A Rake Reformed (A Gentleman of Worth Book 6) (8 page)

Chapter Eight

F
reddie had looked in on the still-slumbering Trevor the following morning after waking. Continuing belowstairs to the breakfast room, Freddie had found gammon, eggs, coffee, and bread. During his journey through the house, he had not come across another soul.

The previous day there had been a number of servants milling about besides the family. Last night he’d seen some of the kitchen staff who served supper in the dining room. Yesterday afternoon there were two men aiding with the guests’ relocation, lending a hand with Trevor and the luggage.

Where were they now?

There was nothing for him to complain about. His clothing, which was admittedly not his, had been laundered and pressed to his satisfaction. The neckcloth had not been starched as he would have liked but it was clean.

Freddie touched the simple knotted linen at his throat and bristled slightly at the feeling of the overly generous cuff sliding from his wrist.

This would do,
he reminded himself.

After dispensing coffee from a small urn, Freddie filled a plate and sat at the table, taking his time to browse through the various dated newspapers while he ate his morning meal alone.

Some two hours later, he climbed the stairs to peer around the threshold of the open door of Trevor’s bedchamber. Inside he observed what he thought was a near miracle. Trevor stood, without holding on for dear life to the bedpost, but with his arm around Miss Clare Harris’s shoulders while Mrs. Harris, as chaperone, looked on.

Miss Clare had her arm, perhaps both arms, around Trevor’s waist for balance. It was a believable excuse to explain their proximity. Apparently it was not disputed by her mother. Moving together slowly across the room, Clare spoke to Trevor, so softly Freddie could not make out her words.

Freddie did not need to be the second third wheel in that group with Mrs. Harris’s presence. Therefore Freddie took himself off and it seemed he would be left to his own devices. If the past was any indication of what might soon happen, it could spell trouble for him.

After descending the staircase Freddie walked past the front door and glanced down the length of a long corridor before stepping into what he considered a large parlor. Disguised as a piece of furniture, near a corner and against the wall stood a square pianoforte.

What good luck! It had been ages since he’d played. Before Freddie knew it he was standing by its side. Upon further inspection he noticed it was a simple mahogany instrument sitting upon a French frame. He guessed it of an older make because it lacked pedals.

This was not his house and he really should not proceed with . . . yet . . . glancing around he saw no one and knew most of the household were occupied elsewhere. He was the only person with idle hands. Idle hands that could be occupied without incurring debts or drinking himself into oblivion or making promises to a tempting armful of sweet-smelling female for a bit of companionship.

Yes, he would proceed. After relocating the candlesticks and vase that sat on its surface, he lifted the lid to reveal the keyboard and floral garlands decorating the satinwood-inlaid nameplate.

He pulled the chair back, sat at the keyboard and played one note. Middle C. The sound did not set well with Freddie’s ear and his eyes closed in sharp discomfort. He played the G beneath it and cringed again. Playing both together caused a rather sour reaction. The instrument was out of tune.

He pulled a fob from his, rather Trevor’s, waistcoat. There hung a simple, unadorned metal cylinder with a loop at the top. It had been a while since he’d used the tool but it did not take a great deal of skill and it would give him a great deal of pleasure to be of some use while he resided at Thistles. He collected the fob and drew his metal-cased pencil from his jacket breast pocket. Inserting the pencil into the hole at the fob end of the cylinder, Freddie turned it until he felt it click. Now he had a useful hand wrench.

He would have liked to ask permission to proceed with what he was about to do but with no one around . . . Freddie decided to go ahead anyway since there was clearly a need. Setting the tool aside, he removed his borrowed jacket and carefully folded it before laying it across the back of a chair.

Returning to the instrument, he lifted the lid, set it on the stick, and peered inside. He was anxious to get to work. Freddie seated the hand wrench on the peg and pressed the middle C and closed his eyes, allowing the sour note to resonate in his brain. Then he tightened the peg before sounding the note again, repeating the process until it was in tune. He moved on to the G. Once he finished the two notes, he played both together, then made small adjustments until he was satisfied.

Note by note, the C, G, D, E, and A, octave by octave, until he had completed all four and a half. It had taken several hours. Unbelievably, not one person had interrupted him. Freddie sat at the keyboard and tested his work by several runs of scales. His fingers were not moving as nimbly as he recalled. Then he moved on to playing arpeggios.

Not bad, not bad.
He discovered the majority of worn dampers and a few hammers were in need of repair. Freddie was limited to what he could do. With his current efforts the instrument would be playable without much offending the audience. Because of neglect the pianoforte would need to be retuned fairly soon.

Feeling quite satisfied with his last few hours’ labor, Freddie disassembled his tools, replacing them from whence they came, slipped into his borrowed jacket, and took his place behind the keyboard, expecting a great improvement. He began to play a Scarlatti sonata. It was a favorite tune of his and it sounded quite splendid. Yes, this was much, much better.

He switched to another piece, one with easier fingering. After some minutes he completed that and Freddie played a Beethoven tune. Oh my, he was enjoying himself. Great fun, this.

“Rosalind, how delightful you—” A man, entering from a side door wearing a greatcoat, strode into the room. “I have never heard you play finer, my dear, I—” He pulled off his hat then stopped when he realized the musician was not whom he first believed.

