“I am not lying.” But Nora wished her tone supported her assertion. Or that her words held even a morsel of truth.
Mr. Hatcher nodded, though his eyes traced her features like a caress, seeing straight through the façade as if it were nothing.
“I will honor your choice, Miss Eden, but know that if you require anything, do not hesitate to call on me. If friendship is all you are willing to give, I will be your faithful friend until the end of my days. I will never turn you away. But I know what I desire, and my heart will not change.”
The words slipped through Nora’s hastily erected defenses with terrifying ease. No anger. No demands. No wounded pride seeking to punish her for the refusal. Mr. Hatcher simply stood before her offering constancy with such unguarded sincerity that for one reckless instant she nearly broke.
Why must he be so good?
Nora feared that another word might undo her entirely, that if she looked at him for a second longer beneath that golden twilight, she would abandon every sensible instinct and throw them straight into destruction. So gathering her fraying composure like a cloak, she forced her feet to the ballroom doors once more, and each step was heavier than the last, as though ropes bound them, pulling her back to the gentleman who stood alone in the darkness and shadows of the courtyard.
The brightness of the ballroom pierced Nora’s eyes. Music swelled in the air whilst couples laughed and turned across the polished floor, utterly untouched by the catastrophe unraveling quietly amongst them. Somewhere near the card room, someone erupted into loud laughter, and the whole house glittered with comfort and prosperity and careless delight.
Standing in the midst of it all was Papa. Gentlemen clustered round him, and Lord Lombard laughed warmly at some remark, one hand resting upon another man’s shoulder with easy familiarity, the very picture of gracious success and benevolence. Watching him there amidst the glow of gaslight and affection, Nora’s blood ran cold.
A wolf in sheep’s clothing.
Nora stopped near the edge of the ballroom, her fingers curling tightly against her skirts as the weight of it pressed harder and harder against her chest. Mr. Hatcher believed her, yet even he struggled to embrace the enormity of the accusation. And if a man as intelligent and honorable as him hesitated, what hope had she of convincing anyone else? What proof did she possess beyond one stolen report and a growing pile of untrustworthy instincts?
Yet could she remain silent whilst more flocked to Eden & Co.? Doing nothing would only grant Papa more time. More victims. More lives quietly drawn into whatever ruin waited beneath the glittering surface of Eden & Co.
The questions followed her relentlessly as Nora crossed the ballroom to the entrance hall, scarcely noticing the curious glances that trailed after her. She could not endure another moment beneath this roof, feigning normalcy whilst her whole world splintered apart. Home was just as unbearable, yet there was nowhere else to go.
The footman at the door straightened as she approached, and Nora heard herself ask for a cab in a voice that sounded far steadier than she felt. With a bow, he hurried off to summon one, leaving her beneath the shelter of the portico.
Behind her, the Willards’ house blazed on as though nothing had altered. Music spilled through the open doors, followed by bursts of laughter and the lower murmur of voices, all of it belonging to a world still turning in perfect ignorance. The ballcontinued without her, bright and orderly and untouched by her turmoil, and beyond the steps, the square lay quiet, the dark fronts of the neighboring houses offering no direction or refuge.
Slowly, Nora’s hand rose to the folded report hidden beside her ribs. The paper bent faintly beneath her palm, fragile enough to tear yet dangerous enough to alter the very course of her life, but whatever she chose to do with it, the future she wanted was already slipping beyond her reach.
Chapter 36
They say a good night’s rest does a world of good. Jonathan supposed that might be true if one were able to secure a proper night’s rest, but with morning dawning across the city and a mountain of work piled high upon his desk, there was no good to be found.
Correspondence waited in fresh stacks, contracts required review, and Mr. Vane had already brought in three matters demanding decisions. Everything around Jonathan insisted upon order and urgency, yet he’d read the same paragraph four times without retaining a word of it. Figures blurred and shifted into memories of last night. Miss Eden’s startled eyes in the darkness. The tremor in her voice. The terrible strain beneath every syllable.
Jonathan set down his pen and kneaded his forehead. Honor demanded he respect her choice. Miss Eden had every right to decide her future and with whom she wished to share it, and no amount of affection on his part entitled him to press where he was not wanted.
Yet that was where the difficulty lay.
If the lady did not desire marriage, Jonathan could respect that. And dislike it immensely, of course. However, it was her decision to make, and he could sweep up the broken bits of hisheart and continue on as he had before. Or as much as one could when the light vanished from the world.
Jonathan drew in a slow breath and scratched at his beard as he leaned back in his chair to stare blindly at the window.
Miss Eden was no actress, and he would swear before a court of law that her answer had been a blatant lie. The memory of her expression and tone haunted every attempt at sensible resignation, leaving his heart to pull stubbornly free of any constraints he placed upon it. Miss Eden cared for him. Jonathan knew it as surely as he knew the figures in his own ledgers. Whatever had driven her away, it had not been the absence of feeling.
And that knowledge comforted and tormented in equal measure. There was nothing to do but wait, and having spent half of his life waiting to find his Miss Eden, he was both well-versed in patience and heartily sick of it.
With a sigh, Jonathan gathered the abandoned agreement, and dipped his pen in the ink once more, forcing himself into the machinery of work by sheer discipline. Whenever Miss Eden came to mind, he dragged his thoughts back to figures, dates, clauses, signatures. His heart may insist on being useless, but the rest of him was going to do something worthwhile.
Contracts were read and marked, invoices approved, letters sorted into the appropriate piles for response, and a troublesome matter involving delayed materials from a supplier was settled. It was all handled with enough competency that no one else would guess how often his thoughts slipped their leash.
Clerks came and went. The telegraph boy appeared with a message that required immediate reply. Mr. Vane brought in three documents requiring signatures and a note regarding a contractor who had arrived early for an appointment. Jonathan answered, signed, corrected, and directed until the morningwaned, and a soft knock sounded at the door just as he crossed out a large section of a letter he’d rewritten twice.
“Come,” he called without looking up.
Mr. Vane entered with his usual composure, though something in the carefulness of his expression drew attention before the clerk spoke. “Mr. Virgil Eden to see you, sir.”
Jonathan’s pen halted above the paper, and for one strange instant, every thought in his mind scattered, and Miss Eden’s whispered accusations and Father’s warnings rang through the silence they left behind. He set the pen down with deliberate care, buying himself a moment to steady his hands and arrange his expression into something suitably neutral.
