He had left this house the day he turned eighteen, walking to his estate’s solicitor to ensure he could then take control of everything. It was then that he returned to his family’s country seat, where no one could touch him.
He had only one regret: he hadn’t been able to take Benedict with him.
His cousin was eight years his junior. When he had the chance, Benedict had told him to go. The Marquess of Carlisle had never been as hard on his son as he had been on Owen. As for the Marchioness…
“You’re not leaving, are you?”
Owen glanced uneasily at the house again before meeting Benedict’s gaze, and grimaced. He wanted to leave, but he would not allow himself this weakness.
Frowning, Benedict looked over his shoulder while walking toward him. “It’s only a house, Owen.”
“Never a home.”
“That is true. But still… it’s the only home I know,” Benedict reminded him. He offered a grim smile after shaking his head. “Awful, isn’t it? I quite agree. Perhaps once I inherit the title, I’ll sell it.”
Own pursed his lips. “Or burn it.”
“Also amenable. Mother wouldn’t mind.”
“Is she well?”
Owen didn’t like the long pause.
“Well enough. I… I do what I can.”
“I know you do. He doesn’t still… hurt her, does he?”
Glancing around the lane, Benedict hesitated before shaking his head. “He still hasn’t laid hands on her since the day you left. I meant that. But sometimes, the games he plays with us don’t feel much better. He locked her in her bedchamber and tossed out the key last week. It was the first time she had peace in months, but we had a difficult time getting her food and drink.”
Cursing under his breath, Owen narrowed his gaze on the window in his aunt’s chambers. “We must get her out of there.”
“Don’t you think I’ve tried?” Benedict muttered, the pain evident in his voice.
Guilt trickled through Owen. He hadn’t meant to start this conversation again. It wasn’t as though he was the one suffering these days.
“She won’t try it, not anymore. We keep our heads down—it’s all we can do. As I said, he’s been better these past years. He’s getting older, weaker.”
“Good.”
Owen recalled the letters he had first written to Benedict upon reaching his country home. The place had been in disarray, with only an aging couple caring for the large estate. Not only that, but his uncle had been dipping into the funds.
Even though he had little at the time, Owen had tried every idea he could think of to protect Benedict and his aunt. He offered them money, a place to hide, passage to America or anywhere else they desired. Every time he left the country, he asked Benedict to come with him.
They had not accepted a single offer.
He was relieved to learn that the beatings had ceased. His uncle used to reserve most of those for him. Beatings and mean words likeworthless vermin. But that fateful day, Owen had finally shoved the man off him to prove it was all over. He was free, and no one would beat him again. If only he had been able to do the same for his aunt and cousin…
“Don’t blame yourself,” Benedict told him, though he had said nothing. “He isn’t home, you know. Why don’t you come in for a short while?”
Owen’s stomach twisted. “Only if I can burn it to the ground.”
Tapping his fingers on the gate, his cousin suggested, “Why don’t we go to your place, then? It’s only down the lane, isn’t it?”
Owen frowned. “My place?”
“Aren’t you staying there?”
“No,” Owen muttered in distaste. Avoiding his cousin’s surprised look, he added, “I didn’t want to open it only to leave. It was easier to let a room. My valet doesn’t mind, and neither do I.”