The Countess Conspiracy

His brother rubbed his forehead, and his mouth flattened. “Everything really does land in your lap.”

“No, no. It’s actually been a lot of work to keep up,” Sebastian said. “I had to learn everything the way she knew it, and…ah…”

“It lands in your lap,” Benedict repeated. “My God. You don’t even try. You really don’t. It’s like angels come down and anoint you with scientific knowledge, except it’s not angels, it’s Violet.”

“Yes. She’s really clever, you know.”

“No, I didn’t know. Nobody knew but you.” Benedict stood. “How do you do that? Honestly, Sebastian—how do you do it? I knew you were a complete fraud, but this is beyond even my ability to comprehend. It’s like the entire universe is conspiring to let you cheat at life.”

“No,” Sebastian said, “I’ve just always really liked Violet, you know. I’ve always known she was marvelous, even if no one else seemed to notice.”

Benedict ignored this. “It’s as if God himself were stuffing aces up your sleeve. How do you get something like that to just fall from the sky for you?”

“I don’t know!” Sebastian said. “Maybe it’s just because people like me.”

His brother folded his arms over his chest and glared at him. “Oh, you’re going to throw that in my face, are you? I’ll have you know people like me, too. Plenty of people. I have friends—many friends.”

“I’m sure you do,” Sebastian said in puzzlement.

“I have friends, and yet somehow, I have never received credit for one of the greatest scientific advances of our time.”

Sebastian stared at his brother. He’d vowed not to argue, but that was too much. “When you thought it was mine, it was nothing to speak of. But now that I didn’t do it, it’s one of the greatest scientific advances of our time?”

Benedict stared at him—stared ruthlessly and silently, stared until Sebastian wanted to look away. Then he slammed his fist on the table. “Fuck.” He sat back in his chair, a pained look on his face. “Oh, f**k.”

“And now it’s worthy of profanity,” Sebastian said. “Nothing I have ever said until this point has provoked you to use foul language, but that, apparently, will push you over the edge.”

“No,” Benedict grated out. “Listen to me, Sebastian. I need you to do me a favor.” His breath was growing ragged.

“What?” Sebastian snapped.

“You know how I said that if I couldn’t yell at my brother, there was no point in living?” A light sheen of sweat popped out on Benedict’s face; his skin grew waxy and pale, his breaths becoming short and shallow.

A cold chill settled over Sebastian.

“Well,” Benedict said grimly, “I was wrong. I would rather live.” He looked over at Sebastian. “Get that doctor. Please.”

SEBASTIAN WAITED IN THE HALL FOR HOURS, pacing until he knew every squeaking floorboard by heart. His hands were cold, his heart heavy. When the doctor finally left the room, Sebastian accosted him.

“How is he?”

The man gave Sebastian a brief look. “He’s alive,” he said. “He’s conscious.”

“Thank God.” Sebastian let out a breath of relief.

“He wants to see his son.”

“Of course. Of course.” Sebastian nodded. “I’ll make sure Harry’s brought up immediately.”

The doctor glanced at him. “You’re his brother? Sebastian Malheur?”

“What is it?”

“Don’t take this personally,” the doctor said. “But I advised him that he needs to rest for a little while. To avoid anything that will upset him.”

“Oh, good,” Sebastian said. “Is he finally going to take your advice?”

The doctor glanced over at him. “Yes,” he said. His mouth pinched, as if he had unpleasant news to deliver. “He asked me to tell you to stay away for a handful of days, until he’s sure you won’t bother him.”

Chapter Twenty

“IN SUMMATION,” SEBASTIAN SAID, “today, I think we have managed to offend or kill all our nearest relations.”

He was standing on the other side of the gardener’s shed. Violet smiled, because that was what he wanted her to do. Because she could tell by the way he looked about, so distracted, his smile not quite settled on his face, that he was worried about his brother. Because jokes—even terrible jokes—helped make the awful feel bearable.

“Your cousins are still friends with you,” she said. “And I haven’t talked to my mother yet, so we’ll have a fresh catastrophe come tomorrow.”

“Ah, yes. Them. Perhaps we could aim your mother at Robert and Oliver. If anyone can frighten them off, it’s her. Heaven forbid we have any friends at all.”

“Only you could make a joke at a time like this,” she told him.

“What, two days until the world discovers the truth?” He grinned, as if there were nothing in the world but her. As if her talk and her worries were all that mattered, and his were nonexistent.

“I was talking about your brother.”

He poured a tumbler of brandy and brought it over to her. “Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow—well, the day after tomorrow—we will be shunned.”

She cast him another sidelong glance, but let the matter slide away. If he wanted to make light of it, who was she to stop him? “Speak for yourself,” she said, but her tone was light. “Tomorrow I’m talking to my mother. I dread that more than anything. After her, the rest of the world will seem like a walk in the park.”

“All the more reason to drink.”

He pushed the tumbler at her again, and this time she took it from him. The liquid was amber; it sloshed about a little, leaving trails on the glass. Its aroma, thick and heady, volatilized in the air. Even the vapors coming off it were potent.

“You’re trying to make me tipsy,” she commented.

“So I can have my wicked way with you.”

It seemed a joke, but still her heart thumped at that. That was the thing about Sebastian; he made everything seem a joke, especially those moments when he cared the most. She contemplated him over her glass of spirits.

Even her fear was beginning to fade. He’d spent the last days holding her, making no demands at all, letting her become accustomed to the feeling of being wanted, of wanting again. As if he knew that once want became familiar, that shot of panic would began to dissipate, turning to mind-fogging vapor.