Chapter 24
TWENTY-FOUR
ARABELLA
Arabella had hardly spoken to Papa since overhearing him in the library.
He had asked her if anything was amiss the next morning at breakfast, but she had merely pleaded the headache, then returned to her room to write a note to Mrs. Ashby, asking for her help to arrange the meeting with her nephew.
Now that she knew what evidence he had been searching for amongst Papa’s things, she could search for it herself.
And yet, she had not.
She had still not returned to the study since that fateful night she had found Mr. Yorke there. Perhaps she was afraid of what she would find.
Either way, one of the men she loved would not be the man she had thought him. In that sense, it was easier to delay seeking answers.
And yet, it was a different form of torture to sit with both possibilities.
She had underestimated just how difficult it would be to see Mr. Yorke again, to be in the same room.
Her brain might have accepted that everything had changed between them, but her body and her heart still reacted to his presence.
There was still the same kindness in his eyes, the same concern for her well-being despite the way she had treated him in the study.
As for Papa, she could not look at him the same way now.
The sense of betrayal over his words to his friend ran deep within her.
The one hope she had was that the conversation she had heard had not been an accurate reflection of his true sentiments and intentions.
Perhaps he had simply said what he thought his friend wished to hear, though she tended to doubt it.
Papa was a confident man. He was not the type to pander to his friends.
But in light of everything Mr. Yorke and Mrs. Ashby had said, and given what Felicity and Aunt Louisa evidently knew of Papa…it painted an alarming picture.
“Might we go to the shop again, Papa?” she finally gathered the courage to ask at breakfast the morning after her encounter with Mr. Yorke. “I had a few more ideas last night, but I want to ensure they are possible with the way the windows sit.”
Papa took a moment before responding, a furrow in his brow.
“I do not think so, my dear. The more I consider things, the more I feel certain that this idea of yours is simply not prudent. It is my job as your father to protect your reputation, and I fear the effect this would have if it were to become known.”
Her heart clenched to hear him retract his promise. “Why should it?”
“Things have a way of doing so, my dear. This is London, after all. Not Wetley.”
“But…I thought we had agreed that—”
“Arabella,” he said, his voice sharp.
Her eyes widened.
His tone was softer as he continued. “Agreements must be adaptable as circumstances change, my dear. Surely you can understand that.”
She said nothing. If she spoke, she might say something she regretted—or give something away she should not.
It was not as though he had confessed to the murder of which Mr. Yorke had accused him. And yet, in some strange way, it felt like that. She was seeing a different side of Papa than before. Had he changed? Or had she been blind and na?ve?
“Do not be angry with me, Bella,” he said cajolingly, reaching his hand over and patting hers. “We will find another way to satisfy your creative wishes.”
But her creative hopes and dreams were far from her main concern now.
When Papa had left for the day, she ventured to the study.
Standing before the door, she took in a few long, slow breaths. Was she prepared for what she might find within? Could one ever be prepared to discover their own father was a murderer? She very much doubted it.
And what if she found nothing? What if she discovered Mr. Yorke had lied yet again? She would find it difficult to forgive herself for doubting Papa. He might have lied to her about Lord Farnham or the shop window, but that did not make him a murderer.
Whatever the truth was, she needed to discover it.
She squared her shoulders and opened the door. Hands trembling, she went straight to the desk and began with the drawer Mr. Yorke had been looking through. Her heart quickened when she opened the leather folio and found it full of entries with amounts beside them.
But they were household accounts with no sign of Seamark Trading, the name Mr. Yorke had mentioned.
There was nothing else of note in the entire drawer, so she proceeded to the other drawer, wondering if Mr. Yorke had simply been mistaken.
By the time she was nearing the bottom of the drawer, she couldn’t help asking herself if perhaps this was all a misunderstanding.
Might not Papa and Mr. Yorke be innocent?
Her heart latched onto the idea, for that would mean she had not been mistaken in either of them.
Her hand met the wood of the drawer’s base, and she let out a sigh of relief. She ran her hand along the bottom for good measure, and it caught on something.
She grasped the smooth leather, heart pounding. This folio was smaller than the other. She unwound the string that kept it closed and let it fall open in her hands.
