Page 10 of A Reckless Courtship (A Chronicle of Misadventures #3)

10

ARABELLA

P apa was introduced to Aunt Louisa’s friend, Mrs. King, who exchanged a few polite words with him, then excused herself.

Arabella looked to the refreshment table for Mr. Hayes, but he was not there.

“Are you looking for someone, dear?” Papa asked, trying to follow her gaze.

“Mr. Hayes. The gentleman I told you of—the one who is looking for opportunities to invest.”

“Ah, yes. Where is he?”

“On my errand,” Aunt Louisa said. “He went to fetch us refreshments, for this room is on the verge of boiling over.” She fanned herself.

Arabella searched the room, a little furrow on her brow, until she finally spotted him with a leap of her heart.

He was not making his way toward them, however, and his hands were empty. In fact, he seemed to be heading for the door, his gait quick and purposeful.

He reached it, then disappeared.

“He should have returned by now, surely,” Aunt Louisa said, making her own search for him near the tables. She frowned, the perimeter of her hunt expanding. “I do not see him anywhere.”

“Perhaps he went to give Mrs. King her punch,” Arabella said, her stomach tight with emotions she could not put a name to.

“Mrs. King is over there,” Papa said, indicating the woman a dozen feet away. “And she has no punch.”

“Perhaps he was called away urgently.” Arabella could hear the pathetic hope in her voice, even though she herself did not believe the excuse. Had he not done something similar at Vauxhall? He had not ever revealed why he had done it then, either.

I am an impulsive man .

That was all the explanation he had provided, and it was no explanation at all.

“If he cannot be troubled to make an appearance for an introduction,” Papa said, “I have no interest in discussing investment with him. Shall I fetch your drink, Louisa?”

“Would you? And a ratafia for Arabella.”

He nodded and went off, just as Mr. Hayes had done. But unlike Mr. Hayes, Papa returned.

Arabella’s good humor was not quite as quick to do so, however. For a quarter of an hour, she found herself looking toward the doorway through which she had seen Mr. Hayes depart, hoping to see him hurry through it, full of excuses for his strange behavior.

But she looked in vain, and the effect on her was to make her feel low and confused. The longer he remained absent, the more her emotions shifted toward vexation.

“Why did you and Mr. Hayes not stay for the second dance of the set?” Felicity asked when Mr. Drake returned her to her mother’s care.

“Mr. Hayes left,” Arabella replied coolly, sipping from her glass.

“After you introduced him to your father?”

“He did not meet Papa. He simply disappeared. Again.”

Felicity gave a little scoff. “How very curious of him!”

“I would rather call it infamous. One sudden disappearance might be excused. Two begins to take on the appearance of a habit.”

Felicity threaded her arm through Arabella’s. “Oh, Bella. You needn’t be so upset. It is not as though you are courting one another. He is playing a game, and if you ask me, you should be playing it too. There is no feeling quite like beating someone at their own game.”

“I do not at all understand, Felicity,” Arabella replied in a defeated voice. “When I play games with my younger sisters, it is one we agree upon together, with clear rules and goals. How am I to play a game, to say nothing of winning it, when I have no idea what the aim is?” She simply could not understand what purpose Mr. Hayes’s disappearances served except to confuse her and make her feel forgettable and easily discarded.

Felicity took both of Arabella’s hands and smiled at her. “The only rule to a game like this is never to allow your opponent to believe he has bested you. Do not give him the satisfaction of even noticing he disappeared tonight. It is sure to drive him mad!” She looked positively joyful at the idea.

But Arabella had not thought of Mr. Hayes as an opponent. She had come to think of him as a friend.

Evidently, she had been wrong to do so.

But she would not be so taken in again. She would, however, heed Felicity’s counsel and not allow Mr. Hayes to know that his actions had bothered her.

The window of The Silk Room in Burlington Arcade was mostly clear, save a few smudges from hands which had pressed against it. Behind the glass, wooden racks held two dozen bolts of fabric, arranged in an orderly manner but with little rhyme or reason. Most of the fabrics seemed targeted toward gentlemen—grays, deep blues, browns, and blacks meant for tailcoats, with one crimson for a waistcoat, perhaps.

It was well enough, but Arabella could not help imagining how much better it might be with more artistry and vision. At Wetley, she had an entire room full of fabrics and ribbons and thread, and she had come to find how the arrangement of it all sparked her own desire to sew. If it grew disorganized, that desire faltered.

Might it not be the same for those passing by the shop window? What would more color, more embellishment, more imagination do?

“You think you can improve upon it?” Papa asked as they stood before the window.

He had agreed to allow her to accompany him to The Silk Room this morning before his departure for Dover.

“I do,” Arabella responded with quiet confidence.

“Hm.”

She smiled to herself. Papa would find it difficult to entrust her with such a thing. Not her only, though. He was a man who was accustomed to control. He did not merely hope things went his way; he ensured they did.

If he would let her have free rein, though, he would see how a woman’s touch could draw more customers, making way for new inventory and building a reputation for the place among the ton .

