Chapter 1
ONE
SILAS
In retrospect, moving directly to one of London’s most bustling areas after being hidden away in the countryside for nearly a year might not have been the most prudent course of action.
But when had Silas Yorke ever been accused of prudence?
He stared through the window of the sitting room in St. James’s, watching the constant flow of traffic with anticipation that made his skin tingle.
He had only ever spent a few days in London, but this time, he would remain until his name was cleared.
And cleared it would be. Of that he was determined.
A hand grabbed Silas’s shoulder and squeezed it. “Electrifying, is it not?”
Silas glanced at his brother Frederick, who was staring through the window with a large smile.
“It is,” Silas agreed, his eyes returning to the scene. It might have been silly to be amazed by all the people and chaos, but amazed he was.
Frederick watched with him in silence for a moment. “Are you busy concocting a plan?”
Silas chuckled. “Have you ever known me to have such a thing?”
“No, I suppose not. But the stakes being what they are, I thought you might make an exception.”
Silas turned toward his brother. “Is he in Town?” There was no need to clarify to whom he referred. There could only be one person.
Frederick shook his head. “Not expected for some time, either, based on what I heard from Lord Banister. Evidently, Drayton has important business interests to see to up north.”
Silas gave a little scoff and turned back to the window. “As opposed to his entirely unimportant duties in the House of Lords. Not that I am complaining. It will be much easier for me to make headway without him in London. He is the one person who would recognize me.”
“You truly think no one else will?” Frederick regarded him with a hint of skepticism.
Silas smiled. “I truly think that. Unlike you, I have not spent every waking moment of my life attempting to be noticed by the entirety of Parliament. If I am discovered, I rather think it will be you”—Silas poked him in the chest—“who is responsible.”
Frederick scoffed. “Me?”
“You.”
“You think I shall forget to refer to you as Hayes?”
“I think you have spent a lifetime calling me something other than that—”
“It has been years since I called you idiot.”
“And…”—Silas ignored this little quip—“you are likely to slip up, particularly when you have had too much to drink.”
Frederick adjusted the sleeves of his tailcoat. “I always have just the right amount to drink.”
“No doubt,” Silas said with a hint of amusement.
It was pure good fortune that the two of them did not resemble one another. Frederick’s hair was lighter, his face more square. He favored their mother.
Silas, on the other hand, not only favored their father but had spent a miserable year hiding in France to evade being hanged for a murder he had not committed. It had aged him, making his face even more angular and narrow. This only served to heighten the difference between the brothers.
Just now, Silas wore his hair longer than was fashionable, and he had taken to parting it on the opposite side.
These were small details, certainly, but they mattered.
It was possible he might stumble upon an acquaintance from Oxford somewhere in London, but he would choose his public appearances wisely.
“There you are, Yorke,” said a voice from behind them.
Instinct had Silas turning in response, but he reminded himself he was not Silas Yorke here. He was John Hayes from Devonshire, in Town on his father’s business.
He and Frederick turned toward the two men entering the sitting room: Benedict Fairchild and Sebastian Drake.
They were the other bachelors staying in the townhouse, which was owned by Fairchild’s father.
Silas had only met them yesterday upon his arrival in Town.
His oldest brother William and William’s wife, Clara, had brought him before making their way to their own townhouse—but not without attempting to convince Silas to stay with them instead.
Silas knew, however, that William would not approve of some of the things he would choose to do in the quest to clear his name. Frederick, on the other hand, was younger than Silas and had always looked up to him. He was much less likely to try to reason with Silas.
Silas needed the freedom to go about things in his own way, and living with a group of unmarried men was much more conducive to that than living with a duke who already mistrusted Silas’s decision-making.
“Are you coming tonight?” Fairchild was blond and built along stockier lines than the other three. Like Frederick, he hoped to pave his way in the world through politics.
“Coming?” Frederick repeated. “To what?”
“The masquerade,” Drake said, using a piece of post to cover his eyes for a moment. Drake was the most handsome of the four of them, with dark brown hair, a sharp jaw, a charming smile, and eyes full of wit and amusement.
“At Vauxhall?” Frederick asked, his face screwing up a bit.
Fairchild nodded. “My aunt has arrived in Town and all but begged me to accompany her and my cousin—and some other chit as well, apparently.”
