Prelude for a Lord (9 page)

But the image of giving her violin to Mr. Golding sent a wave of nausea up from her stomach and she tightened her throat. When she looked at her violin, she remembered the sunroom at Arkright Manor, the way the morning light would caress the wood of the violin almost reverently as Calandra played, her eyes closed in concentration and adoration of the music. The musical pieces would evoke emotions from Alethea like a bouquet of handpicked flowers—the bright joy of a child’s laughter, the cool stillness of the downs at dawn, the warmth and comfort of a crackling fire while rain pelted the windows. Alethea remembered the tenderness in Calandra’s hand on her head as she gave the violin to her, saying, “Now you try it, Alethea.”

Later, when Calandra grew too ill to play, Alethea would play for her in that sunroom, following her mentor’s verbal instructions
until she made the music sound almost like tangible emotions. Alethea and Calandra would both be in tears at the end of the piece, and they’d laugh as they reached for their handkerchiefs. “What is music if it does not move you?” Calandra had told her.

Alethea realized she hadn’t played that way in a long time, not since Calandra had died. Now she was reduced to bright pieces on pianofortes at evening parties that most people would talk through rather than listen to. No shared tears, no musical pieces of powerful feeling. Her acquaintances in Bath already considered her an oddity for her intense attention during concerts. They would never understand how a concerto could make her cry. She was reminded that she had no one in her life who understood that deepest part of her, and it made her feel desolate.

She was brought out of her sad memories by the squeeze of Lucy’s fingers on her hand. “I’m sorry, I didn’t intend to cause you to miss her again.”

“It’s been years. It shouldn’t still be so painful.”

“It’s because no one else understands you as Lady Arkright did.”

“I can’t sell my violin, Lucy. It would break my heart.” Alethea took a deep breath, feeling a little better now that she had acknowledged that fact aloud. “And I will not let a stranger take this last shred of her memory from me. I will stop them.”

Lucy nodded as she withdrew her hand. “Now, where are you going? I will accompany you and then see you home before I return to Mrs. Ramsland.”

“You oughtn’t do that. You might fall into disfavour with your employer.”

“You are my sister. You’re more important.” The look in Lucy’s eyes was Alethea’s anchor, the one connection in her life that shone brighter than the sun and was stronger than steel.

“I wanted to stop at Porter’s bookshop to see if he had any new music, but that can wait for another day.”

After Lucy paid for her employer’s items, they exited the bookshop. Alethea looked around but didn’t see the cadaverous man, so she breathed deeply of the morning air as the sisters walked slowly toward Queen Square.

“Did Lady Whittlesby give you the name of someone to help you with your violin?” Lucy asked.

Lord Dommick’s lean, handsome face flashed before her eyes. “Yes,” she answered darkly. “He’s calling this afternoon, the arrogant man.”

Lucy looked thoughtful. “You may not realize this, but you only ever spoke of one man with that kind of venom.”

Oh, no
.

“Let me guess. A nobleman, taller than you, for a change. Dark hair, velvety black eyes—”

“He does not have velvety black eyes. And how would you know?”

“Because that’s how you described him to me eleven years ago.” Lucy grinned at her.

Alethea threw up her hands. “I confess, yes, it’s Lord Dommick.”

“I knew he would stay in Bath, despite your speculations about it after you saw his carriage.”

“He has no reason to winter in a quiet town like Bath when he could be feted in London or attend numerous house parties or just sit and count his violins at his own estate in the country.”

“Did you give him a piece of your mind when you met again?”

“It was at the assembly last night and I properly offended him. Twice.”

“And he’s to help you with your violin?”

“Lady Whittlesby introduced us and dangled her annual concert like a carrot in front of him if he helped me. I could have called him a nincompoop, and he’d have smiled and thanked me.”

“I think you’re disgruntled because you think he wouldn’t be induced to help you without Lady Whittlesby’s interference.”

“Well, he wouldn’t.”

“Perhaps he’s changed.”

