Chapter 11
ELEVEN
SILAS
The first sign Miss Easton was drawing near was the way Silas’s body tensed and his breath came less easily. He braced himself for her to pass behind him.
She did not.
She came up beside him, a choice marked by his heart beating twice its normal speed.
What was she doing? Why had she come to him like this when he had behaved so abominably toward her?
And since he was asking questions, why did she insist on looking so very beautiful all the time?
He should leave. It would be the wise choice.
He should have left when he saw her here, and he nearly had.
He had gone back and forth again and again on whether to come in the first place once Fairchild had mentioned that Drayton was in Dover.
Fairchild had not said “Lord Drayton,” though.
He had simply called him “Miss Easton’s father.
” If someone had even once mentioned Drayton by name when referring to him, this entire situation might have been avoided.
What dark and twisted sense of humor must fate have to see to it that, of all women in England, Silas was drawn to the daughter of his only enemy? The man intent on seeing him put to death?
“An interesting piece,” Miss Easton said.
“Is it? I admit, I am struggling to determine whether the object in the corner is a cat or a dog.”
There was a pause, and Miss Easton leaned forward for a closer view. “It is a tree.”
Silas frowned. “Surely not.”
She moved aside. “See for yourself.”
Silas stepped forward and squinted, then tilted his head. “No, I am certain it is a cat. Or a dog. Or a very well-fed squirrel.”
Miss Easton laughed, and the musical sound resonated in Silas’s chest.
She did not hate him so much as he had feared, perhaps.
“Here,” he said, taking a piece of parchment and the quill in the nearby inkstand. “I shall submit a bid on your behalf. Name your price.”
“Mr. Hayes,” she hissed. “I forbid you to do such a thing!” She put a hand on his to stop him.
She could not, however, stop his smile.
“Only think how much you will enjoy having this painting sit in your drawing room, where you can force your guests to debate the true identity of the dog-cat-squirrel-tree.”
“It is a fox,” said a voice nearby.
Silas and Miss Easton both turned toward it and found themselves facing a tall and lean gentleman in his middle age, wearing a somber expression.
Silas turned back to the painting to inspect the alleged fox. “How can you be certain?”
“Because I painted it.” With a tight-lipped expression, the man stalked away.
Eyes wide, Silas looked at Miss Easton, who clenched her teeth. “Oh dear.”
“Not a deer,” Silas said. “A fox.”
Miss Easton stifled a laugh behind her hand, attempting a reproachful look—and entirely failing at it.
“Perhaps we should move on to another painting,” Silas suggested.
She looked at him for a moment, her smile weakening.
His breath suspended, for he was certain she was going to refuse.
She nodded, however, and with a suppressed sigh of relief, Silas led the way to the next painting. The painting itself was quite small, and the enormous ornate gold frame overshadowed it.
“A penny for your thoughts?” Silas said.
Miss Easton glanced cautiously over both shoulders before responding. “I think,” she said carefully, “that the artist was right to put the focus on the frame.”
Silas grinned. “My thoughts precisely.”
She looked at him, and her smile dimmed again. “Are we simply going to pretend that nothing happened?”
His stomach tightened, and he shook his head.
Her gaze searched his. “Why did you leave? Again?”
Silas struggled for words. The full and unvarnished truth was the only thing that could truly rob his choice to leave the ball of offense, but he could not provide her with it. “I would that I could give you the full explanation. I assure you there is one. But I cannot.”
“Why not?”
He lifted his shoulders helplessly. “Miss Easton, there are things in my life that I cannot divulge to anyone, much as I may wish to. Things that could put me and those around me in danger.”
Her brow furrowed. “Danger.”
He nodded.
She looked at him intently. “Am I in danger?” The words held no fear, merely curiosity.
He shook his head. Seeing Drayton act with such paternal affection toward her had been too strange for him to explain.
That this man, who had so ruthlessly killed Langdon to cover up his greed and dishonesty and then blamed Silas for it all…
that he could kiss his daughter’s head and smile down at her in such a loving way had been troubling Silas ever since witnessing it.
Did she have any idea of what her father was capable?
“You are not in danger from me, Miss Easton,” Silas reassured her. “I would never allow that.”
