Page 1 of A Reckless Courtship (A Chronicle of Misadventures #3)

1

SILAS

I n retrospect, moving directly to one of London’s most bustling areas after being hidden away in the countryside for nearly a year might not have been the most prudent course of action.

But when had Silas Yorke ever been accused of prudence?

He stared through the window of the sitting room in St. James’s, watching the constant flow of traffic with anticipation that made his skin tingle. He had only ever spent a few days in London, but this time, he would remain until his name was cleared. And cleared it would be. Of that he was determined.

A hand grabbed Silas’s shoulder and squeezed it. “Electrifying, is it not?”

Silas glanced at his brother Frederick, who was staring through the window with a large smile.

“It is,” Silas agreed, his eyes returning to the scene. It might have been silly to be amazed by all the people and chaos, but amazed he was.

Frederick watched with him in silence for a moment. “Are you busy concocting a plan?”

Silas chuckled. “Have you ever known me to have such a thing?”

“No, I suppose not. But the stakes being what they are, I thought you might make an exception.”

Silas turned toward his brother. “Is he in town?” There was no need to clarify to whom he referred. There could only be one person.

Frederick shook his head. “Not expected for some time, either, based on what I heard from Lord Banister. Evidently, Drayton has important business interests to see to up north.”

Silas gave a little scoff and turned back to the window. “As opposed to his entirely un important duties in the House of Lords. Not that I am complaining. It will be much easier for me to make headway without him in London. He is the one person who would recognize me.”

“You truly think no one else will?” Frederick regarded him with a hint of skepticism.

Silas smiled. “I truly think that. Unlike you, I have not spent every waking moment of my life attempting to be noticed by the entirety of Parliament. If I am discovered, I rather think it will be you”—Silas poked him in the chest—“who is responsible.”

Frederick scoffed. “Me?”

“You.”

“You think I shall forget to refer to you as Hayes?”

“I think you have spent a lifetime calling me something other than that?—”

“It has been years since I called you idiot .”

“And…”—Silas ignored this little quip—“you are likely to slip up, particularly when you have had too much to drink.”

Frederick adjusted the sleeves of his tailcoat. “I always have just the right amount to drink.”

“No doubt,” Silas said with a hint of amusement.

It was pure good fortune that the two of them did not resemble one another. Frederick’s hair was lighter, his face more square. He favored their mother.

Silas, on the other hand, not only favored their father but had spent a miserable year hiding in France to evade being hanged for a murder he had not committed. It had aged him, making his face even more angular and narrow. This only served to heighten the difference between the brothers.

Just now, Silas wore his hair longer than was fashionable, and he had taken to parting it on the opposite side. These were small details, certainly, but they mattered. It was possible he might stumble upon an acquaintance from Oxford somewhere in London, but he would choose his public appearances wisely.

“There you are, Yorke,” said a voice from behind them.

Instinct had Silas turning in response, but he reminded himself he was not Silas Yorke here. He was John Hayes from Devonshire, in Town on his father’s business.

He and Frederick turned toward the two men entering the sitting room: Benedict Fairchild and Sebastian Drake. They were the other bachelors staying in the townhouse, which was owned by Fairchild’s father. Silas had only met them yesterday upon his arrival in Town. His oldest brother William and William’s wife, Clara, had brought him before making their way to their own townhouse—but not without attempting to convince Silas to stay with them instead.

Silas knew, however, that William would not approve of some of the things he would choose to do in the quest to clear his name. Frederick, on the other hand, was younger than Silas and had always looked up to him. He was much less likely to try to reason with Silas.

Silas needed the freedom to go about things in his own way, and living with a group of unmarried men was much more conducive to that than living with a duke who already mistrusted Silas’s decision-making.

“Are you coming tonight?” Fairchild was blond and built along stockier lines than the other three. Like Frederick, he hoped to pave his way in the world through politics.

