But his friend would not be silenced. Dawson moved closer and set his fingertips against Sebastian’s chest as if trying to keep him from lunging at the earl. “Christ’s blood, Benton, let it go,” he whispered. “I doubt the earl was cheating, but even if he was, what does it matter? The wagers were not overly extravagant. Only Faber has lost a significant amount of coin and I am certain if you drop the matter he will follow your lead. Damn it all, if you keep pressing like this, things will turn very ugly, indeed.”
Sebastian cast a dark glower at his friend. It had been a selfish mistake to allow Dawson to play. The man had too much integrity and common sense. Sebastian had wanted the security of having an ally at his back, but he had miscalculated badly. He had not told Dawson he intended to draw the earl into a duel, because he knew his friend would object to such a blatant act.
But he had reasoned that Dawson would take his side if something did occur. Integrity was so damn inconvenient! Sebastian tensed, the blood pumping furiously through his veins. Friend or no, he would not allow anyone to deny him his revenge.
“Either stand with me or stand aside,” Sebastian said forcefully.
Dawson’s head jerked back in surprise, his eyes filling with a curious mixture of confusion and hurt. “I swear, Benton, if I didn’t know you better I’d think you were trying to provoke Hetfield into a duel.”
Sebastian shrugged off that all too true comment and faced Lord Faber and Sir Charles. The two glanced uneasily around the card room. “Perhaps it would be best to let the matter go,” Sir Charles suggested.
Struggling, Sebastian dredged up what little restraint he possessed. “I believe that question should be posed to Hetfield. ‘Tis his honor that has been tainted.”
All eyes turned expectantly to the older man. Panic lit his face, but he regained his composure. Sebastian saw the fine sheen of sweat on the earl’s face. It was going to be very difficult for him to simply walk away at this stage. His honesty, and honor, had been called into question. He would have to accept the challenge to save both. I’ve got you now, you damn bastard.
“I still insist that no cheating occurred, but if there was something amiss with the cards, it must have been my error,” Dawson interjected. “After all, I dealt the cards. Any blame must fall on me, not Hetfield.”
“But you barely won any of the hands,” Lord Faber insisted. “Unless you and Hetfield are in this scheme together?”
“Don’t be an idiot,” Sebastian said with a sneer. “Dawson is the most honest, honorable gentleman I know. He would never cheat.”
The response was instinctive. Sebastian did not even realize he had uttered the words until he saw the relief on the earl’s face. Shit.
“Your confidence in me is most humbling, Benton. Thank you.” Though he spoke congenially, Dawson’s brow was furrowed as if he were trying to decipher a perplexing puzzle.
“All right then,” Lord Faber said. “We all agree the accusation has no validity.”
“The matter is closed.” The earl’s voice was urgent and curt. “We shall speak of it no more.”
Sebastian barely heard the muttering of agreement from Sir Charles and Lord Faber. The earl turned and strode away. No! Sebastian felt the bile rise in his throat as he stared after Hetfield knowing he was powerless to stop him. A coldness welled up inside him, so strong and deep it stole his voice.
How had this happened? He had been so close, so near. It had all been going according to plan. That is, until Dawson stuck his nose into the mix. ‘Twas like having a fish on the line, tugging and fighting. Inch by inch, yard by yard, reeling the prize closer, closer, and then, just as the fish was pulled from the water, it slipped from its hook and swam to safety.
Beside him, Sebastian heard Dawson exhale with relief. At the sound, his control snapped. A primitive part of Sebastian’s brain shouted at him to pummel his friend until Dawson’s face was bruised. If he could not taste the earl’s blood, the blood he craved, he would settle for whoever blocked his path.
Fearing he would succumb to his rage, Sebastian rudely turned away. Shoving aside a dandy standing in the doorway, he practically ran from the room. With each angry step he couldn’t stop thinking that if Dawson had not intervened and smoothed it all over, this dilemma would have finally had a resolution.
Come morning he would have been facing the earl over crossed swords or pistols. By afternoon, the earl would have been disgraced, wounded, and in the most just circumstances of all, fighting for his life.
Sebastian hurried down the hallway, paying scant attention to his surroundings. He passed beneath a gilded archway, then cursed under his breath when he realized he was standing in the duke’s ballroom, surrounded by a sea of grandly dressed people.
It seemed as if no one had declined the invitation for this party. The large room was overflowing with guests. Which was hardly surprising, since the duke was related to many of the most influential and wealthy families in England. Anyone who was anyone clamored to be a part of tonight’s festivities.
Sebastian’s initial hope that the distraction of the crowd would ease his black mood was quickly dashed. His face felt tight, his eyes hard. Slowly, he unclenched his fist. He could feel himself trembling inside, shaking with rage and disappointment.
I must control myself! A pair of French doors leading to the gardens was close. Without hesitation, Sebastian stalked outside, snatching a glass of champagne from a passing footman. Never breaking stride, he downed the liquid in one long gulp, hoping the action might help calm him.
Alas, it did not. Sebastian’s anger felt like a raging river, swollen to the edge of its banks with nowhere to go. He needed to leave, to go somewhere private, where he could be alone to release this scalding rage that threatened to consume him. Where he could drink until he was beyond feeling, beyond sense.
Vengeance is for God to decide. That was what his grandmother had repeated to him time and again when she had made him promise to leave the earl alone, to forgo any revenge. Had she been right? Should he turn the other cheek and forget?
For years he had taken his need for revenge and buried it deep inside himself. Could he do it again? Could he bury it so far, so deep that he never needed to face it? A vision of his mother’s lifeless body invaded his head. Sebastian felt a tightness growing in his stomach as he struggled to close his mind to the memory.
Oh God, Mother, why did you do it? Was your pain truly so unbearable? Did you not realize how much I loved you, how much I needed you, how much I would suffer with your death?
Sebastian felt wetness on his face and realized it was tears. Christ! He was blubbering like an infant. He wiped them away irritably with a shaking hand, then began walking again, consumed by his need to get away. Though he was outside, the air felt as if it were closing in on him. His evening shoes were grinding against the crushed stone pathway as he hastened to the garden wall, searching for an exit. But there was none to be found.
Sebastian grimaced and glared at the solid brick wall in front of him. Tipping his head, his eyes scanned and assessed the imposing stone that apparently enclosed the entire garden. It easily stood ten feet tall, with decorative ironwork adorning the top. Damnation! It was too high to scale in his tight-fitting evening clothes, and even if he somehow reached the summit, those sharp, lethal-looking iron points would surely do irreparable damage to his clothing. Or his manhood.
Would that not be the perfect ending to this disastrous night? Walking through the duke’s ballroom with a tear down the middle of his breeches and his arse hanging out