Chapter 34
Some error in the ledgers. Some misunderstanding in the accounts. Some arrangement so tangled that only men of business could make sense of it. Nora yearned for something—anything—that might set her world back in its proper order and make Papa the man she had believed him to be.
There was nothing she wanted more.
Swindlers were grasping, selfish creatures. They hid their gains, spent them in secret, ruined others for the sake of their own comfort. They did not give heaping portions of their ill-gotten gains to charity. It was nonsensical, and Papa was a philanthropist of the highest order.
Perhaps he was playing a modern-day Robin Hood? That did not excuse the behavior, but surely, that proved her father wasn’t a monster, simply lying and cheating for his own benefit—
And it was at that moment that Nora understood what her honesty had done.
Mr. Hatcher was a good man. A practical man.
The sort to address questions directly. To go straight to Papa in search of answers.
The possibility struck with sickening force, making the music and laughter around them suddenly too bright, too loud, too close, as Nora realized that one honest question, asked of the wrong man, could ruin him.
Reaching for his arm, Nora’s hand closed around his sleeve, gripping him tight. “You must not speak to Papa about this. Please, Mr. Hatcher. Promise me.”
“Of course. I would never betray your confidence.”
The promise loosened the binds tightening around her, though Nora still struggled to fill her lungs. Releasing her grip on his sleeve, she smoothed the wrinkled fabric.
“Dance with me?” he asked, nodding toward the swirling couples.
Though Nora wouldn’t say that Mr. Jonathan Hatcher was an expressive sort, apt to display his emotions for all to see, the more time she spent in his company, the more she recognized the subtle signs, which were obvious to anyone who wished to see.
His dark eyes brightened with the invitation, as eager for her to accept as Nora was to be swept into another realm far from the troubles that stole away her sleep.
“Yes,” she said, and though the word emerged softer than she intended, Mr. Hatcher’s lips pulled into the faintest of smiles as he offered his arm.
The music gathered around them as they joined the moving couples, stepping into the swirl of polished steps, cheery music, and swishing skirts.
Then Mr. Hatcher’s hand settled at her waist, properly placed and perfectly respectable, yet steady enough that Nora felt it through every strained nerve in her body.
Mr. Hatcher guided her through the dance with such careful attention that she sank into the rhythm despite everything. His hold remained certain without being restrictive, his steps firm enough that she need only follow, and the simple relief of being carried along nearly undid her.
“We shall sort this out,” he said quietly when the turn brought them near enough for the words to be hidden beneath the music. “Not tonight. Not here. But we shall. You have my word.”
Nora’s fingers tightened lightly against his shoulder, and leaning a fraction nearer, she reveled in the feel of him.
For one brief, trembling moment, she let herself hold onto hope.
The steady pressure of Mr. Hatcher’s hand at her back, the quiet certainty in his movements, the way he watched her with such confidence, it sank into her bones like that first drink of tea after returning home from a winter’s walk; the warmth spread and left her feeling spent.
And she yearned to rest her head on his shoulder and remain there for the rest of time—
Nora stiffened, and Mr. Hatcher’s brows rose at the shift, silently asking what was amiss, and she forced a reassuring smile (small though it may be) onto her lips.
Had she learned nothing? The question curled its sharp fingers around her chest, squeezing her until she couldn’t breathe.
Two failed engagements. Mr. Lyndon may not have been a fortune hunter, but he still had abandoned her without a backward glance, and who knew what the truth was regarding Mr. Eddington’s failed suit, for she couldn’t trust her father’s word on anything anymore.
For goodness’ sake, even Mr. Hatcher had approached her under false pretenses.
Yet still she clung to a gentleman, desperately believing that this time matters would end differently.
How many times must her poor judgment be proven before Nora Eden learned not to trust in men?
How could she believe her assessment of any man’s character when she was so often wrong?
And in that moment, the room itself conspired to reinforce the lesson her heart refused to learn, allowing Nora a clear view of her father standing amongst his supplicants and acolytes.
One laughed heartily at something he said.
Another leaned nearer, smiling with the air of a man honored merely to be included.
Everywhere she looked, she saw the same easy trust reflected back at him—in attentive faces, ready smiles, and hands extended without hesitation.
Nora had once looked at him that way.
The realization hollowed her out all over again.
If she could be wrong about Papa, if she could sit at his table for thirty years and never see what lay beneath the surface until the evidence was forced into her hands, then how could she trust her instincts at all?
The music swept onward around them, bright and lively and utterly indifferent to the awful spiraling of her thoughts.
Papa laughed, one hand resting easily upon another gentleman’s shoulder.
Was that another potential client? Or one he had already lied to?
How many in this room believed their futures were secure because Eden & Co.
reported that their investments were all thriving?
How many families would discover too late that those documents were naught but paper and ink?
So many futures rested in Papa’s hands whilst they toasted his generosity and praised his wisdom.
If the report meant what Nora believed it did, then the ruin waiting beneath all this polished elegance stretched far beyond the Eden family alone.
It would spread outward through drawing rooms and businesses and nurseries alike.
The thought sent a tremor through her so sharp that she missed a step. Mr. Hatcher steadied her, his hand tightening instinctively at her back, but that small kindness deepened the awful pressure building inside her.