Her gaze ran over the entries and numbers. It was certainly a ledger, and the expenses were related to shipping: repairs, provisions, dock fees. She ran her quivering finger along the list and came to a sudden halt on a large sum.
Her finger trailed from the number and across the page, where the name Seamark Trading was written, clear as anything.
“Are you unwell, child?” Aunt Louisa asked as they sat with their tea that afternoon. “You have been distracted for days.”
Arabella blinked out of her reverie and met her aunt’s eye, then looked at Felicity, who pulled a sympathetic face.
Felicity was aware of everything that had happened, including Arabella’s discovery of the ledger.
She had not been nearly as surprised as Arabella to find that there was indeed evidence of Papa’s misdeeds.
It was not direct evidence that he had murdered, but it certainly seemed to support Mr. Yorke’s version of events.
Together with what Arabella had overheard Papa saying, it painted a bleak picture.
“Do you think my father ruthless?” Arabella asked suddenly.
Aunt Louisa’s eyes widened in surprise, and she gave an uncertain laugh. “What a thing to ask, child! Whatever do you mean by posing such a question?”
“I wish to know your opinion of my father. Do you think him capable of being ruthless? Unprincipled?”
Aunt Louisa glanced at Felicity, as though hoping for aid, but Felicity regarded her expectantly.
“The truth, if you please, Aunt,” Arabella said.
Aunt Louisa pursed her lips and was quiet for a moment. “I think,” she said slowly, “that your father would do whatever was required to protect the things he cares about.”
“Things,” Arabella repeated slowly. “Not people.”
“Both, no doubt,” Aunt Louisa amended.
Arabella was quiet.
“He loves you, Arabella,” Aunt Louisa said. “Of that I have no doubt.”
Arabella blinked, pushing away the stinging in her eyes. “You believe he would do whatever was required. Does that include murder?”
Aunt Louisa’s brow pulled together. “Why do you ask these things, child?”
“Please answer,” Arabella said softly.
Her aunt took in a long breath. “If the threat was great enough, I suppose the answer is yes.”
Arabella swallowed and nodded, the sick feeling in her intensifying. “Thank you.”
The front door opened, and Papa’s voice speaking to one of the footmen sounded.
Arabella rose. “If you will excuse me...”
Felicity nodded subtly, understanding her intent.
Arabella forced herself to breathe deeply as she left the room.
Papa had just removed his coat, hat, and gloves when she emerged into the entry hall. He glanced over at her and smiled. The smile faded slightly at the sight of her.
“May I speak with you?” Arabella asked.
A flash of something passed over his expression—worry, perhaps—but his smile grew again. “Of course.”
Arabella led the way to the library, and Papa soon closed the door behind them.
He went over to the liquor cabinet. “What is it, my dear?”
Arabella took a moment before speaking. “What is your connection with the Yorke family, Papa?”
His hand paused, the decanter of brandy hovering over an empty glass. He turned to regard her. “That is a strange question. What brings it about?”
“I have heard things. Things that concern me.”
His gaze was steady. “You must be more specific, my dear.”
Her courage wavered. It was no small thing to ask one’s father if he had murdered a man. Just what sort of horrors was he capable of?
But the question had to be asked. If there was any truth to her suspicions, she needed to know, not only for her own sake but for Mr. Yorke’s. And if it was untrue, for Papa’s sake. He did not deserve to be maligned any more than did Mr. Yorke.
“Did you sabotage the investments you had together?” she asked, forcing her voice to stay steady.
His expression flickered, then his brows drew together. “I beg your pardon?”
“Were you involved in the death of Mr. Langdon?”
A spasm of anger slashed across his face, and she felt a flash of fear. What if she had overestimated his affection for her? What might he do in anger?
“You dare ask me such a thing?” His voice was a near-whisper, but his cheeks trembled and flooded with color. She had never seen him look so forbidding, so…angry.
She suppressed the urge to draw back from him. “I want to know the truth, Papa.”
“The truth?” he said in a voice dangerously calm. “You think you want the truth?”
She nodded and clenched her shaking hands, forcing herself to stand her ground as he took slow steps toward her.
“I have spent the last twenty-two years protecting you from the truth, Arabella.”
“I do not wish to be protected from the truth,” she said, but her voice broke with the fear increasing with every step he took nearer.