Page 21 of A Reckless Courtship (A Chronicle of Misadventures #3)

21

SILAS

S ilas had really only lost two things: Arabella and the chance to find the ledger.

But what else was there? Those two things were everything to him.

Frederick must have spread the word to the family about what had happened, for Silas had received invitations—no, summons—from both William and Aunt Eugenia to come dine.

He had ignored them both.

He would see them eventually, of course, but just now, he was not in the humor to discuss things with anyone. Instead, he had been taking all his meals in his room, sleeping a great deal, and spending the rest of the day tossing crumpled bits of parchment into the empty glass across the room.

There was a knock.

“Go away,” Silas responded, slumped in his chair as he tossed a paper halfheartedly. It missed its target and fell amongst the others on the floor. He had only managed to make one crinkled paper fall into the glass. There was some grim satisfaction in the constant failure. It felt like a reflection of his own life.

“Aunt Eugenia is here to see you,” Frederick’s voice came through the door.

“I’m not at home to visitors,” Silas said in a barely comprehensible, slurred voice, for his head hung lazily over his chest.

There was a pause, then Frederick’s footsteps faded away.

Silas ripped another piece from the paper he held and crushed it with one hand. He tossed it, and it hit the rim of the glass before falling to the floor.

He had spoken with Bence the day after the fiasco at Drayton’s townhouse. His response had been nearly as bleak as Silas felt. He had little hope they would find an avenue as viable as the ledger—and if Miss Easton had alerted her father…well, that was a possibility Silas did not care to dwell on.

The door swung open.

“Go away, Freddie,” Silas said limply.

“I am not Freddie.”

Silas’s eyes widened, and he turned to verify that his aunt was indeed in his bedchamber.

“Aunt Eugenia,” he said in a bewildered voice. “What are you doing here?”

“What do you think I am doing?” Her gaze ran over the room, and her lips turned down at the corners. “I have come to talk some sense into you.”

Silas turned away and crumpled another piece of paper. “You should not have.”

“And why not?”

“It is not…seemly, Aunt Eugenia. You should not be in St. James’s at all. And certainly not in my bedchamber.”

She barked with laughter. “My reputation has survived far more than a visit to my nephew in St. James’s, I’ll have you know.” She covered his hand with hers before he could toss the paper. “Stop wasting paper. Stop moping. Pick up that mess and get ahold of yourself, boy! And for heaven’s sake, find a razor and rid yourself of that vile mustache.”

Silas frowned and put a hand to the lower half of his face. He hadn’t meant to resurrect the mustache, but the rough stubble told him it was on its way to resurrecting—the natural result of not having shaved for the past two days.

Aunt Eugenia pulled the bell and ordered tea to be brought to the room. Whether she was ignorant of or simply unconcerned with the ill-concealed surprise on the servant’s face at the sight of her in Silas’s room, he could not tell.

It made him smile slightly, even amidst his despair.

“Now,” Aunt Eugenia said, pulling him out of his seat and taking it for herself. “Speak.”

“I would rather not.” He went over and began to pick up papers resignedly.

“Did I ask what you would rather? I did not. Now, speak. And do not lie to me, boy. I always know.”

“I believe you.” He took the papers he had gathered up and tossed them into the fire grate. There was a small stool beside the armoire, and he walked over to it, sat down, and let out a long sigh, running his hands through his increasingly long hair.

He launched into the story of his interactions with Miss Easton, his hopes of vindication, and the crushing, untimely end of both.

Midway through, he was obliged to pause when the door opened and the tea was brought in.

Aunt Eugenia’s face screwed up with the first taste of hers. “This is an affront to the name of tea. An abomination.”

“Nearly everything from the kitchens is.”

She cringed again and set down the cup. “How do you survive?”

Silas put out his hands to display himself in all his disheveled glory.

“Quite so,” she said, taking his point. “Go on, then.”

When his account reached the day at Kew Gardens, he tried to skirt around what had happened. He did not particularly wish to discuss the intimate details of the day with his aunt, neither did he relish the thought of being read a lecture.

“Kissed her, did you?” she said shrewdly, a little smile on her lips. “Good for you. Then what?”

Amused and a bit baffled, he finished by recounting the night at Drayton’s townhouse.

When he finished, he half expected Aunt Eugenia to scoff at him and tell him he was a fool, that the solution to his problems was sitting in front of him, plain as the nose on his face.

Instead, she was quiet, a frown on her lips and brow. “You have made a bungle of it, haven’t you?”

“And here I thought my life was exemplary,” he said dryly.

She tossed one of the unused crumpled papers at his head. “I will tolerate none of your impudence, boy.” She looked at him another moment, then rose to her feet.

Silas watched as she gathered up her things.

“Do not forget to shave,” she said as she walked to the bedchamber door, “before you venture outside, which you should do.”

“You are leaving?” he asked, baffled.

“As you see.”

He blinked. “You came, then, for what purpose? To insult me, force me to recount my pain, then comment that my life is a shambles?”

She considered this, then nodded. “More or less, I suppose.”

He gave an incredulous laugh, but she paid it no heed, opening the door and stepping out.

She paused on the threshold and looked to the side where the bell cord hung. “Shall I pull the bell for a razor? Or may I trust you to do so?”

He smiled in spite of himself. “I can manage.”

“See that you do.” And then she shut the door.