Chapter 17
SEVENTEEN
SILAS
Silas had looked forward to his time in London with immense anticipation after being cooped up so long in his brother’s hunting lodge, and yet he could not remember spending a more interminable week in his life than the past seven days.
The one thing those days had in common: he had not seen Miss Easton.
Bence had sent him word just once, and his message had been two-fold: he had an investment opportunity for Silas, and he was waiting for a final piece of information about a promising avenue to clear Silas’s name.
Meanwhile, Silas had kept his promise to his brother to avoid Miss Easton and her father, but it was even more trying than he had anticipated.
His desire to see Miss Easton did not abate, and yet, with each passing day, it became more apparent to him that he had been acting imprudently by seeking her company—even before he had known who her father was.
With a name beleaguered by scandal and a future over which the gallows hung threateningly, he had nothing at all to offer.
Apart from not having seen Miss Easton for a week, Silas had been cooped up in the townhouse while Frederick and the others made merry and attended a number of events with the ton. It was simply too dangerous for Silas to tempt fate by joining them when Lord Drayton might be in attendance.
When he had been tempted to take that chance despite the risk to his life, he had been obliged to take drastic measures to prevent himself: he had shaven his mustache.
Kicking his heels inside a townhouse in London was a different sort of torture than being obliged to remain cooped up in a hunting lodge. At the hunting lodge, at least there was little to do. In London, there were any number of delights beyond the shut front door of the townhouse.
And yet, Miss Easton was the delight he most missed and wished for. What he wouldn’t give to be transported back to Vauxhall or to spend another hour on the barge at her side.
It was a selfish wish.
Besides, who was to say that she was not already engaged to the man Drayton had chosen for her?
The thought was unbearable.
Instead of dwelling on impossible dreams and unpleasant possibilities, Silas took to playing the game he had come up with while shut away in the lodge: tossing crumpled bits of parchment into an empty brandy glass ten feet away.
It was far less amusing without his brothers playing too.
There was a knock on the door, and Silas tossed the last paper, which landed neatly in the cup.
He smiled in spite of himself. He might be a hermit with no friends and no future, but at least his aim was true.
“A message for you, sir,” said the footman, a small letter in his hand.
Silas took it and thanked him, looking at the script on the front. It was the script of a woman, but it was not one he recognized. Could it be…?
He broke the wafer and unfurled the letter, his eyes darting to the signature on the bottom: Miss Fairchild.
His brows pulled together, and he read the short missive.
Dear Mr. Hayes,
I hope this message finds you well. I pray you will forgive the irregularity of it. Necessity required me to tiptoe past the bounds of what many would consider proper. I do it out of love and concern for my cousin.
Silas’s heart skipped.
I beg you will find a way to be present at the orangery at Kew Gardens at noon tomorrow. Miss Easton has urgent need to speak with you.
I know we may rely upon you.
Miss Fairchild
Silas stared at the words, reading the few that had jumped off the page: Miss Easton has urgent need to speak with you.
He hardly knew how to feel upon reading that. Happy? Anxious?
When taken in combination with what had come before—I do it out of love and concern for my cousin—it made the matter seem ominous indeed.
Was Miss Easton in trouble? And why did Miss Fairchild say it was urgent but then not request his presence until the next day—and at Kew, of all places?
Surely, if it was truly urgent, it could not have waited until then.
No doubt Silas should send Frederick in his stead. Miss Easton could have no issue that required Silas specifically, and it would be unwise of him to go. The danger was that Lord Drayton might be at Kew along with her.
And yet, Silas would go. If Miss Easton needed him, he would do far more than leap onto a moving barge on the Thames to reach her.
He would have to take care not to be seen by Drayton. He would discover what Miss Easton needed, and then…he would try to help her understand that their friendship could not continue as it had been.
Heaven grant him the strength to utter those words, for no other power could.
“Freddie, I have hardly left this house for the past week. I made no complaint when I was left behind while you went to the prizefight nor when you attended Lord Rarington’s party.
You cannot begrudge me a stroll amongst the plants.
What precisely do you fear? That I shall be recognized by one of the ferns? ”
Frederick’s unamused expression made clear what he thought of his brother’s jab. “Since when have you cared to promenade amongst flowers?”
“Flowers?” Fairchild repeated, coming through the door just then.
