Dilemma in Yellow Silk (7 page)

Ah, yes, the Catholics. Blamed for everything in certain quarters, especially with good county Tories. Because of her peculiar and distinctive background, Viola had always sought more than simply blaming someone else for her troubles. She wanted to know reasons, not excuses.

This time she understood because she’d read widely on the subject. “The Young Pretender converted to Protestantism a few years ago,” she said. “Nobody cared.”

“It’s too late for him,” Mr. Quick, a local magistrate, said. He held up his glass of wine, the red liquid wavering in the candlelight. “And since he has only a bastard daughter and his brother is a man of the cloth, we may see the end of that branch of the family soon. Certainly they are finished as monarchs.”

He turned his attention to Miss Stewart and her mother and raised his glass to them in a silent toast. “However, the legends are romantic, if inaccurate. The Stuarts have a long and distinguished history far beyond the current generation and the one before.”

“We all have our black sheep,” Lord Strenshall said. “Even the Emperors of London have their wicked side.”

Thus he deftly moved the conversation on when it appeared to become mired in controversy. His own family—or rather, his wife’s family—was known as the Emperors.

Viola toyed with the food on her plate. She had not eaten much of the delicious offerings, but her appetite had fled long before she sat at table. “Lord Malton is Marcus Aurelius,” she reminded them.

Marcus groaned and clasped his forehead. “Don’t remind me.”

“It could be worse,” she continued. “Your cousins Nicephorus and Antoninus have interesting names.”

Mrs. Stewart tilted her head on one side. “I did not know your family was blessed with such unusual names.”

In an age when men were often known even to their wives by their surname or their title, the remark would not raise brows. Except the Emperors were famous, if not notorious, and the gossip sheets loved to spread news about them, however scurrilous or defamatory. The worst of the papers rarely paused to check such trivialities as facts.

“My siblings are Valentinian, Darius, Drusilla, Claudia, and Livia,” Marcus said, twirling his empty glass, watching the facets flash. “I have cousins called Julius Caesar and Poppea. Surely you knew this?”

“I did not think the matter was relevant,” Mrs. Stewart said. Her jowls shook when she moved her head. “Why a gentleman is given as his first name is hardly apropos. But now you mention the names, taken together I understand the way you are referred to by the Grub Street press. My education did not include the ancients of Greece.”

“Rome.” Viola mouthed the word but did not say it. That would have been rude, but the correction lay there. She couldn’t have been the only person here tonight to think it.

Glancing up, she caught Marcus’s gaze. He was not smiling, but the tiny lines at the corners of his eyes revealed his amusement.

He picked up his wine glass and tilted it toward her, the toast for her eyes alone. “My namesake was a great Roman emperor and a renowned general. I have no intention of following his example. He was also a philosopher, something I bear in mind in my less…philosophical moments.” The slight pause gave his words a wicked innuendo.

Her face heating, Viola glanced down at her empty plate. No conversation was safe with Marcus. Why did other people not see that? It appeared only she had noticed the warmth in his eyes.

Candlelight added warmth to features, of course, but it was more than that. It was as if his blue eyes were lit inside with a tiny flame of their own.

She got to her feet. “Ladies, shall we leave the gentlemen to their port?”

Although the ladies had finished eating, some demonstrated a reluctance to leave the men. Viola wanted to get away, to compose herself for the next part of the evening. Although the clock chimed seven as they went into the drawing room, it felt like much later. It wasn’t even fully dark yet. “Daringly late for a dinner,” a lady remarked.

“They eat at this time and much later in town,” Mrs. Stewart said airily, as if fully conversant with the ways of London. She had probably never been there in her life. Neither had Viola, come to that, but she never pretended she had.

They were using the Blue Drawing Room as it had windows that opened on to the garden. The scent of roses and honeysuckle drifted through the air. The maids had been in to light the candles. They sent a warm glow over the blue-upholstered sofas and chairs set in an informal arrangement.

“Are we not to go into the state drawing room?” one lady asked. Viola was in danger of causing insult, so she gave the answer she’d heard the marchioness use once or twice before.

