Page 9 of A Reckless Courtship (A Chronicle of Misadventures #3)

9

SILAS

F rederick shot Silas a look of distaste as they approached the door to Lord Woodrow’s party. “Makes you look like a dashed frog,” he said under his breath.

Smiling at his brother’s disgust, Silas smoothed the beginnings of his mustache. “A very handsome frog, though, you must own.”

“I must do nothing of the sort.” Frederick handed off his hat to a servant. “It is not even a proper mustache. It looks like you fell asleep with your upper lip on the fire grate.”

“Jealousy does not become you, Freddie. Just because you cannot grow hair on that cherubic face”—he gave his brother’s cheek a quick squeeze—“does not mean you should resent the fact that I can .” In truth, Silas had always hated how quickly his hair grew, but just now, it served his needs well.

“Besides,” he said, “I owe this beautiful addition to you .”

Frederick scoffed. “To me?”

“I—very uncharacteristically—lost a wager to you.”

Frederick snorted. “I would surrender half my savings to you on purpose before allowing you to lose if that”—he pointed to Silas’s upper lip—“was the stake.”

Silas chuckled. Privately, he agreed that the mustache looked foolish. But for all his assurances to Frederick that there was no danger in his attending this party, he felt a shiver of apprehension as they stepped farther into the townhouse. His face was not known in London, and he had it on the authority of all three of his brothers and Aunt Eugenia that his time in France had altered his appearance significantly. And yet, there was still the chance he might happen upon someone he knew, be it ever so slight.

It was that negligible possibility that had decided him upon allowing the mustache to grow. This was in addition to the other things he had been doing to alter his appearance: wearing his whiskers longer, styling his hair differently than had been his custom, and choosing more subdued colors rather than the more vibrant ones he had favored in the past.

The mustache was bound to draw a bit of attention, but losing a wager was an easy enough explanation for the oddity. There was the added possibility that Miss Easton would be repulsed by him because of it, and even though he hated the thought, there was no doubt it would be for the best.

They reached the door to the ballroom, and Silas’s eyes searched the crowds and the set of dancers under the chandeliers. They dwelled on each young woman with honey-colored hair, but none of them was Miss Easton.

He forced his focus instead to the men, looking for Sir Walter Bence, though he had only a vague description of him from Frederick.

With the man’s help, Silas trusted that someday soon, he might walk into a party like this one without the fear of being recognized.

And without a mustache.

“You will tell me if you see Bence?” Silas asked Frederick.

Frederick gave a nod, looking over the dozens of people in attendance. Unlike Silas, Frederick was well-known in Town and very well-acquainted. He had made it his business to be. If he intended to be elected to the Commons, those connections would be crucial, for he would need the support of the influential within whatever borough he sought election.

Silas felt a pang on his brother’s behalf. Frederick’s situation was made harder by the fact that his brother had been accused of murder by a man with as much clout as Drayton. It was essential for him to avoid more scandal, but for Silas to achieve justice meant courting precisely that.

It was not an easy position to be in—for either of them.

“There,” Frederick said suddenly. “Seated in the corner, speaking with Mrs. Quinnell.”

Silas’s heart raced as he searched for and found Sir Walter Bence. He was in his fifties, with a head of wiry gray hair and a well-tailored suit. His right hand clasped the top of a cane.

“You will introduce me?” Silas asked, not letting Bence leave his sight. The silence lasted long enough that he glanced over at Frederick.

Frederick gave a nod, though his brow was furrowed. “Come. Mrs. Quinnell just stood.”

She had indeed risen from the seat beside Bence, taking the arm of another gentleman and leaving Bence alone.

Silas followed Frederick through the crowds, a mixture of nerves and anticipation swirling in his stomach as they drew closer. Frederick had maintained that Bence was both amiable and reasonable. Silas was counting upon it. At some point, if he wished to obtain the information he needed, he would have to take Bence into his confidence. That was a terrifying thought, for no one in England, save his own family, knew he had returned from France.

Without information from Bence, however, he would be back at square one. He needed evidence to prove Drayton was the one who had killed Langdon.

“Sir Walter,” Frederick said, executing a quick bow. “I am pleased to see you here.”

Bence smiled and used his cane to help him stand. “The pleasure is mine, Yorke.” He gave a shallow bow, and his gaze flicked to Silas.