“Perhaps he hasn’t,” Alethea muttered. Louder, she said, “I don’t have a choice. I can’t investigate the provenance of the violin on my own—I don’t have the contacts or the resources, and being a woman, I’m less likely to receive answers to any inquiries I send. I need someone to help me. I need Lord Dommick to help me.”

“And you certainly look cheerful about it. Positively delighted.”

Alethea laughed. “I promise to behave when I see him today.”

At that moment, they turned the corner. Alethea happened to look across the street, slightly behind them.

The cadaverous man stood at the corner. Watching her.

She saw him more clearly this time. His skin wasn’t as dirty as it had been at the marketplace, but it still had that wrinkled, leathery texture that made him appear very old. Yet he didn’t hold his bony body like an old man—his limbs were fluid and comfortable as he slumped against the golden stone wall of a building, his clothing a motley of shades of grey. The colours matched his wiry, thinning hair that floated around his wide ears and his grey, almost colourless, eyes.

He looked directly at her, and then smiled.

It wasn’t a pleasant smile. He tilted his knobby chin up and flashed his dirty, crooked teeth—one missing from the front—like a challenge to her.

And this time she was with her
sister
.

She made the mistake of glancing at Lucy, who hadn’t seen him, and then back at the man.

He smiled wider, his eyes narrowing.

No. She wouldn’t let him intimidate her.

Alethea turned her back and grasped hold of Lucy’s elbow in a firm but casual grip. “Tell me, to what heights has Mrs. Ramsland attained in selfish bitterness this week?” She was surprised her
voice sounded almost normal, and since a cart rolled past them, Lucy didn’t notice the slight tremor.

Lucy shook her head. “Speaking of Mrs. Ramsland would only upset me, and I must be calm when I return to her today.”

“Oh, Lucy, surely there is another position to be had in Bath.”

“The winter season is starting, so I am hopeful there will be some gentlewoman in need of a new lady’s maid. I only wonder how I shall hear of any positions available since I am with Mrs. Ramsland and catering to her complaints all day.”

Lucy had told Alethea about those complaints. Things like being quick to accuse Lucy of taking things that she herself had misplaced, and deliberately demanding hip baths late the night before she knew Lucy would need to rise early in order to do her duties before taking her half day off. “I shall keep my ears open,” Alethea said.

“And Mrs. Ramsland at least allows me a half day off a week. Some employers conveniently forget.”

As her sister rambled on about other employers she had heard about, Alethea walked beside her, her back straight as a fireplace poker and her head held high, while in her chest, her heart thundered.

For the first time, she was glad Lord Dommick was calling this afternoon. The sooner she discovered who was after her violin and why, the sooner she could stop them, and stop the threat to her family.

Bayard had a raging headache. Between the irritation of Mr. Morrish’s excessive solicitude toward Clare last night and the dread of his eminent meeting with a woman as prickly as a hedgehog, he felt as if a coach-and-four had run over him.

Lord Ian found it all vastly entertaining.

Ian leaned back against the squabs of the carriage and gave Bayard a wide grin that made his dimples stand out even through the dark gold shadow on his cheeks. “You look like you’re heading to a funeral, old man.”

Bayard scowled at him. “I look nothing of the sort.”

Ian shrugged, raised a hand to flip a lock of hair out of his eyes, and stared out the carriage. Still grinning.

Bayard cleared his throat and said, “Last night, when you went to the ladies’ withdrawing room to find Clare, Morrish was waiting for her?”

“When he saw me, Morrish looked as if he’d swallowed a fork,” Ian said gleefully. “He told me that I needn’t wait for Clare, that he’d knocked on the door and inquired of the maid, but Clare’s hem wasn’t finished yet.”

Bayard frowned. “She could have sewn an entire dress in the time I was speaking to Lady Alethea.”

“I said something along those lines—although with much more elegance and wit.”

Bayard rolled his eyes.

“I knocked on the door and spoke to the maid, and Clare was out in a trice. When I escorted her back to the ballroom, I must say, Bay, you needn’t have been rushing toward us as if she’d been abducted.”