“This is a private family room. His lordship thought you would enjoy the intimate atmosphere more,” she said and received a gratified smile and gentle agreement.

Mrs. Stewart took control as much as she could. When the maids brought in the tea-trays, she organized them on the tables and took charge of one, while Viola took the other. Soon every lady was furnished with a dish of tea or a sweet cordial. Viola took a small glass of the elderberry wine.

“Darling Emma, sing that new piece for us,” Mrs. Stewart said. The harpsichord in here was not as fine as one in the music room. However it had been tuned at the same time, and it sounded just as good.

Her daughter stood and went to the harpsichord, where her sheet music lay ready.
Quelle surprise
, Viola thought.

“I would rather concentrate on singing the piece,” Miss Stewart said, leafing through the pages. “Is there nobody who will play for me?” She glared at Viola. Hardly a gentle hint.

Taking her glass with her, Viola stood and went to the harpsichord, taking a moment to go through the pages. “Would you prefer to start with something more traditional?” That was a kindness, because the piece Emma Stewart handed to her was fiendishly tricky to sing. Viola sang indifferently, and she would never have attempted this piece. Perhaps Emma had been taking lessons.

After Emma decided on a sweet popular ditty, Viola played the introduction and Emma began to sing. She had a pretty voice, better than Viola’s for sure, but not opera standard. But Viola had to give her credit for singing the song about a soldier leaving his lass at home with feeling and intonation.

When the gentlemen came in, Emma did not stop. She bowed her head at the patter of applause and nodded to Viola, just as if Viola was hired for the evening. “The new piece, please.”

Viola did not argue, but began to play. She had to concentrate on the unfamiliar air. That meant she didn’t notice anyone standing behind her until an arm clad in figured green velvet reached over and turned the page for her. Even if she had not been aware what Marcus was wearing, she’d have recognized him from his distinctive male aroma. Spicy and slightly peppery—that was Marcus.

The ruffles at the end of his sleeve brushed the bare skin of her neck as he withdrew. Viola suppressed a shiver of response. As always, her senses went on alert, although she tried to conquer her reaction to him. Every time he had that effect on her she swore he would not again. But here she was, responding as if he’d taught her body to do so.

Determinedly she turned her mind to the music.

Emma began to sing. She’d given Viola the music, so she must have been working on this piece for some time. It was Italian, an aria from one of the newest operas. At first Emma made a fair attempt. She hit all the notes and even managed a trill or two. However in doing so, she lost the meaning of the piece. That was a shame, since the song was a lament that the lady was waiting for her lover, the one man she could never openly give her heart to.

As the song wound its way along, Emma lost her way. She missed more notes and forgot the trills. She was obviously finding it hard work. She should have kept to ditties.

And all the time Marcus stood behind Viola, turning the pages.

Relief filled Viola when they reached the end.

While he leaned over to gather the sheets together, Marcus murmured to Viola, “How on earth did you allow yourself to be maneuvered into this?”

Lady Stewart had taken charge. She was dispensing tea and leading the conversation as if born to it.

“I gave up the fight,” Viola confessed.

Marcus straightened but remained by Viola’s side. “Why don’t you give us the piece you were playing the other day?” he said mildly, when the applause was done and compliments given. “You remember, the one you used to test the other keyboard.”

What was he doing? She glared at him. “It’s just a local song.” She began one of the innocent airs, but he interrupted her by touching her hand. Immediately she stopped.

“Not that one. The one you played last.”

The scurrilous one. Could she remember the words for the sweet version? No, damn him, she could not. Only the other rang through her head, mocking her.

Stepping over the bench, he joined her, sitting by her said. “Perhaps just the tune,” he said softly. His eyes gleamed, but with wickedness.

She wanted to hit him, but all she could do was glare.

They played the two-hander. Over the tinkle of the notes, talk swelled and then faded. Someone laughed. At her, no doubt. She kept her head down as she finished the piece. Despite the smatter of applause, she felt tainted, as if caught out playing a trick.

“Goodness, that was clever,” Lady Stewart said. “My lord, I did not know you played.”