And he had agreed to entertain that possibility—thanks to Mr. Hayes’s suggestion that Arabella pose the question.

A sliver of annoyance lodged itself in her chest. Gratitude toward Mr. Hayes was not what she wished to feel at this particular time, and yet she doubted she would have asked Papa if it had not been for Mr. Hayes’s urging.

Well, she would not go out of her way to thank him this time.

The knock on the front door while Arabella read in the sitting room did not bring her head up, but the sound of Mr. Fairchild’s voice in the entry hall did. She listened for any voice besides his, hardly knowing whether she wished to hear it or not.

But Mr. Fairchild was alone, a fact which was confirmed less than a minute later when he came through the sitting room door.

Felicity set aside the newest edition of La Belle Assemblée as though Mr. Fairchild had been precisely the excuse she had been wishing for to do so.

“I was passing by and thought I would stop in and see how you are getting on,” Mr. Fairchild said.

“Terribly bored,” Felicity said.

“Where is my aunt?”

“Resting. Have you any news?”

Mr. Fairchild frowned pensively. “It has been rather dull since I saw you last.”

“We have not been alone in our boredom, then. But perhaps we can change that now that Uncle Drayt—” Her gaze darted to Arabella, and she hastily added, “Never mind that.”

Arabella suppressed a sigh. She wished Felicity and Aunt Louisa were not so intimidated by Papa.

He had left for Dover yesterday and was expected to be absent for a few days. There was no telling for certain when the shipment he was awaiting would arrive. Arabella’s feelings upon his departure were mixed. On the one hand, she had been glad for his presence; on the other, there would be a greater degree of freedom without him, and wretched though it made her feel, she was not opposed to this.

“Have you come to extend an invitation to us?” Felicity asked. “Some party or other which would be unbearably dull without us, no doubt.” Her eyes fixed hopefully on Mr. Fairchild.

“Erm, not exactly.”

“Nothing?” Felicity said. “Not a single event of note?”

“There is an art auction on Friday. Silent, I believe. Proceeds to charity. That sort of thing.”

Arabella set down her book, her interest piqued. “What sort of art?”

He shrugged. “Paintings and drawings done by members of the ton , as I understand it.”

Felicity’s nose scrunched. “Are they any good?”

“You will have to answer that question for yourself. But even if they are not, it is in the Egyptian Hall, which may be of interest to Miss Easton in and of itself.”

“What is the Egyptian Hall?” Arabella asked, even more intrigued.

“Oh, it is the most curious building,” Felicity said. “Only a few years old. The man who commissioned it had it built to display his own collection, but it is full of curiosities. You will adore it, Bella. What do you say? Shall we go?” Felicity’s eager expression made it abundantly clear what answer she expected.

Happily for her, Arabella could provide it, for she was every bit as enthusiastic at the prospect. She adored art, and she was curious just how much talent would be on display. But the venue itself would have been enough to draw her in, for she had read a great deal about Egyptian civilization. “I would quite like that—if Aunt Louisa agrees, of course.”

“She will,” Felicity said without another thought. “And we may wear our new dresses.”

“True,” Arabella said, even further convinced that this auction was precisely what she needed. Papa would approve too, if he knew. There could be nothing untoward about a charity auction full of the ton .

“Will you accompany us, Benedict?” Felicity asked.

He frowned. “I told Yorke and Hayes I would go with them.”

Arabella was already lost in thought deciding what gloves and jewelry she would wear to the auction, but this comment had the effect of unceremoniously pulling her from the pleasant endeavor. Mr. Hayes would be there?

“Never you mind, then,” Felicity said to Mr. Fairchild. “We will see you there.”

“Good,” he responded. “If you have no commissions for me to fulfill, I shall be on my way. I will send Aunt Louisa the direction for the auction.” He gave a small bow, then left them to themselves again.

“I do love an auction,” Felicity said after the door closed. “It seems there is always a bit of awkwardness when someone does not win the item they wished for. I once saw two men nearly come to blows! Though perhaps the art will be too terrible for anyone to bid. It certainly would be if I were the one supplying it.”

“Perhaps we should not go,” Arabella said, hardly hearing her cousin.

Felicity’s brows snapped together. “What? Why not?”

Arabella hesitated, grasping her fingers together absentmindedly. “I do not wish to see Mr. Hayes.”

“Oh, Bella,” Felicity said, coming up to her. “Do you not see? This is the perfect opportunity to show him how little you care about his disappearance at the ball.”

Arabella took a moment before responding, for the disappearance had preoccupied her ever since. She did not wish for this to be the case. She wanted to be as nonchalant as Felicity. Perhaps acting that way would help her feel it. She could not avoid Mr. Hayes forever, after all, and she could not let his poor behavior dictate where she went and how much she enjoyed London. “You are right.”

“Of course I am,” Felicity said. “You must have the most grand time there and converse with as many eligible young men as you possibly can.”

“And ignore Mr. Hayes,” Arabella said, feeling this detail needed to be added for clarity.

