had to do was earn it.”

“Name one thing I could do!” Sebastian snapped. “Just try—name one thing, Benedict, that I could do that would make you say, ‘Well, Sebastian, you really are worthy of respect.”

Benedict’s mouth worked. “Just—just stop lazing about, and—”

“I have not lazed about!” Sebastian shouted back. “Look at me. Really look at me, Benedict. Look at who I am and what I’ve done. These things I’m putting before you—they’re not accidents. They are who I am. It’s not my fault that all you see in me is a ne’er-do-well.”

“I see what you are!” Benedict snapped back. “And what you are is a fraud.”

Sebastian felt cold all the way through. “No.”

But there was just enough truth in his brother’s accusation that his protest came out a mere whisper.

“You’re a fraud,” Benedict said, “playing at being a man. You’re a fraud, a fraud, a horrible—” He stopped mid-sentence, breathing hard. His face mottled red and he bit back the rest of his sentence.

And in that moment, Sebastian knew that his brother was right. He was a fraud—a horrible one—and even if Benedict didn’t know all the reasons, he had the right of it. He’d been afraid of losing his brother, and yet here he was, driving him away.

Sebastian knew his brother had a heart complaint, and he’d angered him anyway. God, he knew better than that. He’d just…forgotten. He hated losing his temper. It made him forget everything important.

He was more than what his brother thought—not just a jester, not just a man who made people laugh. But Benedict was right. At heart, Sebastian had never wanted to be more than the man who made people smile. Every time he forgot that, the people he loved paid the price.

He had accomplished things—but he was also the man who’d spent three years crossing flowers, hoping to find something profound, reaping only confusion instead.

Benedict’s face twisted in agony; his hand drifted to his abdomen.

That’s what comes of being serious. You know better than that.

He stepped forward. “Stop,” he said gently. “Stop. You’re right. I’m sorry.” He reached out and brushed his brother’s shoulder. “Don’t get angry. I don’t want you to get angry.”

Benedict flexed his fingers into a fist. “Damn my heart. If I can’t yell at my brother…” He grated those words out, as if speaking through pain. “If I can’t yell at my little brother, there’s no point in living.”

Sebastian shook his head. “Here—sit down. Sit down now. I’ll go get the doctor.”

“It’s nothing,” Benedict muttered, but he sat heavily, his fist balled against his leg, pressing hard as if to ward off pain. “It’s nothing at all. Just a touch of indigestion.” He took a deeper breath. “It’ll pass,” he said. “But…” His eyes drifted shut.

“Right,” Sebastian said softly. “Now is not a good time to talk.”

But he knew what he was really saying.

There would never be a good time to talk. The gap between them could never be bridged; Benedict would never respect him.

It didn’t matter. Sebastian respected himself—so much so that he didn’t need his brother’s approval to continue. It didn’t matter how little his brother valued the skill. So long as Sebastian kept Benedict smiling, he’d account himself a success.

And if Benedict didn’t think much of him for it…well, at least he’d be smiling.

“UNCLE SEBASTIAN,” A SMALL VOICE SAID from the stairwell as Sebastian descended. “What is happening to my father?”

Sebastian looked down. Harry sat on a chair in the entry. It was an adult’s chair, and his legs didn’t quite reach the ground. He sat, his arms folded, waiting patiently as Sebastian had never been able to do at that age. His nephew’s dark hair spilled in every direction; his expression was set in childish worry.

“Why were you and Papa yelling at one another?” Harry looked scared.

“Because we couldn’t agree,” Sebastian finally said. “Sometimes it happens. People can’t agree.”

Harry slid off the chair. He was clutching a wooden horse. He slowly came up the steps until he met Sebastian halfway. With Sebastian on the upper step, it made Harry seem even smaller than he was, barely higher than Sebastian’s knees.

“Are you going to go away and never come back?” he asked.

“No.”