“May I introduce you to my friend?” Frederick said. “This is John Hayes. He hails from Devon and is in Town on his father’s business.”

Silas bowed, hoping his mustache would not put the man off.

“Hayes,” Bence repeated, narrowing his eyes in thought. “Where in Devon?”

“Near Exeter, sir,” Silas replied, rehearsing the story he had invented for himself with William’s help. “Do you know it?”

“Not well, but I have a cousin in Plymouth.”

“Ah,” Silas said. “On the precipice of civilization, before the wilds of Cornwall.”

Bence laughed loudly. “Precisely what I have told him, but he insists upon remaining there.”

“If you will excuse me a moment,” Frederick said, his focus across the room, “I am being hailed by Walden.”

Silas and Bence nodded, and Frederick locked eyes with his brother for a moment with a clear message: be careful .

“May I fetch you a drink, Sir Walter?” Silas asked once Frederick had left.

“Certainly,” Bence said, looking pleasantly surprised at the polite gesture. “Some claret, if you would.”

Silas fetched them both glasses, his eyes wandering for any sign of Miss Easton as he returned to take the seat on Bence’s left. Still, she was nowhere in sight.

“Business brings you here, then?” Bence took his glass and raised it to his mouth.

“My father is looking for a new investment or two. I have come to find, however, that the difficulty in London is not finding investment opportunities but knowing which ones to pursue.”

Bence chuckled softly. “Very true indeed.”

“Do you invest, sir?”

“I do. It seems the only way to keep one’s fortune intact these days, though a bad investment can do precisely the opposite.”

“Quite so. My father is wary after an unfortunate experience, so he put me on my guard. According to him, London is full of men who can talk circles around the unsuspecting.”

“A sad but true fact. Unfortunately, not even one’s friends are always reliable in these matters. When a great deal of money is at stake, so, often, is the conduct one expects of a gentleman.”

Silas regarded Bence through the corner of his eye. There was a pinched look to his lips that suggested his thoughts were not happy ones.

“I could not agree more,” Silas said. His own predicament was a perfect demonstration of the truth Bence had expressed. Drayton’s love of money had led him to abandon both his conscience and his word as a gentleman. The result had been not just loss of money but the death of Silas’s friend and the destruction of Silas’s reputation.

Drayton, on the other hand, was flourishing.

Bence smiled at a man nearby who seemed to be debating whether to come speak with Bence or leave him to Silas.

“I do not wish to keep you from friends, sir,” Silas said, “but I would be interested in continuing this conversation if it suits you. I could use a bit of guidance, if I am being frank, and it sounds as though we may be of similar minds on the topic of investment.”

Bence looked at him, an evaluative gleam in his eye, then nodded. “Dinner this week, perhaps?”

“With pleasure, sir.” Silas conveyed his direction to Bence, then bowed and left him to the gentleman who was politely waiting for them to finish.

A sense of accomplishment and victory grew in Silas’s chest as he walked away. There was no way of knowing for certain, but he was fairly confident that Bence’s comments had been a reference to Drayton. Just as importantly, it seemed Bence had been genuinely taken in by Drayton, just as Silas had, though ostensibly with far less damaging results.

This boded well for Silas, for only a man with a strong conscience and sense of justice would be willing to help someone as unknown as Silas when Drayton was the target.

“Mr. Hayes!”

Silas turned and found Mrs. Fairchild, Miss Fairchild, and Miss Easton standing a few feet away. Miss Fairchild was the one who had said his name, but it was Miss Easton who drew his gaze.

She wore a dress of the most vibrant aquamarine taffeta, which glimmered alluringly in the candlelight. Small white rosettes lined the scalloped sleeves and squared neckline. Her soft honey curls were gathered at the crown of her head, and a golden comb with a few stones to match her dress glittered prettily at the base.

Silas tore his eyes from her and bowed to the three women. There was no sign of Mr. Easton. “I was beginning to think you would not come.”

“My daughter would never have forgiven me,” Mrs. Fairchild said, her eyes fixing on his mustache for a moment.

“Nor I,” Silas replied with a teasing smile.

Miss Fairchild was looking at the new mustache warily.

Silas smiled but said nothing. “Shall I fetch refreshment for you all?”

“Thank you, but not just yet,” Miss Fairchild said. “I would far rather dance, and I promised Mr. Drake I would do so as soon as we arrived. Look! Here he comes now.”