“Coming?” Frederick repeated. “To what?”

“The masquerade,” Drake said, using a piece of post to cover his eyes for a moment. Drake was the most handsome of the four of them, with dark brown hair, a sharp jaw, a charming smile, and eyes full of wit and amusement.

“At Vauxhall?” Frederick asked, his face screwing up a bit.

Fairchild nodded. “My aunt has arrived in Town and all but begged me to accompany her and my cousin—and some other chit as well, apparently.”

Drake’s head turned toward him, eyes alight with curiosity as he set the piece of post down. “You failed to mention that detail. Pray, who is this cousin of whom you speak?”

Fairchild shot him a look of impatience. “Stay away, Drake.”

Drake took this in good spirits. “Fair enough. And the chit?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea. But you can stay away from her too.”

“Spoil sport,” Drake said without rancor.

Fairchild returned his gaze to Frederick. “Do you mean to come, then?”

Frederick considered the offer, hesitating far longer than Silas could comprehend. “Will anyone of note be there?”

“Undoubtedly,” Fairchild responded. “I heard it being discussed at White’s last night.”

Frederick’s interest grew more visible, and Silas suppressed a smile. His brother regarded every social event as an opportunity to expand his connections. His goal was to obtain a seat in the House of Commons, and it was one he took seriously.

“Very well,” Frederick said.

“Capital!” Drake replied. “What of you, Hayes?”

Frederick’s head turned, and Silas could feel his eyes boring into him.

“I wouldn’t dream of missing it,” Silas said, ignoring the pointed look. “One of you wouldn’t happen to have a spare domino and mask, would you?”

“I saw one in a trunk upstairs.” Fairchild’s brow furrowed in an effort to remember. “I believe it was in the Blue Room if you wish to go see.”

“Thank you. I shall do so immediately,” Silas said, making his way for the door.

Frederick followed, just as Silas had suspected he would.

It wasn’t until they were halfway up the stairs that his brother spoke, though. “Are you certain this is wise?”

“It is a masquerade, Frederick,” Silas said. “There is no place I could go where my identity could be safer.”

Frederick gave a non-committal grunt.

“You are beginning to sound like William, you know.”

Frederick’s brows snapped together. “I am not.”

William was the eldest and most proper amongst them—and a duke to boot. Although his decision to marry a maid had put a considerable chip in the pedestal he sat upon.

Silas stopped to face Frederick as they reached the Blue Room. “Freddie, tell me something: do you mean to be forever attempting to convince me to stay within the walls of this townhouse?”

Frederick regarded him for a moment. “No.”

Silas smiled and squeezed his brother’s shoulder. “Good. We shall get on famously, then.” He went into the room and straight to the trunk at the foot of the bed. It took only a few moments until he found the domino in question.

He chuckled softly as he pulled the heavy cloak from the trunk.

Standing nearby, Frederick’s mouth turned down in disgust. “You cannot truly mean to wear that thing.”

Silas held it out in front of him, admiring the old-fashioned garment with a smile. It was made of black brocade with gold threaded detailing. The hood was almost comically large, not to mention the ornate trim—gold, of course. It would have been the height of fashion forty years ago. “I have every intention of wearing it.”

Frederick stared at Silas, a hint of resignation in his eyes. “You mean to make a fool of me this Season, don’t you?”

Silas draped the domino on the bed and began searching for a mask to go along with it. “It is not my primary goal.” He grasped a glittery black mask with satin strings hanging at each side and held it up in victory. “But I can make no promises.”

Frederick sighed.

A cacophony of sound filled the night air as their carriage slowed on the street near Vauxhall, taking its place in the line of equipages. There was music from within the gardens, carriage wheels on cobblestone, the chatter of masqueraders, coachmen yelling, and the clopping of horse hooves.

Silas had never felt so invigorated.