“Hayes insists he is going to Kew Gardens today,” Frederick said.
“Are you?” Fairchild asked Silas with only the faintest interest. He poured himself a drink from the liquor cabinet. “You may see my aunt there. Or perhaps not. Kew is enormous.”
Silas avoided his brother’s eye, but Frederick was not to be avoided.
“I have a sudden desire to join you,” Frederick said, his voice lifeless as he continued to stare at Silas.
“Do you?” Fairchild’s brows rose, then pulled together thoughtfully. “Perhaps I shall join as well. A bit of fresh air would be welcome.”
Silas opened his mouth to remind them both that he needed no chaperone only to close it again. Frederick could be stubborn as an ox at times, and the expression on his face made it clear that this was one of those times.
When the carriage reached the gates of Kew, Silas was the first to descend. He was followed by not only Frederick and Fairchild but Drake as well.
He sighed as the three of them gathered around him like chicks around a hen.
As Kew had been his idea—or so they thought—they seemed to think him the leader.
Frederick knew, of course, that Silas had never been to Kew, but when Silas pointed this out, he merely said, “All the more reason for you to guide us. You will help us to see it with fresh eyes.”
But Silas had eyes only for the orangery. He had an inkling that Miss Fairchild had not intended for him to bring an entire entourage there, but what could be done?
He did his best to seem admiring of the gardens he had insisted he was so anxious to visit.
In their defense, they were hardly to be sniffed at.
Row upon row of flowering and leafy plants surrounded them as they traversed the paths.
He had no idea such a variety even existed in the world, much less in a garden in England.
But amidst all the admiring of plants, his eyes darted around, looking for any sign of Drayton or Miss Easton.
“Is it everything you had hoped it would be?” Frederick asked after a quarter of an hour.
“Oh, quite,” Silas said, stopping to inspect a cabbage rose. “I thought to see citrus fruits, however. I have always wished to see a grove of orange trees.”
“Have you?” Frederick said with feigned curiosity and a sidelong glance.
“Anyone who has tasted an orange must surely share my same ambition.”
“Even if there is a grove of orange trees, you would not be permitted to partake of the fruit. Or are you merely here to lust after something forbidden?”
Silas met his brother’s gaze with reluctant appreciation at the subtle but pointed hidden meaning. “No doubt your constant and saintly presence will sustain me through my temptation.”
Fairchild was looking at them as though he was beginning to worry for their sanity. “The orangery is this way, Hayes.” He nodded at the path on their right, then started upon it.
“I have my eye on you,” Frederick said in a low voice.
“And what of your other eye?” Silas asked. “Is it occupied persecuting someone else?”
“Not persecuting,” he said as they followed Fairchild. “Protecting.”
Silas brushed a flower with his knuckle as they passed it. “I am not a delicate blossom, Freddie. I can protect myself.”
He jolted to a stop at the sight of a man ahead, but just as he was about to dart between the nearest bushes, the man’s profile became visible, making clear it was not Drayton.
“What is it?” Frederick asked.
“Nothing,” Silas replied, trying to slow his heart.
They reached the orangery shortly, and Silas’s shoulders tightened as he surveyed the area. There was no sign of Drayton, only Mrs. Fairchild and her daughter hovering over something out of view.
“Ah,” Frederick said, “what a surprise to see you all here—and at the orangery, of all places.” He quirked a brow at Silas.
“Indeed,” Silas said, noting the conspicuous absence of Miss Easton with a jolt of concern. A quick glance around told him that she was nowhere in the vicinity.
“Felicity has been stung,” Mrs. Fairchild said.
“Stung?” Frederick repeated in alarm.
The gentlemen crowded around Miss Fairchild, and a debate soon broke out about what should be done to assist her.
“Go inside,” Miss Fairchild whispered urgently to Silas as the others argued the seriousness and proper treatment of a bee sting.
Silas swallowed a dozen questions, and with a glance at Frederick, he slipped around the hedge toward the door to the orangery.
It was warmer inside and the scent sweet as he faced the walkway that ran through rows of citrus trees.
He had lied to Frederick when he had said he had an ambition to see orange trees, but perhaps it was an ambition he should have had.
The entire building was filled with plants not much taller than him, their deep green leaves full, punctuated by little pops of yellow, vibrant green, and orange.