“Everybody plays,” he drawled. He turned toward the lady, allowing Viola a moment to recall herself. “Do you not?”

“No,” her ladyship said shortly. “I do not. I take it Miss Gates learned with you?”

“We learned together,” he said, “But my sisters spent more time in the music room. I believe at one time they formed a quartet, but after my mother begged them to stop, they went their separate ways.”

The marquess laughed. “Oh, yes. Each played their own version of the piece. Only Viola ever kept in time.”

“And Drusilla,” Marcus said quietly.

Dru had been a solitary child. Sandwiched between two sets of twins in birth order, she had spent much time alone. Viola recognized something of her own situation, except that Dru was alone in the middle of her family, and Viola was an only child. However the two girls had not gravitated together. For some reason their fathers worked to keep them apart, even when they were small.

Viola sometimes wondered if the cool and collected Dru had ever found someone as a particular trusted friend. Viola had her father to keep her company.

Tonight Dru’s brother was tormenting Viola, sitting next to her much closer than a gentleman should, but the cramped stool they shared necessitated that. He must know that, surely. Would he tease her so if he knew what he was doing to her? Probably not, and he must never know. She would die if he discovered how deep her feelings went for him. He’d marry a grand lady and become a marquess in the fullness of time. His wife would give him a quiverful of children for the title and estate, and they would most likely remain content.

She would be happy for him; she truly would. Heartbreak did not last forever.

Marcus got to his feet and held his hand to help her up. “Yellow suits you,” he said softly. “I like this gown. Will you wear it again for me?”

She swallowed and smiled. “Of course. You’ll see it again without a doubt. I only bought it this year, so it has to last me for a while.”

“It is extremely becoming,” Lady Stewart said, seemingly heedless of joining in a private conversation. She must have ears like a bat. “A little simple for my taste, but if you need it to last a few years, it is best to keep the style simple.” She made the decision sound like a sin. She shook back her triple ruffles. “Come and take some tea, my dear. You must be parched.”

“I find singing fills me with inspiration,” Emma said. “I shall take out my sketchbook tomorrow.”

Only Viola was close enough to hear Marcus’s soft groan. No sign of his unspoken comment appeared on his face, a skill she would dearly love to emulate. He made her smile. Far too much, if truth be told.

The party did not decide to call for carriages until nine o’clock. All that time Lady Stewart had animadverted on her daughter’s skills and their plans for the year.

It took until ten before they all left.

In the now quiet drawing room, the marquess turned to Viola. “I must thank you for this evening,” he said. “You showed a great deal of fortitude. Lady Stewart can be a little wearing. When she began on the family tree of the Scottish Stuarts, I thought she would be here all night.”

Viola dropped a small curtsey. “It was my pleasure, my lord.”

“I doubt that.” But he raised her and kissed her cheek. “I will leave first thing in the morning, probably before you are awake. You will stay here tonight?”

She had not expected that. “Oh, but it’s not far. Only half a mile. It’s a fine summer evening.”

“And full dark,” the marquess said. “I insist. Do you need a maid to help you?”

When he spoke in that tone she knew better than to argue with him. And, she realized with a flip of pleasure, they had put her in the Chinese room. They could not mean her to use that. “I can manage perfectly well, my lord. Should I find a room?”

“I took her to the Chinese room,” Marcus said. “She should be comfortable there.”

His lordship smiled and nodded. “Yes, indeed. Since I intend to leave at dawn, I’ll bid you goodnight.” He bowed over her hand. Enchanted, Viola loved it, even the wink he bestowed on her when he straightened.

She could smile back, none of the reticence she felt when the Stewarts patronized her tainting her mood. “If you will excuse me, then, I’ll make my way upstairs.”

“Of course. Feel free to ring for whatever you need.”

As if she would. But with another word of thanks, she lifted her skirts to run upstairs.

His lordship said to Marcus, “A word with you before you retire.”

So they were leaving in the morning. Gloom settled on her. They would go back to London, and she would return to her father and spend her days caring for him and his house, as she always wanted to. Why should she not be happy with the prospect?