He had rarely heard such magnificent sounds nor seen so many people in one place. For so long, he’d had only his own mind to keep him company, with staggered visits from William and Clara. The majority of the time, he had been entirely alone, with only the odd mouse to talk to. They had generally not cared to listen.

The prospect of rubbing shoulders with so many other people and without having to worry he might be recognized? It was a gulp of cool, fresh water after wandering in the wilderness for months. It was freedom—or as near to it as he had come since his escape to France.

The four gentlemen descended from the carriage and walked to the entrance of Vauxhall to pay their fee.

“I will repay you,” Silas said in an undervoice.

Frederick put away his coin purse. “You can repay me by shedding that hideous domino.”

“Never,” Silas replied genially, his eyes already exploring the area ahead. He had heard of Vauxhall, of course, but he had never attended an event there.

The doors ahead were open and offered the view of a large path and the trees that lined it on either side. The sound of music grew louder as they approached, and Silas’s own heartbeat seemed to strengthen and quicken with each step.

“Are you meeting your aunt?” Frederick asked Fairchild.

Fairchild glanced at his pocket watch. “In an hour or so.”

“A bit of time for your own entertainment, then,” Drake said. “Where shall we go first?”

Fairchild thought for a moment, his eyes searching the scene before them. “The Rotunda.”

Drake nodded decisively, and the four of them passed through the doors and outside again. The wide path twinkled with the light of lamps, while a large building with a conical roof loomed on their left behind a long colonnade.

Silas’s shoulders bumped against those of other attendees as they fought their way to the Rotunda, a powerful feeling of anonymity coursing through him.

“Not a foot of space to oneself,” Fairchild lamented.

Silas could not keep from smiling, though. Everywhere he looked there was gaiety and laughter, all behind masked faces in flowing dominos of varying colors. A few of the women who passed smiled coyly at him, and his heart stuttered. It had been some time since he had received attention from a woman.

It was not a distraction he could afford while in London, however. He had one goal and one goal only: pin the murder he was accused of on the man responsible.

It would be a tall order in any situation, but the power and position that particular man held made it into more of a towering order. Lord Drayton was only a baron, but he may as well have been a Royal Duke. Everyone either revered him or feared him, which would make Silas’s task all the more difficult.

The Rotunda was a magnificent structure, vast and circular within. A host of ornate columns held up the high roof, while the walls were covered in vibrant murals lit by lamps and lanterns. In the center, a raised stage housed the orchestra, whose music filled the enormous space and filtered out through the open door.

They listened for a few minutes, but Silas’s gaze flitted away from the orchestra again and again, taken up with the myriad people to observe. Did they realize how fortunate they were to take up a mask for entertainment and dispose of it at their leisure? To live life without fear of recognition or false accusations following them like a shadow?

When the others had had enough of the music, the four of them made their way outside again, and Drake led them to the Turkish tent. Outside of it, three acrobats were performing. Dozens of people had gathered around, but most seemed more intent on talking and laughing than in watching the feats of movement taking place before them.

They passed by the acrobatics and into the tent, warm air enveloping them. Silas blinked at the astounding burst of color and the smell of burning incense, which left trails of smoke creeping into the air. It created a haze, diluting the vibrance of the colorful drapes, the elaborately patterned rugs, and the low tables, which were adorned with refreshments and hanging lanterns. Dancers occupied the space in the middle, tapping on tambourines as they moved in ways Silas had never before witnessed.

Frederick, Drake, and Fairchild laughed and tended to the drinks in their hands, while Silas’s own glass sat in his hand, untouched. Perhaps it was the incense that was making his head begin to ache.

Fairchild took a pocket watch from inside his domino and cursed. “I must meet my aunt at the entrance.”

Silas forced himself to take a sip from his drink as Fairchild wound his way through the crowd and out of the tent.

Frederick grasped his arm suddenly, jolting the drink.

“What?” Silas brushed off the drips that had landed upon his coat.

Frederick squinted, shifting his head as though trying to obtain a clearer view of something. “I believe that is Bence.”