Sure enough, Drake strolled toward them with his characteristic confidence. He greeted them all, then turned to Miss Fairchild. “I have come to claim the dance I was promised—if your mother agrees, of course.” His gaze moved to Mrs. Fairchild.

She looked for a moment as though she might refuse. “Oh, very well. But just the one set.”

“Of course,” her daughter replied dutifully. “And Mr. Hayes and Bella may join us.”

Silas opened his mouth to excuse himself, but Miss Easton was watching him with so much earnest but doubtful hope there that he bit back the words. “Gladly, if she will have me.” He put out his hand.

Miss Easton looked to her aunt.

“Oh, go on, then, child,” Mrs. Fairchild said with an indulgent wave of her hand.

Miss Easton placed her gloved hand in Silas’s, her smile so radiant it could warm him as easily as the sun.

They took their places in the set, their eyes locking across the dance floor as the music began and they waited their turn to perform the figures.

It was perhaps fortunate that he had not seen her when he had first arrived, for whose thoughts could dwell on Sir Walter Bence when Miss Easton was in the room?

They approached one another, meeting in the middle of the dance floor. Their palms touched, and they rotated around one another, the scent of oranges enveloping Silas.

“May I trust you with a secret, Mr. Hayes?” Miss Easton asked.

“Without hesitation,” Silas replied with a spark of curiosity.

She gave him an amused look, but before she could respond, they were obliged to separate again. The distance made him feel restless and impatient while they waited as the couples farther down the set completed the figures. Silas had never felt so out of patience with a group of perfectly pleasant and respectable strangers. They seemed to move with maddening sloth.

When they met for the next figure, he waited for Miss Easton to divulge the secret.

She did not.

“You hesitate,” he said.

She smiled. “I am gauging your trustworthiness.”

“Come now! I thought we had settled that matter at Vauxhall. What is tipping the scales against me tonight?”

She regarded him thoughtfully for a moment before responding. “Shall I be frank?”

“Always.”

Her eyes danced. “It is your mustache.”

A laugh burst from him. “I think it gives me a distinguished look.”

She looked far from convinced of that fact but was too polite to say so.

“If it is simply too great a stumbling block, I have a proposal for you,” he said. “I will tell you a secret. Perhaps then you will feel comfortable reciprocating.”

She considered this, then nodded, but the dance took them apart. When they came together again, he allowed the silence to stretch as they danced.

“Well?” she finally prompted.

“Well what?”

She shot him a look that was meant to seem unamused but was unsuccessful, for her eyes twinkled, making his stomach swoop.

“Ah, the secret.” He leaned in closer, then whispered, “I, too, hate the mustache.”

She drew back, her eyes narrowed curiously. “Then why wear it?”

“For attention.”

She laughed, and the sound seemed to filter through his entire body and make him feel light.

“Would you care for another secret?” he asked as they separated to opposite sides again.

She nodded from her place.

He stretched out his right arm and used the hand of his left to adjust his cuff, revealing the bracelet just long enough for her to catch sight of it.

“Mustaches and bracelets,” she said when they met again. “I have always prided myself on being adventurous in my fashion choices, Mr. Hayes, but you make my attempts seem very dull indeed.”

“You could never seem dull,” he said.

He instantly regretted the comment. He was meant to be keeping his distance, not betraying his admiration for her.

“Besides,” he hurried to say, “I do not think a mustache would suit you. I am not convinced a mustache suits anyone .”

“I am inclined to agree, but”—she tilted her head to the side as she regarded him—“you manage it quite well.”

He smoothed the mustache dramatically, but inside, the pleasure of the compliment filled him. “What say you? Have I earned a reciprocal secret?”

She considered this, her eyes sparkling as he waited and they danced. “I suppose so.” She hesitated for a moment, however, before offering it. “This is my first proper dance.”

Silas’s brows went up. “I see. And have there been many im proper ones?”

She laughed, dropping her gaze with a hint of pink on her cheeks. “That is not at all what I meant, Mr. Hayes.”

“I know, but I find it impossible not to tease you just a bit.”

“I do not believe you have stopped teasing me since we met.”

He regarded her curiously. “Do you dislike it?”

“I suppose that depends why you do it.”

