Page 16 of My Kind of Scoundel
“Aaron was twelve and fought men three times his age and size,” Mr Chance said, contempt for his sire deepening his voice. “My father would wake us upon their return. Force us to light the lamps and gaze upon our brother’s bruises. He aimed to make Aaron fight harder so we wouldn’t have to witness his pain.”
Eleanor put her hand to her mouth in disgust.
Compared to his father, hers was a saint. Yet she knew how it felt to stare into the eyes of a man who professed to love you, only to discover it was a lie.
“I would close my eyes, screw them so tightly my head hurt,” he added, repeating the action as if he were back in that room. “I would count the seconds until I could extinguish the lamps and banish the sight of my brother’s suffering.” A mocking snort escaped him. “I ask you, Miss Darrow, is that not the sign of a weakling?”
It was the sign of a child with a pure heart.
An innocent soul being corrupted.
“You were a boy forced to face an ugly truth.”
She’d recently had a similar awakening. There was nothing romantic about delivering secret letters. Love affairs were like a poison, infecting those involved and ravaging relationships. She had been no one’s saviour but an instrument of destruction and despair.
“I suppose you’re wondering why I am telling you this.” He placed the offending object in her lap. “How does it relate to me stealing your precious sewing box?”
What made a man reveal something so personal?
To gain her trust?
To explain his lack of empathy?
To mend a broken bond?
“I have no notion, Mr Chance, but I’m sure you’re keen to tell me.”
Again, he gazed at the rug, which in itself was a blessing. His magnetic blue eyes had the power to bend people to his will. She remained steadfast in her decision to leave town.
“Had I shown my father that I was unaffected by his game, that I could cope with whatever villainy came my way, I would not spend my days living with regret.”
Still a little confused, she said, “If you’re asking me to stay and face my problems, know that is not an option.” Her blackmailer had lost patience. Why else would he ransack her home?
Mr Chance cast her a sidelong glance, the look in his eyes conveying the confidence of someone used to dealing with scoundrels. “I am asking you to light the lamps and open your eyes, Miss Darrow.”
She gave a mirthless chuckle. “I assure you, my eyes are wide open to the dangers. Had I used the front entrance andnot seen the broken door and shards of glass in the yard, I might be dead.”
Yet she had crept into the shop, desperate to assess the damage. The sight had torn her heart in two. Expensive gloves tossed over the floor like rubbish. Drawers upended. Tortoiseshell combs snapped. A mirror smashed. The banging above stairs made her take to her heels and run.
“Your eyes may be open, madam, yet you see nothing but failure. Allow me to help you. Believe you can overcome your difficulties.”
Silent seconds passed as she stared at him.
She couldn’t ask him to risk his life without offering a reward.
While she envisioned every tragic scenario—her possessions lost when her enemy razed her house to the ground, her being kidnapped and tossed into the Thames—his optimism was like the glimmer of a dawn horizon, the warm rays chasing her doubts away.
“And how can you help me when I am clueless myself?” That was the nature of secrets. She had no idea what was written inside the notes. “I don’t know who raided my home, nor do I have the faintest idea why they targeted me.”
He frowned as he stood and faced her. “You speak in riddles, Miss Darrow. How can you be insensible to the problem? Surely it has something to do with your sewing box.”
Tell him!
For heaven’s sake, she should tell someone.
If she died, the culprit would go unpunished.
“Why should I trust you?” she said with a weary sigh.
