Page 22 of A Reckless Courtship (A Chronicle of Misadventures #3)

22

ARABELLA

A rabella pulled on her gloves and regarded herself in the mirror. A few weeks ago, her attire and appearance would have sent a flash of satisfaction through her: the dove-gray silk of her dress, accented with a bodice of lacework and intricate seed pearls—pearls she had spent the past three days working on in a desperate attempt to distract herself. The skirts featured a sheer overlay, which, when it caught the light, showed a delicate floral pattern.

Her hair had been pulled back into a loose chignon, with small lavender sprigs set around a silver comb.

She was satisfied with her appearance, but she could not find the same joy in the art of it as she had hitherto done.

She stifled a sigh, rose to her feet, and left the room, pulling on her gloves as she made her way downstairs. Her eye caught on the door to the study, just as it had every time she had passed it for the past four days.

Each time she did, a little voice inside told her to enter and see whether she could find whatever Mr. Yorke had been searching for, for once he had left that night, she had simply replaced Papa’s things, taken the candle, and left the room.

She had refused to give credence to anything the man had said. It would have felt like a betrayal of Papa. And for what? Some silly, naive hope that Mr. Yorke was not the monster he had turned out to be?

If that were true, it would, by force, mean that Papa was the monster, and that she knew to be untrue. This was the father who had given her a magnificent home and everything her heart could desire, including this trip to Town. He had submitted to her silly whims and wishes when it came to fabrics and sewing. He had allowed her to choose the paper and the hangings in not only her own bedchamber but the salon and the drawing room.

He was not a heartless murderer.

She lifted her chin and passed the study, making her way to the entry hall, where Aunt Louisa and Felicity were waiting. Papa joined them shortly, and they went to the carriage awaiting them outside.

It was Arabella’s first time at the opera—something she had been looking forward to since her arrival for the sole purpose of admiring the attire of everyone in attendance.

It was, indeed, magnificent when they arrived, with the swishing of different fabrics, the glitter and shimmer of jewelry, satins, silks, and taffeta. Why, then, did she feel a hint of dissatisfaction despite that?

“What do you think, my dear?” Papa asked as they reached their box.

“It is beautiful,” she replied, trying to infuse her voice with an enthusiasm she could not feel.

He smiled at her. Was that the smile of a murderer?

The idea was almost laughable.

“Lord Farnham will be here,” he said, “and promised to visit our box this evening.” The meeting Papa had mentioned—the one where he and Farnham would discuss the details of a marriage contract—had not yet occurred. Arabella had been too caught up in her own difficulties to ask why.

“Oh.” She tried to make her voice sound pleasant, just as she had been working to accustom herself to the idea of marriage to him. What reason had she against it now? Before, much as it pained her to admit it, it had been her affection for Mr. Hayes that had made the idea of marriage to Lord Farnham so unpalatable.

But Mr. Hayes had been an illusion, a fabrication. The man she had fallen in love with did not exist, and all she was left with now was mortification at her gullibility and a heart aggravatingly resistant to accepting the truth about the man to whom it had attached itself.

“He wishes to pay his addresses to you, Arabella,” Papa said, watching for her reaction. “Saturday.”

She forced a smile. “It is very kind of him.”

“Well,” Papa said, “let us not forget how he benefits from such a match. He could not find a better wife than my little Bella.”

Lord Farnham joined them a short time later, and Arabella forced herself to maintain a steady conversation with him and to notice every positive attribute he possessed. There were certainly several of them.

But after a quarter of an hour in his company, she felt exhausted—and just the smallest bit despondent at the thought of the future.

“Will you join me to seek refreshment, child?” Aunt Louisa asked her. “You look pale.”

“Of course,” Arabella replied, grateful for the suggestion. She excused herself to Lord Farnham and followed her aunt. Felicity had gone to visit a friend in the box beside theirs and would likely not return for some time.

“That man is a chatterbox,” Aunt Louisa said.

Arabella sighed but bit her tongue. It was impolite to speak ill of one’s soon-to-be betrothed, which only made her wish to speak ill of him all the more.

They had reached the refreshments, and Arabella sipped her negus slowly, hoping to take all the time she could before returning to the box. She felt eyes upon her, and her gaze met that of a woman a dozen feet away. She had graying hair, fine attire, and a frank and curious gaze, which was directed at Arabella unflinchingly. Upon their catching eyes, the woman strode toward her.

“Miss Easton, is it not?” the woman asked.

“Yes, it is,” Arabella replied with a hint of uncertainty. “Do I have the pleasure of knowing you, ma’am?”

“No,” she replied, “and I trust you will forgive my disposing with formalities. I have a desire to make your acquaintance, and I was never particularly good at waiting for things to be done properly.”

Arabella laughed in spite of herself. There was something about the woman’s frank way she liked. It was refreshing and different. Familiar, even, though Arabella could not say why.

“I am Eugenia Ashby. You may not recognize the name, but you are acquainted with my nephews—Silas and Frederick Yorke.”

Arabella’s smile faded, and her voice was tight when she responded. “Only a little, ma’am.”

Mrs. Ashby’s eyes narrowed shrewdly. “Made you angry as fire, hasn’t he?”

“I cannot think what you mean,” Arabella replied.

“Of course you can. Do you claim, then, that you are not angry with my nephew?”

“I hardly know him to be angry with him.”

