Page 20 of A Reckless Courtship (A Chronicle of Misadventures #3)

20

ARABELLA

“ M r. Hayes?” Arabella asked in a faint voice.

When she had opened the door to the study, she had fully expected to see a servant dusting or fetching a forgotten item. Or perhaps an empty room with an open window and a breeze that had knocked something over.

She had certainly not expected to see Mr. Hayes.

He did not respond, though. He merely stared at her, eyes wide and alert. He had an eerie look about him, thanks to the candle casting shadows across his face.

Her gaze dropped to the papers in his hands, then to the other items on the desk, and finally to the open drawer.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

He was meant to be with the other men, enjoying a glass of port.

There must be an explanation for why he had wandered into this room and was going through Papa’s desk.

But try as she might, she could not think of a satisfactory one.

“What are you doing, Mr. Hayes?” she repeated more firmly when he did not respond. “Why are you searching my father’s drawers?”

“Miss Easton.” He put up a hand, as though pleading with her not to become angry with him. “There is an explanation. I swear.”

This particular phrase had the effect of evoking a temper Arabella was unused to entertaining. Mr. Hayes was full of explanations he could not give but wanted her to believe were convincing.

“Is there?” she asked. “Let me hear it, then.”

He swallowed, and no explanation came.

She let out an incredulous scoff. After his strange behavior at dinner, she had already been struggling against a feeling of rejection. She had all but confessed that what she wanted with him was…everything. And his response?

He had not even given one. He had looked away and offered her peas. She hated peas.

His lack of response was a response, in its own way. Even someone as unpracticed as she in the language of romance and love could decipher that.

“And so I am to simply trust you,” she said, her wounded pride fanning the flames of a hitherto-unpracticed temper. “Trust you when you have acted in incomprehensible ways since the night we met and yet refuse to explain anything at all to me. And then I find you rifling through my father’s personal affairs?” A thought occurred to her, and it sent a chill through her veins. “Is this why you came? Is it why you kissed me? To gain access to my father’s belongings?”

“No,” Mr. Hayes said firmly. He set down the papers in his hand, then walked toward her with slow, measured steps, as though afraid he might frighten her off if his movements were too sudden.

When he came within a few feet, she took a step backward, and he stopped.

“I swear it is not why I kissed you. Though I should not have done it.”

The chill within her intensified, making the blood in her veins feel like ice. “You regret it.”

“I regret it for your sake only.”

“What does that even mean?”

“It means”—he took another step toward her, and she allowed it, if only to see his face more clearly—“that I am completely and utterly unworthy of you, Arabella.”

She let out an incredulous breath and looked at the still-open drawer in the desk. “Because you rummage through people’s affairs without permission? Or is there another reason? Ah, let me guess…you cannot give it to me.”

“I have wanted to explain everything to you from the beginning. I swear it.”

“Then explain!” She could hear the hint of hysteria in her voice, and with effort, she controlled herself. She took a determined step toward him, and when she spoke, her voice was taut. “I demand an explanation, Mr. Hayes.”

He stared at her for a moment with an almost sorrowful glint.

She waited, determined to have information from him.

After what seemed an eternity, he spoke. “I am not Mr. Hayes.”

It took her a moment to respond. “What?”

“My name is not John Hayes.” He let out a long, slow breath. “It is Silas Yorke.”

Arabella’s vision flickered momentarily. Silas Yorke. He said it as though it should mean something to her. But what did anything mean? She could not fathom what he was saying.

“I once had dealings with your father,” he said. “They ended…poorly.”

“Poorly,” she repeated.

He nodded, that same somber look in his eyes so at odds with his usual teasing smile. “My brother and another gentleman invested with your father—textiles, as I mentioned. But unbeknownst to us, your father was undercutting our investments, slipping information to a competing merchant. I suspected our other associate first—Langdon—for he was the one keeping the books. But it was not him.” He looked at her as though waiting for her to understand.

But there was a strange echo in Arabella’s ears, as though he was speaking through a wall.

“When Langdon and I confronted your father, he became furious.” His brows drew together, deep, dark, and somber. “He shot and killed Langdon.”

The room tilted, and Arabella shifted to stabilize herself. What on earth was he saying?

“He blamed me for it,” he continued. “If I had not escaped, I would have been hanged. Instead, I spent more than a year eking out whatever existence I could in France, working to put a roof over my head and food on the table, coming close to death when I contracted consumption.”

His brow furrowed at the memory, but he seemed to put it aside. “I returned to England some time ago, but I only came to Town recently to clear my name.” He gestured toward the desk. “That is why I am in this room. To seek justice for myself and for Langdon.”

It took time for the full weight of his claims to settle in and for Arabella to realize the audacity of the man.

He met her gaze, his own steady and intent, watching for her reaction to his revelation. Her reaction to the nonsense.

Disbelief and anger rose inside her. It was as though, now that she had discovered her temper, it was prepared to make up for all the time it had lain dormant. “How dare you?” The words came out slow and soft, but each one shook.

He stared at her, silent.

The gall of the man was beyond the pale.

“You used me,” she said, her voice shaking—whether with anger or hurt, she couldn’t say.

He shook his head. “No.”

“You used me,” she repeated more loudly, “and now you stand here, besmirching the name of my father, who is twice the man you could ever be.”

He shut his eyes. “Arabella, I swear, I had no i?—”

“Miss Easton,” she said. “I am Miss Easton to you.” She swallowed the acrid taste in her mouth, remembering when he had first called her by her Christian name—before they had kissed.

It had all been a lie. A ruse.

“Miss Easton,” he said obediently, “I swear I had no notion who your father was when I met you.”

“And I am to believe this? When you said your express reason for coming to London was to find this evidence you speak of?”

“It may be incredible, but it is the truth. When we met at Vauxhall, I disappeared from your side?—”

“A habit of yours,” she interjected.

“I only did so because I saw the man I had come to Town to see—someone I thought could help me clear my name. The second time I disappeared, you will remember, was the night you promised to introduce me to your father. That was when I discovered precisely who your father was.”

“My father the murderer,” she said bitingly.

“I know it cannot be easy to hear,” he said, his eyes alight with sympathy, “but?—”

“Get out.” Her teeth clenched together until her jaw ached.

He watched her fixedly.

“Get. Out.” The tears were beginning to collect in her eyes, and the last thing she intended to do was allow this man—whoever he was—to see her cry.

He gave a curt nod. “Very well.” He looked at her a moment longer, then passed by her on his way to the door.

She stood stock-still as his scent surrounded her, her body trembling, her eyes burning and full to the brim as she listened for his exit.

His footsteps stopped.

“I am sorry, Miss Easton,” he said softly. “Truly and terribly sorry.”

She grasped the bracelet around her wrist, then fiddled with shaking fingers until the clasp released. Turning toward the door, she flung it. It dropped just beyond the rug and slid across the floorboards, landing at his boots.

After a long moment, he stooped down and picked it up. He stood straight and looked at it for a moment, then closed his fingers around the bracelet and passed through the door, shutting it behind him.

Arabella drew in a shaky breath, then stopped fighting the tears that had been threatening.