Remain silent and allow others to suffer? Or speak and destroy everyone she loved? Must she sacrifice her family on the altar of honesty? Music and smiling faces enveloped them, and Papa’s warm laugh carried across the ballroom whilst those questions twisted tighter and tighter around Nora’s heart.
But no answer came.
*
The whole thing seemed impossible. Such deceptions belonged in penny dreadfuls and scandal sheets, not glittering ballrooms where respectable people praised the man’s generosity and powerful people vied for his attention.
There must be some missing piece to bridge the gap between Miss Eden’s accusations and the truth.
“Popularity is not proof of character.”
Father’s warning rose to mind, threading through the cracks Miss Eden’s fears had opened. The words had seemed overly suspicious in Jonathan’s office, but beneath the glow of chandeliers and surrounded by gentlemen desperate for Mr. Eden’s approval, he could not dismiss them so easily.
Then Miss Eden’s hand shifted upon his shoulder, and that silent argument faltered.
Every turn drew her nearer, and Jonathan became acutely aware that he was adjusting the dance almost unconsciously to prolong those moments when she was tucked so close against him.
Or how lovely her eyes looked beneath the glow of the lamplight.
With her so near, only a fool would be thinking of her father. Or his.
Warmth spread steadily through Jonathan, and her skirts brushed softly against his legs as they moved, the sweet scent of her perfume surrounding him, and he found himself absurdly aware of the feel of her back beneath his hand—
“You two make a handsome couple,” said a lady as her partner drew up beside them.
Jonathan wasn’t certain he had heard them correctly, but the flush in Miss Eden’s cheeks testified that he had. However, he didn’t know how to respond.
“We are friends, Mrs. Bouchard. Nothing more,” said Miss Eden, and Jonathan forced himself not to frown at the very swift and firm denial.
Mrs. Bouchard straightened, her gaze darting between Jonathan and his partner. “But you have been courting for some weeks—”
But her partner covered that with a cough before steering her away, though Miss Eden tried to call after Mrs. Bouchard to explain. Casting her eyes to Jonathan, Miss Eden winced.
“I apologize,” she whispered. “There are far too many in Town who leap to conclusions. They cannot fathom that a lady and a gentleman can merely enjoy one another’s company without wishing to exchange wedding vows.”
A dull heaviness settled low in his chest whilst they continued to turn about the ballroom, and Jonathan found himself absurdly bothered.
“Nothing more.” The words echoed sharply in his thoughts despite every effort to dismiss them. Of course Miss Eden had corrected the assumption. What else ought she to have done? No understanding existed between them.
Yet Jonathan yearned to draw her closer.
Not simply because she looked lovely beneath the chandeliers with her cheeks faintly flushed from the dance and her dark eyes lifting to his whenever the polka brought them together.
It was the ease of her company. The sharpness of her mind.
The way she unsettled him and steadied him in equal measure.
Somewhere along the way, Miss Eden had ceased to be an advantageous acquaintance or merely a cherished friend. Her happiness mattered greatly to him.
The final notes of the song faded, and the dancers around them dissolved into the surrounding crowd. Jonathan offered Miss Eden his arm to escort her from the floor, acutely aware that the comfort that had eased into their relationship over the past weeks had vanished, leaving behind a void.
And that wouldn’t do.
“I need some air,” Miss Eden admitted softly once they ventured past the thickest part of the crush.
“Of course,” said Jonathan, grateful for an excuse to leave, and he guided her through the adjoining drawing room to a set of tall glass doors, which stood partly open.
Cool evening air drifted inward between the curtains, carrying with it the faint scent of damp stone and blooming flowers that cut pleasantly through the heavy warmth of people and gaslight inside the house.
Yet even as they walked, Jonathan found himself returning again and again to the same miserable phrase. “Nothing more.” And each repetition only made the denial inside him grow stronger.
Was friendship sufficient? Not when her smile could alter the course of his entire evening. Not when her distress unsettled him more than the possible collapse of his business. Not when the mere thought of another gentleman at her side made his ribs constrict around his heart like a fist.
Dash it all. A charity ball in which Jonathan had few connections and no interest was the last place he would normally wish to be. Yet knowing she’d be there had drawn him from his parlor and forced him into decidedly uncomfortable evening clothes.
Jonathan did not merely admire Nora Eden. Did not merely enjoy her company or feel protective of her happiness. Somewhere amidst conversations and opera boxes and quiet walks, affection had rooted itself so deeply inside him that the idea of losing her felt unbearable.
The realization arrived not with thunderous certainty but with the quiet, devastating inevitability of something that had been true for far longer than he wished to admit.
And standing beside her whilst the cool night air stirred the dark curls near her temple, Jonathan found himself unable to imagine why any man would willingly accept anything less than a lifetime at her side.
Jonathan was hardly immune to beauty, nor had he spent his life wandering about untouched by desire—a few brief flirtations encouraged by hopeful acquaintances, even a courtship or two that had survived just long enough to make it clear how ill-equipped he was for the enterprise.
Business was straightforward. Predictable.
Buildings and contracts made sense in ways people did not, and somewhere over the years Jonathan had gradually accepted that marriage was not meant for him.
Yet standing beside Miss Eden now, the whole notion seemed absurd. The care he felt for her had spread quietly through him until it touched every part of his life, altering his days so gradually that he’d failed to notice the transformation until this very moment.
And now that he finally recognized it, Jonathan wasn’t capable of feigning mere friendship.
“I love you, Miss Eden.”