“No, no,” Felicity said.

“No?” Arabella asked in bewilderment.

“Purposely ignoring him is simply another way of showing how much sway he holds over you.”

“Oh,” she replied faintly.

“Here is what you must do. You will treat him as any other young gentleman. If you pass him, you will smile”—Felicity demonstrated—“and offer him a kind greeting. And then…” She raised her brows, prompting Arabella to respond.

“And then…I…will…”

Felicity smiled as Arabella’s response never came. “You will continue on your way to speak with someone else.”

“That is precisely what I was going to say.”

Felicity laughed. “It will drive him mad, Bella. Just you wait.”

Arabella was not so angry with Mr. Hayes that she wished for that , but she did wish for him to feel just a bit sorry for what he had done.

Arabella gazed up at the Egyptian Hall as she waited for Aunt Louisa to descend from the carriage. The building facade was unlike any she had seen, with creamy stone, a flat roof, various trapezoidal windows, and two Egyptian statues standing guard over the entrance.

She had never seen anything like it.

They made their way inside and were soon in a hall lined with ornate columns covered in designs and hieroglyphs. The walls and ceiling boasted similar artwork, while a tall, domed window let in light from the sky. A violinist and cellist sat in the far corner, playing music for the people who roamed the tables covered in artwork.

Mr. Hayes was nowhere in sight.

Perhaps Mr. Fairchild had told him that Arabella would attend, and he had made his escape early.

“He is not here yet,” Felicity said.

“Who?”

Felicity smiled at her. “Very good. Shall we look at this infamous artwork?”

They started at the nearest table, where a painting of a hunting party sat on a stand. In front of the frame were small squares of parchment and a polished wooden box with brass fittings, a keyhole, and a rectangular hole in the top. Identical boxes sat in front of all the pieces of art in the room.

Arabella gazed at the painting, impressed with the abilities of the artist, who had signed the bottom right corner in illegible script.

“That is enough for now, I think,” Felicity said after the sixth painting. “Time for a bit of socializing.”

As if on cue, Mr. Hayes, Mr. Yorke, and Mr. Fairchild came through the door, and Arabella’s heart gave a responsive stutter.

“Do not look,” Felicity said, slipping her arm through Arabella’s and pulling her toward Aunt Louisa. “You are not even aware he is here.”

“I am not,” Arabella confirmed, focusing her gaze anywhere but on Mr. Hayes, though her body seemed ever-aware of him.

Aunt Louisa was speaking with a middle-aged man and, based on their resemblance, his son, who had sandy blond hair and a handsome face. Arabella and Felicity were introduced, and Arabella did her best to keep her focus on the conversation with the Lybberts.

When her gaze flicked to Mr. Hayes for a moment, she found him looking at her.

She immediately returned her gaze to the younger Mr. Lybbert, who had engaged her in conversation while Aunt Louisa and his father spoke. Felicity had disappeared—a talent she and Mr. Hayes seemed to share.

Should Arabella nod or acknowledge Mr. Hayes in some way? She seemed to have no sense for the right way to go about things. She was certain she should not have looked at him in the first place.

And yet, no matter what she did, her gaze gravitated to him. It was the need for comprehension that drove it. Of that she was certain. Some part of her hoped that, by looking at him, she might solve the riddle of him and reach some understanding of what drove him to tease her and make her feel like the only person in the room one minute, then to fade into the crowds and desert her the next as though he cared not a jot for her existence.

Would it be so wrong to simply ask him? To demand an explanation for his behavior?

She managed to go twenty minutes without allowing her eyes to veer in his direction, but that was only thanks to Mr. Lybbert. He must have been nearing thirty, but his age and time in Town had apparently not granted him the conversational skill one might have expected. Arabella was obliged to ask question after question to avoid awkward lapses in their exchange. The task required all her concentration, for Mr. Lybbert responded with short answers and never turned a question back to her.

It exhausted her and made her wish heartily for Mr. Hayes’s teasing and easy conversation. Her eyes wandered the room until they found him standing in front of a painting. He stared at it, head tipped to the side in contemplation. His hands were clasped in front of him, pulling the sleeves of his coat taut over his back.

That was when she spotted it, dangling just below the cuff of his gray coat: the butterfly pendant.

Her gaze flicked to his face. What was this man about? He had not even been able to bring himself to bid her good evening after their dance or to fetch the drinks he had promised her and Aunt Louisa, and yet he insisted on wearing that bracelet— her bracelet, according to him. Beyond that, he had made no effort to seek her out here with an explanation for his behavior.

She could not see the reason in any of it.

Mr. Lybbert stared at her, apparently waiting for her to introduce the next topic of conversation, and Arabella suddenly felt tired. Tired of manufacturing conversation with this dull man, tired of trying to play the part Felicity had given her, and tired of playing a game she did not understand.

“Would you excuse me, Mr. Lybbert?” she asked politely.

“Yes,” he said in his particular, bald way.

She curtsied, then, with a hammering heart, made her way over to Mr. Hayes for answers.