April 28th, 1814
London
Benedict Bridgerton hated waiting on a good day, but waiting in the middle of the night on a dreary London street was an exercise in torture. It occurred to him that Wetherby could have been having a go at him, telling him Granville would be here at this ungodly hour. A fine mist carried by a brisk wind had him pulling up his collar and thinking longly of a hot cup of tea. The calendar may say it was spring, but it felt like winter still dug its nails in tonight. The church clock was just chiming two when the clopping of hooves on cobblestones caught his ear. A hired carriage came into view, the nondescript bay horses pulling it looking just as miserable with the fine mist falling as Benedict.
He stayed in the shadows of a decorative bush across the street as the carriage stopped at Granville's studio. The building looked as devoid of life as it had since last summer, the drapes were pulled but no light shone around the edges, some sticks and leaves littered the steps around the doorway. It was as dark and uninviting tonight as it was earlier in the day.
The driver reined in the team in front of the darkened studio and a man of middling height stepped out, holding a satchel. It was Granville, Benedict was sure of it by the way the man moved. He waited until the hired driver was rattling away and Granville was walking up the steps before striding forward, determined. "Sir Henry!"
The figure in the dark doorway stiffened, then slumped, shoulders sagging as the artist recognized the voice without even turning around.
Benedict's boots clicked on the wet cobblestones as he walked as fast as he could without slipping, taking the stairs two at a time as Granville fumbled with his keys. "Bridgerton..." Sir Henry murmured by way of greeting. "It's a little late for a social call, don't you think?"
Benedict leaned in, reining in his anger with effort, "Indeed. The talk we should have is late by several months."
"I am not prepared to entertain at the moment, Bridgerton."
Benedict shook his head, keeping his tone deceptively casual like they were two old friends meeting by chance on a sunny afternoon instead of in the middle of the night, "We can have this conversation out here, inside, or I can yell my piece through the closed door for all the neighborhood to overhear. It is your choice, of course."
"Of course," Granville agreed with a roll of his eyes, as if there was any real choice. "Please, come in."
The entry hall was in shadows, pieces of furniture were covered in white sheeting and loomed from the shadows like ghosts. Even the air smelled stale, abandoned. Granville dropped his bag by the door and lit a candle with a hand that trembled, the single wick creating a small cone of illumination. Granville looked as much as he did the summer before, but the merry twinkle in his eyes was dimmed. With a strained expression, Granville asked, "I take it Wetherby will not be joining us? I thought he forgave me a little too quickly."
"Considering he put all the blame for your absence in town on me, that may be why he forgave you." Benedict folded his arms across his chest as if he could restrain his emotions with that physical contact. "Wetherby felt you would be in town more often if we...cleared up a few matters."
Granville nodded once, his head inclining slowly, but he had yet to look Benedict in the eye. Instead, he used a long straw to share the candle's flame with the other two candles in the candelabra. Avoiding the questions, the confrontation, and words that would no doubt play out this night.
"Were you really not going to tell me?" Benedict asked quietly, hoping that Wetherby was wrong, that this was a bad joke being pulled.
"No." Granville's gaze dropped to the tile floor as if the patterns laid there were fascinating. "I didn't see what good that would do."
The intricate cravat suddenly felt too tight at Benedict's throat and he drew in a shuddering breath, flexing hands that felt suddenly bloodless and cold. "You didn't see the... Why? Why would you hide something that important from me?"
Granville finally tore his eyes from the floor, looking at Benedict with such an intensity that he stepped backward. The blue-grey eyes were dark with...fear? "Because I cannot risk...him. Four people now know the truth and that is already too many. My wife and I will stay abroad or in the country until..."
Benedict's face flushed, even as his hands were clammy in their kid gloves. "Until what?"
"Until people forget my parties and who came to them, until the dates blurred and nobody could remember who did what and with whom. Until nobody would make the connection or ask too many questions about my son."
Each word fell from Granville's mouth like a lead shot, ringing in Benedict's ears as if the man shouted them into his ear instead of the harsh whisper. "But..." Benedict trailed off in confusion. "Why hide this from me? I could be a godfather or a family friend who is like an uncle? Anything."
Granville took a moment before answering, clearly weighing his words and glancing around the empty hall as if a servant would magically appear to eavesdrop. "That is not possible, Bridgerton. Lucy and I hoped we would be able to include you in our lives, but that simply cannot happen. I'm sorry."
Benedict knew he must look like a landed fish with his mouth open and without words for the first time in his life. Snarky remarks, glib replies, and harmless jokes were always his way of dealing with an ugly situation, but this stole his very ability to form a single coherent thought. His fingers curled into fists and he longed to plant one in Granville's eye, but instead, he asked, "Why? If he is...I'm not the kind of man who walks away from something like this."
"You have to," Granville said. There was sympathy in his light eyes, but also a grim determination. When Benedict shook his head, the artist stepped forward, grabbing him by the lapels of his jacket and shaking him once, barely breathing the words, "No, you have to. I cannot have people looking at the boy wondering why he has my wife's coloring and your face."
As Granville released him, Benedict stumbled backward, a cold weight settling in his gut. "He can't be more than a few months old, surely that's too young to look..."
"I would have fewer worries if that were the case," Granville admitted. "If you want the best for this boy, you will keep your distance." When Benedict started to argue, he held up a hand to silence him, "Right now, he is the pampered prince of the family. If my brother's wife continues to produce only girls, he may inherit a title greater than your brother's. Of course, if you want to claim him as your son...well, that will not be a pleasant day to be a Granville or a Bridgerton. You will be the philandering, indiscriminate young man who got an adulteress wife in the family way. People will look closer at me, at my life, and wonder why my wife would stray. The child will be a bastard and inherit...nothing but the scorn of society. Which life do you wish to provide him?"
Benedict sagged against the wall, the weight of the obvious decision already a burden he didn't want. He trembled at the edge of despair, feeling the yawning mouth opening beneath his feet, ready to swallow him whole. "What choice is there? You get a son, but where does that leave me?"
"A Bridgerton. Nothing more, I'm afraid. We are all making sacrifices here, I gave up my life in town and time with my love, Lucy gave up much of her freedom. All you need to do is...nothing. Live your life and allow us ours." Granville reached into his pocket, hesitated, then offered Benedict a miniature, a tiny portrait painted of an infant with big eyes and wispy, dark hair.
The futility of the situation left Benedict shaking with fury, but who he was angry with wasn't clear. With himself for his carelessness, Granville for showing him a life outside of the world he grew up in, society as a whole for creating standards nobody could hope to achieve? He closed his fingers around the miniature and the edges bit into his palm. "So..." he asked bitterly, "What do I do if I pass you on the street? Ignore you and pretend you are strangers, that this child is nothing to me at all?"
Granville's mouth twisted into a mockery of a smile as he said solemnly, "Welcome to the masquerade, Bridgerton, where we all pretend to be what we're not."