“Well,” she said, “I imagine you know him much better than you think.”

“Do you?” Arabella did her best to sound quelling. She liked the woman, but she was not prepared to discuss Silas Yorke just now—or perhaps ever.

Mrs. Ashby smiled knowingly. “Unbearably forward, am I not? Well, I shan’t force much more of my company upon you, Miss Easton, for nothing is worse than being obliged to listen to strangers prattle on about personal affairs, but I must say my piece before I go.”

Arabella looked at her for a moment, then nodded.

“Heaven knows my nephew has made mistakes. All the most interesting people do so, you know. But the blame for the one he has been accused of does not lie with him. It lies with your father.”

Arabella stiffened.

“Yes, I know. It is an unpleasant thing to have the person one loves accused of something terrible. There was a time when I believed the worst of my nephew, Miss Easton. I believed what everyone said of him, and I wish I hadn’t. Your instinct to disbelieve ill of your father speaks to your character; it does not necessarily speak to his. Loving someone does not make them incapable of doing wrong. Your love for your father should not mean an innocent man goes to the gallows.” She held Arabella’s gaze. “I have never seen my nephew so abominably out of sorts as he is now. Some of that is, of course, due to the blow to his cause—a just cause, mind you. But even more so, it is the disappointment and despair of a man who fears he has lost the woman he loves.”

Arabella swallowed, and the backs of her eyes stung.

It was silent for a moment.

“Does your father know the truth about him?” Mrs. Ashby asked.

Arabella hesitated. She had not told Papa of her encounter with Mr. Yorke in the study. Why she had not done so was a question to which she had no satisfactory answer. “No.”

Mrs. Ashby nodded. “Though you may despise him for the lies he told, if you put yourself in his position, I think you will see that you would have done the same. Hate him if you must, Miss Easton, but do not let him take the blame for something he did not do.” She gave a little grimacing smile, then turned and walked away.

Arabella watched, a bundle of conflicting emotions at war within her.

“Who was that?” Aunt Louisa asked, coming up beside her.

“I hardly know,” Arabella said faintly.

“I assumed you knew her.”

“She is the aunt of the Yorke brothers,” Arabella said as Mrs. Ashby disappeared in the crowds.

Aunt Louisa’s brows went up. “And what did she say?”

Arabella considered their conversation, and her eyes narrowed in thought. “She chastised me.”

“Chastised you,” she repeated, aghast. “The nerve!”

“Yes. I believe she has a great deal of nerve.”

Chastising Arabella was not the only thing she had done, however.

It is the disappointment and despair of a man who fears he has lost the woman he loves.

Arabella thrust away the words. Her heart was too confused to inspect them without bias, and she could not allow herself to entertain any ideas about Mr. Yorke.

Her aunt led the way back to the box, from which Lord Farnham was mercifully absent. It was fortunate, as Arabella’s mind was still occupied by the encounter at the refreshment table.

Mrs. Ashby, too, claimed Papa was a murderer. Having one person make such a claim was one thing. A second was more unsettling. And then there was everything Felicity had said about his ruthlessness.

Mrs. Ashby was Mr. Yorke’s aunt, though. It stood to reason she would believe her nephew’s account of things. She would resist the idea that he was a murderer, just as Arabella resisted the idea that Papa was one.

Yet, had she not already admitted that she had once believed the worst of her nephew?

Such confusing thoughts followed Arabella through the evening, preventing her from truly enjoying the opera as she had hoped to.

They followed her through the night and well into the next morning, until she felt she was going mad. Her mind could not fix on anything else, and finally, she came to a conclusion: she must ask Papa what had happened.

She would not tell him about Mr. Hayes’s identity or that she had discovered him in his study—at least not yet. She would simply tell him she had heard gossip and wanted to hear the truth from his own lips.

Depending upon his answer, she would tell him about Mr. Yorke.

She set her sewing aside and went off in search of Papa, determined to set the matter to rest. When she reached the door to the library, it was ajar, and she reached for the handle, only to pause at the sound of his voice within.

“Been dashed near impossible on the topic,” he said. “Silly female scruples, you know. Wanting a man who will kneel at her feet and worship her, I suppose.”

Arabella’s brows drew together. Of whom was he speaking?

“I had hoped that keeping her away from men of a marriageable age and other silly young women would prevent such absurd ideas from forming within her,” he continued.

A man’s laugh reached Arabella. “The female mind is simple, Drayton. It cannot deal in reason. It is all hysteria and emotion. And so many tears.”

Papa laughed. “The tears are certainly abominable. But I think she is coming around to the idea of Farnham. I must hope she does so before his attention veers elsewhere, or I can say goodbye to the prospect of investing in Farnham’s mill.”

Arabella froze.

“Is that likely?” the man asked.

“I understand he has been paying more marked attention to Lady Beatrice. Arabella believes him ready to offer for her, but the truth is that I am finding it devilish difficult to get him to come up to scratch. My niece let something slip about this nonsensical idea Arabella has of arranging the window display in Burlington. It did more damage than I had realized. Farnham is a stickler when it comes to the proper place of women.”

“And rightly so. I must admit I am surprised you would allow such a thing.”

“Oh, she will not do the display, of course, but it serves my purposes to let her think otherwise for now.”

Arabella swallowed the sick feeling in her throat, released the doorknob, and took a small step backward, hardly able to believe what she was hearing.