“Your father is not going to be pleased with you squandering your money like this,” Mrs. Turnbull said.
“It wasn’t squandering,” Mr. da Silva insisted. “I am thirty-nine years old, in charge of my own accounts and last time I checked, my last trip to New York secured da Silva Lumber new accounts worth nearly three hundred thousand dollars. And I have found a keen buyer for the old Redden homestead. I think I’ve earned the right to be frivolous.”
“It was frivolous,” Mrs. Turnbull said.
Maddy couldn’t help but agree.
“Aunt,” he said, and did his voice harden in a way she hadn’t heard before? “If I can’t make a poor old spinster’s day a little brighter by buying her a trinket, then what in the hell is all this money good for?” he said.
Maddy shut her eyes and pulled in her bottom lip, biting it hard to keep herself from letting out a bitter laugh. The two continued on their walk, their voices trailing off into the distance.
Poor old spinster. It all made sense. The smiles. The teasing. She’d known in the moment there was nothing genuine or real about Beau da Silva. They were practically the same age. And while she hadn’t had da Silva money, once upon a time, she’d had a dowry so large men had fought over it.
And yet somehow, she was the one who’d lost.
She tensed her body, balling up every ounce of the lingering discomfort, wishing she could take back that stupid smile she’d wasted on Beau da Silva. She counted to ten, then released the pang of bitterness before rising to go find Elouise and Rimple. And she would pretend, once again, that nothing could hurt her.
Chapter Two
By the time Beau and Aunt Vee had returned to his uncle’s home, he needed a drink. Archie Turnbull imagined himself a humble brewmaster, all the while being as rich as the lord of the manor. The paradox was evident his massive home built in the Tudor style, well-appointed with gleaming wood-paneled walls and handsome finishes. It was a counterpoint to the home Beau had grown up in, which, like the offices of Silver Lumber in downtown Saint John, exuded the might and opulent tastes of Frank da Silva.
He loved Veronica very much; she was his only connection to his mother, who had died not long after the birth of his sister Jessica. Both Veronica and Archie, unable to have children of their own, had become a surrogate family to him and his sister over the years, and a welcome reprieve from his father Frank’s overbearing personality. Unlike Frank, who had never failed to find fault in Beau, his aunt and uncle were far more indulgent. But apparently even Veronica had her limits, and those involved spending a small fortune on an old book for a complete stranger.
Even if that stranger was intoxicatingly beautiful.
“I’m not sure how you are going to explain that to your father,” she said, unable to let the subject drop. “Do you even know this woman?”
Of course he didn’t know her—he even failed to get her name before she bolted from the shop. But there was something utterly and unaccountably tantalizing about her. Beau was six feet tall, and that redheaded siren nearly looked him in the eye. Her face was full, her curves lush. She reminded him of a Rosetti painting he’d seen in London a few years ago. Like a creature out of time.
“It was, I admit, probably one of my least thought through decisions,” he admitted. “But I have the money to spend, and we both know people who have gambled away more in a bad business deal or at poker table.”
“Don’t try to rationalize it,” she said, carefully removing her hat pin and handing over her things to Mrs. Hayes, the Turnbull’s faithful housekeeper. “I didn’t think you were one for gestures, Beau. Especially with one of those women.”
There was a subtle, if unmistakable shift in Aunt Vee’s voice then. Those women. Beau had no idea what that meant, but given he needed a change of subject, he wasn’t particularly in the mood to ask. Instead, he deposited his hat and gloves in Mrs. Hayes’ hands, and made straight for the sideboard in the parlour to pour himself a glass of Uncle Archie’s best brandy. Archie Turnbull may have made a fortune brewing ale for the common folk, but he had cultivated a taste for far more expensive luxuries.
“At least it wasn’t a wedding ring,” he said, plopping himself down in plush leather chair. “Then you would have something to be concerned about.”
“Don’t tease me,” Aunt Vee said, following him into the room and taking her normal place on the settee. “I don’t have the fortitude for another discussion about your marital status. Unless…” She trailed off. “Well, if you have other preferences, your secret would be safe with me. But your past behaviour would suggest you are simply unwilling to settle down. And you should. You’re nearly forty, Beaumont. It’s starting to be unseemly.”
“What would be unseemly is foisting my ne’er-do-well ways on a young thing that is only interested in my money. I’m more than happy to have my fortune go to Jessica’s children.”
Before Aunt Vee could reply, Mrs. Hayes returned, holding out a silver tray.
“Excuse me, Mr. da Silva, but this came for you.” Beau rose to meet the housekeeper, picking up the envelope and frowning as he read the stamped address in the corner. It was from the telegraph office.
Beau stifled a groan. He’d left Saint John two days ago, following his triumphant return from their New York business trip. Before he left, he’d gotten into a row with his father. For the past decade, arguing seemed to be their primary method of communication. Before he’d allowed his father to get in the last word, Beau had stormed off. He was half expecting a demand to return and apologize in person.
He ripped open the envelope and unfolded the note. It took him a moment, or possibly two, to process the message, which was equal parts short and brutal.
Father dead. Your pistol at the scene. Tell me you’re innocent. J.
“What’s the matter?” he heard his aunt ask, the concern in her voice barely audible over the pounding of blood in his ears.
Beau sank down into his chair and handed the note to Aunt Veronica. He poured himself another glass of brandy and swallowed it in a single gulp.
“Dear heaven,” she said, an unmistakable wobble in her voice. “What does that mean, do you think?” She lowered the note. “I didn’t know you owned a gun.”
“I picked up a revolver years ago,” he said. “I didn’t even think I had bullets for the thing. It’s been locked away for eons. And I didn’t shoot him.”
