“Has Mr. Lyndon been telling tales?” he asked.
The question echoed in the room, and Nora’s stomach tightened. He knew. Perhaps not everything, but enough, and for one awful moment she saw the path before her: simply smile, reassure him, retreat, and preserve the fragile peace of the housea little longer. But Nora Eden was no actress. She never had been.
“You lied to me,” she whispered.
Chapter 32
“Mr. Lyndon didn’t accept your bribe. You rejected his suit and then lied to me about his motives and the engagement ring,” said Nora, her voice growing stronger with each word.
Papa’s expression did not alter greatly, though some faint tightening came into the lines beside his mouth as he lowered the glass.
“I protected you,” he said at last.
Nora’s fingers curled against the folds of her skirt. “By lying?”
“By telling you what you needed to understand in the only language your heart would accept.” His voice remained calm, almost gentle, which made the words sink in more deeply than any shout could have done. “You were so determined to cling to the fellow that reason had no hold over you. Had I said I distrusted him and did not approve of the match, you would have wept and argued and fancied yourself the heroine of some tragic romance.”
“That was not your choice to make.”
“No?” Papa set the glass aside and leaned nearer, his gaze fixing upon her with that awful paternal softness that had all the appearance of affection but felt like a rebuke. “My dear girl,where gentlemen are concerned, you lack discernment. That Lyndon fellow knew precisely how to flatter that vulnerable little heart of yours, and you were too eager to be loved to see what was plain to everyone else. He may not have been a fortune hunter, but if he cared for you, he wouldn’t have surrendered so easily, would he?”
With a scoff, he added, “Saints above, the fool ran off and married the first pretty face that crossed his path and bound himself to a woman so beneath him it is laughable. It’s only been three years, and he’s already married and expecting a child? I doubt he gave you even a passing thought after leaving this room.”
The words pressed against old bruises with terrible precision. Nora tried to draw breath, but it caught halfway, and Papa’s expression softened further as though that were proof of her weakness.
“I did what any father ought to do,” he continued. “I chased away the danger before you were irrevocably trapped, and though I regret the pain my actions may have caused, they were only necessary because you were too weak to protect yourself.”
“And Mr. Lyndon was too strong-willed to be manipulated?” asked Nora, forcing the words from her lips. “You wanted a son-in-law who wouldn’t question you.”
Papa drew back as though she had struck him. His shoulders lowered, and he turned his gaze to the empty hearth as if bracing himself against the throbbing pain of the wound she’d inflicted. And in the silence that followed—protracted and immutable—Nora couldn’t help wondering if she had allowed Mr. Lyndon to twist her about once more.
“Is that what he told you?” Papa asked at last, his voice low. “That I cast him aside because he would not bow prettily enough?”
Nora’s fingers tightened against the arm of her chair. “Is it untrue?”
“My girl,” he murmured, with such pain in his eyes that her heart twisted in two. “I have spent my life being questioned by men who believe success itself must be evidence of corruption. I have endured envy dressed up as principle and gossip touted as truth, but I never thought to hear such aspersions from my own daughter.”
The words settled over her with suffocating gentleness. Nora felt them arranging themselves too neatly inside her mind, each one sliding through every defense. It all made a dreadful sort of sense. Why would she trust Mr. Lyndon over the man who had given her life? The man who had provided for her? Loved her?
But Nora had read that report, had heard the jeweler’s assessment of her ring, had seen things that ought not to be. And something deep within her soul hardened in place, refusing to soften beneath this sorrowful lullaby that sang of a man who did everything for everyone and nothing for himself.
“I wished for a man worthy of you. A man with steadiness and honor,” Papa continued, leaning forward enough that the lamplight caught the silver at his temples. “Lyndon failed that test, and now he would rather blame me than admit he lacked the fortitude to keep what he claimed to love. And do not judge me harshly for lying about him when I knew my hard-headed daughter would simply throw herself at the blackguard if she believed there was a chance to keep him.”
Nora’s throat worked painfully as Papa continued on in that same low, measured voice, each sentence shaped as though it pained him to speak so plainly to her. Again and again, he returned to Mr. Lyndon’s weakness, to the gentleman’s easy retreat, to the undeniable fact that Papa had simply done what was right, and each point settled neatly atop the last until Nora felt herself crumbling beneath the weight of them.
But none of it could combat the inconsistencies. The half-truths. The lies written in black and white. And Nora’s fingers curled against the arms of the chair, her nails biting into the leather as she forced herself to sit straighter. Papa spoke on, detailing the confusing twists and turns of his actions, but she could no longer follow the path he laid before her.
“No,” she said quietly.
Papa paused, and she lifted her gaze to his; though her whole body felt unsteady, the words came with terrible clarity.
“I know the truth, Papa. You are a liar and a fraud.”
A burst of laughter rang out, startling her as the gentleman rose to his feet and leaned against the mantelpiece with a pitying smirk on his lips.
“And what, precisely do you know?” he asked. “Did a certain someone, who searched my office ever so carefully this afternoon, find something she believes is irrefutable evidence of my black heart, despite having the financial understanding of a turnip?”
Nora straightened. “You know?”