Her forehead remained puzzled, but she said nothing for a moment. “Felicity will be disappointed in me for speaking with you.”
“She will?”
“Yes.” She smiled ruefully. “I had very specific instructions from her.”
“To toss a glass of champagne in my face?”
Miss Easton laughed softly. “Nothing like that. I imagine she would say that would be incontrovertible evidence of how much your disappearance the other night had affected me. And I am not to betray that under any circumstances.” Color crept up her neck, but she maintained eye contact with him.
He grimaced, his heart sinking. “I am truly, truly sorry, Miss Easton. I had no intention of hurting you. Please believe that I would not have left without good reason.”
“Without a goodbye, even? I had thought we were friends.”
“We are,” he said. “That is, I certainly consider you a friend, but I have not given you much reason to consider me as such. I understand that. And, unfortunately, there may be other times when my actions seem strange to you. I beg you will believe me when I say that such situations are not a reflection of my true sentiments or wishes. They are borne of expedience.”
She looked at him with such a mixture of confusion and earnestness that he wished to gather up her hands and force her to understand…somehow.
“You are a confusing man, Mr. Hayes,” she said. “My cousin maintains you are playing a game with me and that I should play it too.”
“I am not playing a game with you, Miss Easton,” he said solemnly.
“But you delight in teasing me.”
“I do,” he said. “But that is not me playing a game.”
“Then what is it?”
“It is…” He battled with his words again.
This was impossible. He wanted nothing more than to assure her of his regard for her, and yet, to what end? The admiration he felt could not be pursued. “It is my poor attempt, I suppose, at friendship with a woman I consider my superior in all respects.”
Her gaze locked with his. If she looked long enough, she would see the truth, so he broke his eyes away and looked at her dress. “That is one of the fabrics you purchased at Covent Garden.”
She looked down. “It is. I did promise you that you could see the finished product, did I not?”
“It is every bit as exquisite as I had imagined.”
A woman came up beside them, bringing with her a heavy dose of perfume. It smelled of tuberose—or a whole field of tuberoses, rather, like an invisible, dense fog settling over them.
Miss Easton blinked a few times in succession at the strong scent.
Silas’s reaction was far less subtle. He tried to take shallow breaths, but it was too late. He began coughing, and once he started, he could not stop.
“Mr. Hayes,” Miss Easton said, setting a hand on his back as he doubled over. “Are you unwell?”
He shook his head, but he could not speak for coughing.
“I shall fetch you a drink.” She hesitated a moment, then hurried off.
Even amidst the fit, Silas was aware of people’s eyes on him, and he stepped away from the woman’s cloud of perfume, struggling to regain control of his lungs.
By the time Miss Easton had returned, the coughing had begun to subside, but he took the glass of water with gratitude and drank the entire thing.
Miss Easton watched him with concern etched on her brow.
He cleared his throat and nodded at the small audience they had gained from his fit to assure them that he was well and they could return to their activities.
Gradually, they did so, leaving Silas and Miss Easton to themselves.
“Forgive me,” he said. “I was overcome by…”
“Tuberose,” she supplied, but she still looked concerned. “I have never seen such a fit of coughing.”
“Nor have I smelled such a violent perfume.”
She smiled briefly, but his attempt to make light of things fell flat.
“I am well, Miss Easton. It is merely the remnants of a bout with consumption last year.”
Her eyes widened. “Consumption?”
“As you can see, I came out of the fight victorious.”
“There you are, Bella,” Miss Fairchild said, bringing Frederick and Fairchild along with her.
Frederick’s gaze upon Silas communicated his thoughts with crystal clarity: what are you doing?
Silas could not blame him. Once Frederick had learned the identity of Miss Easton’s father, he’d had a great deal to say on the matter, most of which was urging Silas to stay far away from her. It was all reasonable, of course.
And yet, Silas could not bring himself to do it.
If Miss Easton wished for his friendship, he would give it to her whenever it was possible—which would not be for much longer. Drayton would return from Dover, and then Silas would be largely confined to the townhouse.
Silas joined Sir Walter Bence at his address in Mayfair the following evening for dinner.
Whatever his experience with Drayton, the business of investing seemed to be treating Bence very well indeed.
Aside from his illustrious address, his apartments were furnished with the very best—the best paper hangings and furniture and case clocks.