He blinked. It was a valid question. Why did he tease her? He might say he teased everyone, for that was true…to an extent. But it was different with Miss Easton. He knew that.

Did she ?

“If you had to guess?” he asked, taking the coward’s way out by deflecting the question.

She took a moment to respond. “I have wondered if you perhaps find me na?ve—an easy target.”

His brows snapped together. “Not at all. I enjoy your smile, Miss Easton. That is the truth of it.”

The dance took them to opposite sides of the set again, and the music faded to a close as she watched him as though trying to ascertain whether he spoke the truth.

He kept his gaze steady, determined she know he was not trying to poke fun at her—and wishing for a future where he could well and truly court someone like Miss Easton.

When he had come to Town under an assumed name, he had been so focused on seeking justice for himself and Langdon that he had not thought of all the people he might come to consider friends—or how he would manage things once he shed John Hayes for Silas Yorke.

“Perhaps we should go in search of Papa,” Miss Easton said. “He had a dinner to attend before this, but I imagine he has arrived by now. Or would you prefer to remain for the second dance of the set?”

“No, that is quite all right with me.” One dance with her had been enough to make it clear he was not capable of maintaining a polite distance. A second might have more dire consequences.

She took his arm, and they walked away from the ballroom floor.

“Oh,” she said suddenly, “I meant to tell you—I took your advice.”

“Very wise of you. And, uh…what advice did I offer?”

She glanced up at him with that twinkle he so loved. “I asked Papa if I could design the display window.”

Silas’s brows went up. “And what came of it?”

“He agreed to it—provided, of course, that I prove myself worthy of such an opportunity.”

“And how does one prove one’s worthiness for such a task?”

“By acquitting myself well in Society…”

“There is no doubt at all on that score.”

“And avoiding scandal.”

Silas’s smile flickered slightly. If there was a human personification of scandal, it would be indistinguishable from him—including the mustache.

He was saved the necessity of responding as they reached Mrs. Fairchild, who was conversing jovially with another woman.

“Will you not dance the second of the set?” she asked when they reached her.

“I promised Mr. Hayes I would introduce him to Papa,” Miss Easton replied. “Have you seen my father?”

Mrs. Fairchild shook her head. “Not yet, my dear, though I did see Mr. Lyle, and was that not the man with whom he had an engagement this evening?”

“Yes,” Miss Easton replied, going on her toes to search the room.

“Mr. Hayes,” Mrs. Fairchild said with a smile, “could I trouble you to fetch me a glass of ratafia? I find my ankle is still a bit unstable, and with all these people, it would be very like me to trip and injure it further.”

“With the greatest pleasure. May I fetch something for you, ma’am?” he asked the woman beside Mrs. Fairchild.

“Just a little punch, perhaps,” she said. Her rosy cheeks bore evidence that it would not be her first glass.

“And for you, Miss Easton?”

“Ratafia, please,” she said with a grateful smile.

He gave a nod and went off to procure the promised refreshments. It would be a miracle if he managed to return with three glasses without spilling anything, for the crowds had grown thick.

The table that housed the drinks was surrounded by people with the same idea as Silas, and he was obliged to wait his turn.

He took the opportunity to look around for Frederick, but Frederick was not one for dancing. He would be in the card room, rubbing shoulders with MPs and discussing the latest bills. Fairchild would be with him, undoubtedly.

Mr. Drake and Miss Fairchild had remained for the second dance of the set and were conversing and smiling as they completed a figure.

The gentleman behind whom Silas waited gathered up the two drinks he had poured from the punch bowl and left, making way for Silas.

Silas could not move, however. He was frozen in place, his gaze fixed, his heart stopped as he watched a familiar face move through the crowd.

Lord Drayton had not aged a day since Silas had last seen him two years ago. His clothes were impeccably tailored, his hair gray but still full, his gait confident as people moved aside for him.

He came to a stop in front of Miss Easton and, smiling widely, put his arm around her then leaned down and pressed a light kiss atop her head.

She returned a smile, then went on her toes to kiss him on the cheek.

“Sir?” Someone tapped Silas’s shoulder.

He stepped away from the table absently, allowing the gentleman to take his place in the queue. His mind was still trying to grasp what he was witnessing.

There was no mistaking it, though. A dozen bits and pieces of conversation from the past week began to fall into place, confirming the impossible: Lord Drayton had returned to Town, and he was Miss Easton’s father.