“I beg your pardon, sir.” Freddie stood and straightened his jacket. “As you can see, I am not Miss Rosalind.” The intruder was of an age to be the father of Miss Harris and therefore must have been her father.

“I can see that for myself.” Despite his enthusiasm for the performance, it did not appear he cared for seeing a stranger at the pianoforte.

“Mr. Harris, may I presume?” Freddie had not wished to cause any discomfort to his host. The two had, up until the present, had no chance to be properly introduced.

“I am.” His skeptical expression waned. He set his hat aside and removed his gloves and scarf, placing them with his hat. “You must be one of the guests who’ve come to stay with us. The ones from Penshaw.”

“I am,” Freddie replied. “Frederick Worth, sir.” He inclined his head, very pleased to make the man’s acquaintance.

“Worth, eh?” Mr. Harris looked his guest from toe to head. He moved slowly into the room, closer and closer to the pianoforte.

Freddie had not felt threatened by his host, but the notion that his family name might be known to the fellow had concerned him for a moment or two, or three.

“Are you acquainted with the Earl of Brent?” Mr. Harris’s tone was full of suspicion. He unfastened the buttons of his outer garment very slowly, taking his time.

“Ahem . . . I—” Freddie detested lying about that question.

“Went to Eton, the both of you, eh? That’s what I’ve heard.” He shrugged out of his greatcoat.

“Yes, sir. I attended Eton.” And with that reply he could answer truthfully.

“Well, then. That’s all right.” The tension between them felt as if it had eased a bit. “Was that Beethoven you were playing just now? An early work?”

“Yes, sir. It was.”

“Splendid, my boy. Quite splendid indeed.” The older man chuckled, laid his greatcoat next to his hat, and neared. “Do sit and play another for me, will you?”

“If that is what you would like, sir.” Freddie sat and wished Mr. Harris would make a request. “Is there something you especially wish to hear?”

“Are you a professional musician?” He placed his hands on the pianoforte.

“No, I am merely accomplished. My siblings and I are quite adept at playing musical instruments.” Freddie was known, by his family and close friends, to have both the talent of identifying an exact pitch of a note and the most exhaustive musical repertoire.

“Are they, now? How very fortunate for your parents.” Mr. Harris rapped the top of the pianoforte with his knuckles.

“Yes, sir.” Delving into his past would not be Freddie’s wish.

“Let’s see now. What shall I have you play?” As quickly as that Mr. Harris dropped any notion of asking further questions of Freddie’s family. His host appeared very excited to have Freddie play for him. “Shall we begin with Vivaldi’s
Seasons
? Let’s see . . . ‘Winter’.” He punctuated his decision with his index finger in the air. “No, how about ‘Summer’? Wait, wait, wait.” Rubbing his forehead, Mr. Harris once again changed his mind by announcing, “Make it any season of your choice, eh?” Then he took a seat and waited.

“Very well.” Freddie flexed his fingers, readying them to play. The only Vivaldi he could recall was ‘Summer’ . . . or was it ‘Spring’? No matter, he began to play.

Mr. Harris stood and clapped. “Ah! ‘Spring,’ my favorite!” He swayed and swung his arms in time with the music. As the tempo slowed, the movement of his arms became that of a conductor, guiding Freddie along the slower passage of the concerto, finally motioning to finish at the end of the first movement.

“Wonderful! Quite beyond my expectations, old boy! What a talent!” He clapped his hands together and rubbed them. “I have not heard its like in many a year.”

“Thank you, sir.” Freddie was glad he could be of some service. He was feeling quite useless before he had stumbled upon the pianoforte.

“I should be very happy to have you stay with us,” Mr. Harris mumbled. “I expect the coming days to be filled with many, many hours of excellent entertainment.”

“I will be delighted to oblige, sir. If I am able.”

“Would you do me one last favor and play . . .” Mr. Harris moved closer and whispered, “Could you manage a bit of a Bach fugue?”

Freddie drew in a breath. “Allow me to think on that for a moment.” Bach . . . the fugue was a bit more complex and more solemn than his normal taste. The only one he believed he knew was the one in G minor. He brought the tune immediately to mind and trusted his fingers to do the rest. Thus he began.

Was that music?
Rosalind tilted her head and pressed her handkerchief to her nose. She had just returned from her morning deliveries. She handed the baskets to Cook and removed her outer garments. She and Cook had a few words about that afternoon’s journey; Rosalind had acquired Clare’s visits since the arrival of their guests. Something about being a nurse and caregiver to Mr. Trevor was her reason for relinquishing her visits.

Mr. Trevor, indeed!

Rosalind stepped from the kitchen and ventured down the corridor. Yes, it was music. The closer to the parlor she drew, the more certain she became in regard to the fact that it
must
be her pianoforte she heard. Then there were voices. A man’s; her father’s?

This did not make any sense. Her father did not play.
Who then?
She sniffed again, pressed her handkerchief to her nose, and peered slowly inside the room.

Mr. Worth?

It was he at the keyboard playing her pianoforte. In close proximity was her father, making a cake out of himself by swaying to and fro and swinging his arms in time to the tune. Rosalind had nearly forgotten her parent’s reaction when he listened to music. She had played so little for him over the years; with the condition of the pianoforte she considered it nearly impossible. Yet there were the two men enjoying the sound emanating from that very instrument. The music came to an abrupt halt.

“Miss Harris!” Mr. Worth stood when he realized she had entered.