Drake’s head turned toward him, eyes alight with curiosity as he set the piece of post down. “You failed to mention that detail. Pray, who is this cousin of whom you speak?”
Fairchild shot him a look of impatience. “Stay away, Drake.”
Drake took this in good spirits. “Fair enough. And the chit?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea. But you can stay away from her too.”
“Spoil sport,” Drake said without rancor.
Fairchild returned his gaze to Frederick. “Do you mean to come, then?”
Frederick considered the offer, hesitating far longer than Silas could comprehend. “Will anyone of note be there?”
“Undoubtedly,” Fairchild responded. “I heard it being discussed at White’s last night.”
Frederick’s interest grew more visible, and Silas suppressed a smile. His brother regarded every social event as an opportunity to expand his connections. His goal was to obtain a seat in the House of Commons, and it was one he took seriously.
“Very well,” Frederick said.
“Capital!” Drake replied. “What of you, Hayes?”
Frederick’s head turned, and Silas could feel his eyes boring into him.
“I wouldn’t dream of missing it,” Silas said, ignoring the pointed look. “One of you wouldn’t happen to have a spare domino and mask, would you?”
“I saw one in a trunk upstairs.” Fairchild’s brow furrowed in an effort to remember. “I believe it was in the Blue Room if you wish to go see.”
“Thank you. I shall do so immediately,” Silas said, making his way for the door.
Frederick followed, just as Silas had suspected he would.
It wasn’t until they were halfway up the stairs that his brother spoke, though. “Are you certain this is wise?”
“It is a masquerade, Frederick,” Silas said. “There is no place I could go where my identity could be safer.”
Frederick gave a non-committal grunt.
“You are beginning to sound like William, you know.”
Frederick’s brows snapped together. “I am not.”
William was the eldest and most proper amongst them—and a duke to boot. Although his decision to marry a maid had put a considerable chip in the pedestal he sat upon.
Silas stopped to face Frederick as they reached the Blue Room. “Freddie, tell me something: do you mean to be forever attempting to convince me to stay within the walls of this townhouse?”
Frederick regarded him for a moment. “No.”
Silas smiled and squeezed his brother’s shoulder. “Good. We shall get on famously, then.” He went into the room and straight to the trunk at the foot of the bed. It took only a few moments until he found the domino in question.
He chuckled softly as he pulled the heavy cloak from the trunk.
Standing nearby, Frederick’s mouth turned down in disgust. “You cannot truly mean to wear that thing.”
Silas held it out in front of him, admiring the old-fashioned garment with a smile.
It was made of black brocade with gold threaded detailing.
The hood was almost comically large, not to mention the ornate trim—gold, of course.
It would have been the height of fashion forty years ago. “I have every intention of wearing it.”
Frederick stared at Silas, a hint of resignation in his eyes. “You mean to make a fool of me this Season, don’t you?”
Silas draped the domino on the bed and began searching for a mask to go along with it. “It is not my primary goal.” He grasped a glittery black mask with satin strings hanging at each side and held it up in victory. “But I can make no promises.”
Frederick sighed.
A cacophony of sound filled the night air as their carriage slowed on the street near Vauxhall, taking its place in the line of equipages. There was music from within the gardens, carriage wheels on cobblestone, the chatter of masqueraders, coachmen yelling, and the clopping of horse hooves.
Silas had never felt so invigorated.
He had rarely heard such magnificent sounds nor seen so many people in one place.
For so long, he’d had only his own mind to keep him company, with staggered visits from William and Clara.
The majority of the time, he had been entirely alone, with only the odd mouse to talk to. They had generally not cared to listen.
The prospect of rubbing shoulders with so many other people and without having to worry he might be recognized? It was a gulp of cool, fresh water after wandering in the wilderness for months. It was freedom—or as near to it as he had come since his escape to France.
The four gentlemen descended from the carriage and walked to the entrance of Vauxhall to pay their fee.
“I will repay you,” Silas said in an undervoice.
Frederick put away his coin purse. “You can repay me by shedding that hideous domino.”
“Never,” Silas replied genially, his eyes already exploring the area ahead. He had heard of Vauxhall, of course, but he had never attended an event there.