“Clare’s dowry is seventy-five thousand pounds,” Bayard said. “I dare you to walk calmly when that rackety fortune hunter had deliberately arranged to remove her from the room.”

“Well, when you put it in those terms . . .”

Bayard suddenly felt the damp coldness of the winter in his bones. He was in Bath for the sake of his mother and sister—he could not fail to protect them.
Lord God, help me to protect them
. He cleared his throat and studied the shine on his Hessian boots. “Thank you for going to her, Ian.”

“Wouldn’t want the brat getting lost,” Ian answered casually, “not with her debut this spring.”

At mention of Clare’s season, tension squeezed the back of Bayard’s neck and shoulders. He needed to repair his reputation after being ruined by his former betrothed, Miss Church-Pratton. While Lady Whittlesby’s concert would accomplish that, if he were to be seen associating too often with a woman who played the violin, would people think him an oddity and cast doubts on his sanity, fueled by the old rumours?

Did he have a choice? Lady Whittlesby’s concert came with the price of interacting with the brash Lady Alethea Sutherton.

“It’s a pity a woman so beautiful is so aggressive and unconventional,” Bayard said.

Ian’s eyebrows completely disappeared behind that lock of hair over his forehead. “I take it we’re no longer speaking about Clare?”

“What?”

Ian gave him a sly smile. “Lady Alethea, eh? Now that’s interesting.”

“What are you prattling on about?”

“I’m not the one babbling about beautiful women, for once.”

Bayard looked out the window. His cravat seemed a trifle tight. With relief he saw Alethea’s aunt’s home in Queen Square. “Ah, here we are. Thank you for the lift, Ian. I’ll walk home later.”

“No, we’ll both walk back.” Ian gave him a wicked grin. “I have a burning desire to further my acquaintance with the fair Lady Alethea now that you’ve described her as ‘aggressive and unconventional.’ ”

Bayard glowered at him. “What of your call to your mother’s friend today?”

“I will visit her tomorrow.” Ian exited the carriage. “You don’t intend to spend all day in there, do you, old chap?”

Bayard stepped down in front of Mrs. Garen’s house. “Lady
Alethea may not appreciate your presence. This is a sensitive matter for her.”

“I have never had a woman object to my presence. Unlike you.”

Ian instructed his coachman, and Bayard rapped upon the front door.

Suddenly a sound blasted out of the house, putting Bayard in mind of a screeching cat clinging to the back of a runaway horse.

“What was that?” Ian had clapped his hands over his ears.

“Regret joining me?” Bayard said. Accomplished violin player, indeed! Lady Whittlesby was getting on in age to describe Lady Alethea’s skill in such lofty terms. The screeching seemed to make the wood of the door rattle against its hinges.

The butler opened the door, cotton stuffed in his ears. “You are expected, gentlemen,” he said in a loud voice.

“I am Lord Dommick, and this is Lord Ian Wynnman.”

“Very good. If you would follow me?” The butler led them up a carpeted staircase while yet another screech from the floor above echoed off the walls of the high-ceilinged foyer and the marble floor. The butler’s shoulders visibly twitched at the cacophony. Then the sound stopped.

However, just as they reached the landing, Bayard heard a new violin sound, a low, throbbing note that seemed to grow from the foundation of the house, soft at first and rising in volume until it hovered in the air like an autumn leaf fallen from a tree and kept aloft by a breeze. Then the note broke into a series of triplets, each sound as delicate as a flower.

Bayard stopped. The player was . . . exquisite. Even more, the instrument had an unusual tone he couldn’t quite describe, mellow and smooth like the softest leather, the downy coat of a puppy, the velvety petals of a rose.

Ian had stopped also, his mouth open.

The music transitioned up an octave, and suddenly the sound
became brighter than a sunlit day, more brilliant than a jeweled necklace. The sweet, high notes reminded him of his sister’s smile, his mother’s laughter, the aching joy in his heart as he rode neck-or-nothing across the fields at Terralton Abbey.