Silas’s muscles went taut, and his alert eyes searched the direction in which his brother was looking. It was full of haze, which was thickest near the tent’s roof. Sir Walter Bence was the business partner of Lord Drayton, but according to gossip, the two were at loggerheads now. If anyone might have information Silas could use against Drayton—or might know where to find it—it would be Bence.

“In the gold domino,” Frederick said. “I can’t be certain, but I could swear…”

Spotting a flash of gold, Silas wrested his arm from his brother’s grasp and started to wind his way through the crowds.

Frederick’s hand snatched at his arm again. “What are you doing?” he hissed.

Silas forged ahead. “I need to speak with him.”

“And say what?”

They reached the exit through which the golden domino had left, and Silas searched the area for it.

He swore under his breath. There were simply too many people and no gold dominos in sight.

“You think Vauxhall the proper place for that conversation?” Frederick asked.

Silas did not respond. His brother was undoubtedly right, but when would the proper circumstances present themselves? “I have been waiting nearly two years for an opportunity, Freddie.”

“Which is precisely why you must take care not to bungle it. Yes, Bence might be at odds with Drayton, but that does not mean he will take kindly to a stranger accosting him and casting aspersions on the character of an old friend.”

“I am not a fool, Freddie. I did not intend to accost him. I merely wished to cultivate the acquaintance. But it makes no difference. He is gone now.” Resigned, Silas turned back to the tent, and they returned inside.

It felt even more stifling somehow.

“Ah,” Frederick said, craning his neck. “Is that Mr. Parker? In the scarlet domino over there?”

Silas gave no response, for he was unlikely to recognize anyone here, even without the masks, and he was taken up with frustration at losing the chance to speak with Bence. He was the one man who might know that Drayton was responsible for the murder with which Silas had been charged.

“I am certain it is Parker,” Frederick said. “Stay here. I won’t be but a moment.” And with that, he was gone.

Silas turned toward Drake, but he was obtaining a drink for a young woman in a blue domino. Based on the smiles both of them wore, he was unlikely to return from the encounter anytime soon.

One of the dancers drew near Silas, looking at him fixedly, a provocative smile on her face as she slapped her hand against a tambourine. She came closer, her hips swaying with each beat of the drums, the coins on her costume jingling. Her arm brushed his as she danced around him in a circle, her kohl-lined eyes finally reappearing before him again, nearer than ever as the scent of jasmine enveloped him.

He kept still, unable to move, unable to blink until, finally, she spun away with a musical laugh, never losing the beat of her tambourine.

His stomach tight with anxiety and discomfort, Silas forced himself to breathe, but the result was a fit of coughing. His lungs had grown sensitive since a bout of consumption in France, and a room full of incense was simply too much.

Covering his coughs with his free arm, he set down his drink and hurried toward the exit. His coughing subsided slowly but surely once he had emerged into the fresh air. A number of people looked at him with a mixture of concern and wariness. It was even more crowded than when they had arrived at the tent, and despite the fresh air surrounding him, Silas felt a sense of oppression.

He shouldered his way through the hordes, determined to find a place less crowded. He had so anticipated being encompassed by people and conversation, but perhaps he had become more accustomed to solitude than he had thought.

He spotted Fairchild walking down the main path from the entrance. Beside him was a middle-aged woman in a violet domino whom Silas took to be his aunt. On the other side of her was a young woman in a green domino, while Fairchild was flanked by one in a vibrant indigo domino. It was her mask, however, that drew Silas’s eye, for it was large, colorful, and shaped like a butterfly. It gleamed with each slight movement of her head.

He tore his gaze away and continued in the opposite direction, the crowds thinning as he went. He turned abruptly onto one of the paths that led into the trees, for there wasn’t a soul in sight. He would take a few moments’ respite there, clear his head, then return to find Frederick and the others, ready for more merriment.