Chapter 9
NINE
SILAS
Frederick 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.”