Sebastian looked away.
“Not that you’re a dog,” his brother put in quickly. “Or that you’re dumb or slobbering. It’s just…you’re loyal to a fault, you’re enthusiastic, and yet somehow, you always manage to do precisely the wrong thing. Speculation is gambling—a form of gambling just as pernicious as the sort with cards and dice.”
“Right,” Sebastian said, jumping on this. “But let’s talk of gambling as a business.”
“Gambling is never a business.”
“Not for the gambler, no,” Sebastian pointed out. “But it’s excellent business for the house. The house wins and loses, but it wins more than it loses. So long as it has the means to keep on playing, it will always come out ahead. This works the same way. It is like gambling—but as the gaming house, not as a gamester, and with far fewer operational outlays. I had a good idea as to the expected return—”
Benedict looked up at him and shook his head. “Only you, Sebastian. Only you would think that ‘my scheme is like running a gaming house’ counts as an exculpatory analogy. It doesn’t.”
Sebastian flushed. He always managed to do precisely the wrong thing whenever his brother was peering over his shoulder.
It had always been like that with them. Sebastian had tried to earn words of praise from his brother when he was younger. He’d jumped fifteen feet out of a tree into a lake to try and get Benedict’s attention once. That hadn’t worked so well; Benedict had scolded him and forbidden him from swimming. Showing his stamina by running naked through a blizzard had won him a lecture. And winning top honors in his classes had won him a scolding, because near the end he’d tried to stay up all night to memorize his Latin conjugations. It had been his fault he’d knocked over a candle, but he’d only burned a carpet. The scorch marks on the floor had been scarcely noticeable.
He’d kept on trying, year after year, because he wasn’t the kind to give up. And now that his brother seemed farther away than ever… Maybe they did speak different languages, but Sebastian wasn’t going to quit simply because he’d run into a difficulty.
“Look at me,” Benedict was saying, “and think of what I’ve done. I’m respected, yes, but I didn’t go out and gamble in hopes that the dice would turn up my numbers. I worked for this.”
Benedict stood. For a second, the light from the window behind him caught his profile, made it seem like the kind of patrician silhouette that one found on old Roman coins.
“I’m a County Captain for the Society for the Betterment of Respectable Trade,” Benedict told him. “It’s the most honored organization of its sort in the entire country—almost two centuries old and dedicated to the notion that tradesmen can and should be treated with respect. Our father was a member before me. Did I get my position by jumping up and down and tossing my money around like a fool?” He turned back to Sebastian. “Of course I didn’t. I was dependable. I was accountable. I was responsible. I worked for years and years, and now look at me.”
Now, Benedict was dying. Sebastian couldn’t bear to look away from him, for fear of what he would miss.
“I’ve earned the respect of my peers,” Benedict said. “I’m one of the foremost gentlemen in my district because of that. I’ve really accomplished something.”
Sebastian stood up. “People respect me, too,” he said quietly. “I’ve accomplished a great deal.”
Benedict let out a sigh and looked away, dismissing everything Sebastian had accomplished.
“I’m not giving up, Benedict.” Sebastian leaned in. “I told you already—”
“And I told you,” his brother interrupted. “I don’t want you risking everything on foolish speculation. I have enough worry to contend with in my final weeks. Stop trying to prove something to me, Sebastian. Your chances of success are not high, and it isn’t worth the risk.”
Sebastian felt as if he’d been punched in the kidneys.
His brother clapped him on the shoulder—a brotherly gesture of affection—as if he could set aside those harsh words so easily. “Now,” he said, “what do you say we get Harry and go for a walk?”
“RIDICULOUS,” VIOLET SAID. “Utterly ridiculous. Although I suppose I should expect no less from a man as terrible at croquet as Benedict is.”
“It is a little ridiculous,” Sebastian said. “I misjudged the situation.”
Somehow, it had been easy for Violet to slide back into her friendship with Sebastian: to meet him in the evenings in her London greenhouse and swap stories of their day, uninterrupted by servants.
He stood next to her now, handing her tools as she worked, telling stories intended to make her laugh. It was almost as if nothing had happened—as if they were still working together, as if he’d never breathed a word about lusting after her.
She shook her head, refusing to contemplate that. Stubbornness was almost like ignorance, almost like bliss.
“In any event,” Sebastian was saying, “I did my best to explain—but you know me.” His smile tilted a little. “What came out was ‘it’s like running a gaming house.’ You should have seen his face.”
He was smiling—as if telling her that his brother was dying and being an ass all at the same time was an amusing little anecdote.
Violet folded her arms. “As I said. Ridiculous.”
“I know.” He grinned at her. “And then I realized what I’d said, and—”
“I wasn’t talking about you.” She sniffed and stretched, plucking another yellowing leaf off a bean plant. “I was talking about your brother.”
His expression didn’t change. He was leaning against one of the metal support columns that came down through the center of her greenhouse, his arms folded, his lips quirking.
“Benedict?” he asked quizzically. “Benedict is never ridiculous. Everyone knows that.”
She set down her shears and turned to him. “I realize that my opinion is of little value on this point. But trust me—your brother is being ridiculous. There is not one person besides him on this planet who would say that you’ve accomplished nothing. Not one.”
He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “That won’t do, Violet. You know the truth about me. We can fool everyone else—but in here, we both know what I really am.”