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Authors: Hayley A. Solomon

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“I'd better send a list down to the kitchens, for no doubt we will need butter and eggs. It is fortunate I have just picked chamomile, for it will make an excellent infusion for tea.”
Mrs. Camfrey stared at her daughter as if she'd run mad. “Cordelia, dear, this is no common, garden-variety personage who invites herself to our home this afternoon! This is—”
“The Duchess of Doncaster! I know, Mama, but I cannot help thinking she would find it passing odd in us if we did not offer her some refreshments!”
“
Must
you always be so practical?”
Cordelia smiled. “I trust so, Mama, for between you and Seraphina there has to be
someone
dull enough to manage the household!”
“Dull? Pooh! You simply don't push yourself forward enough, Cordelia! When you are Lady Winthrop I hope you won't stint on what is owing to your consequence.”
Miss Camfrey decided not to argue the point. She'd heard the gist time and time again. Besides, she had that familiar sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. The thought of becoming Lady Winthrop, whilst not exactly repugnant, was depressing to her spirits nonetheless. She sighed.
Mrs. Camfrey looked at her sharply. “I hope you are not sickening for something, Cordelia dear. You have looked strangely abstracted this past week.”
Well she might have! Visions of Rhaz, Lord Doncaster had been flitting all too frequently through her recalcitrant thoughts. It bothered her that she should dwell so much on their few intimate moments when she had a lifetime ahead with Lord Henry. If she could bring herself to feel a tenth as alive with him as she had with the duke, she could look towards her marriage with equanimity. As it was, comparisons were inevitable. Cordelia's imagination, never usually fanciful, was stirred. If she closed her eyes she could almost sense his presence, his intriguing eyes brimful of laughter and a trace of faint cynicism. There had been a ready understanding between them that Cordelia yearned for in her dealings with her own family and betrothed.
Now she stopped to wonder what the duchess's visit presaged.
Surely
, her meeting with Doncaster could not be connected with this imperious note. And yet, the coincidence . . . Lost in thought she did not hear Seraphina trip into the room, her long auburn hair all atangle.
“Mama! Lord Rochester wrote me the
prettiest
of poems! I told him he was a great flirt but—What
is
it?”
Seraphina noticed that her mother looked strangely excited. When she read the note handed to her, she looked puzzled and then clapped her hands in a transport of delight.
“Good heavens! She must have heard of Roving Rhaz!”
“Seraphina!” Cordelia's voice was sharp. She could not think
how
she'd come to use such a distasteful expression and, worse, pass it on to her impressionable and irrepressible younger sibling.
“Do not worry, Delia dear. I shan't call him that in front of her grace!”
“I should think not!” Ancilla's voice was stern. She took the note back again and reread it, as if to glean some secret, hidden message. “I am
still
in the dark. Why should her grace deign to make this call? To be sure we were acquainted at Miss Caxton's Seminary for Young Ladies an aeon ago, but that cannot signify. We were hardly bosom buddies and when she married Doncaster I do not believe we kept in touch. The passing
nod
of course . . .”
“Do not be such a gudgeon, Mama! She is coming, I daresay, to see
me!
” Seraphina twirled across the room in her slippered feet, gathering swaths of her muslin morning dress as she did so.
Cordelia opened her mouth to say something, then snapped it shut firmly. It might have been true, of course. His grace might have fallen head over heels in love with Seraphina the instant he set eyes on her. There was no doubt she'd been in looks the evening of the soiree. No doubting, too, the floral tributes she'd received nor the morning callers that had besieged the house night and day from that moment forward.
Cynically, Cordelia had set Seraphina's success down to a combination of her own sweet nature and a slavish desire to follow fashion. It occurred to her that Doncaster was a nonpareil, a trendsetter in all that he did. By openly supporting Seraphina, he had set his seal upon her. Her popularity after that would have been inevitable.
Still, he'd not
himself
visited the little house on Brooke Street, and above a small posy for both sisters the day after the soiree, nothing else of great moment had occurred. Yet here was the Duchess of Doncaster coming to call! Quite unaccountable unless his feelings
had
been engaged. . . . Cordelia swallowed hard. If that were so, then she wished her sister every happiness.
“I had best go prepare Mrs. Stevens for our guest. I don't doubt she will set the servants to spring cleaning with vigour. I shall cull some flowers from the hothouse and ask Anders if I may trim some of the roses. Do you think we should bring out the silver plate, Mama?”
“Undoubtedly! When
else
should we use it? The crystal, too, of course.”
Cordelia nodded and opened the drapes a little farther. Her dark ringlets cascaded down her back and seemed to shine from the sunshine filtering through the window pane.
“Perhaps we can stop by Gunther's and buy some sugared candy and a marasquino jelly or a pineapple cream?” Seraphina asked this hopefully, for she
adored
sweet things.
Cordelia looked at the little ormolu clock upon the mantel. Her hands flew to her mouth and she shook her head. “We have not much time, for she stipulates two o'clock and it is already near ten!”
Horrified, Seraphina and Ancilla bent their minds to what to wear. Whilst they were still thinking, the elder Miss Camfrey made her way quietly outside. No doubt the brisk morning air would cool her hot cheeks and allow her to think.
FOUR
“Well met, Frederick!” His grace smiled engagingly at his friend and dismissed Chawleigh with a slight nod. “Come inside. I have something that will warm your bones and make you forget your troubles, I assure you!”
Captain Argyll threw his beaver across the room and it landed, to his great satisfaction, on the hat stand discreetly tucked in the corner.
“Excellent!” He beamed. “I was hoping you kept a decent cellar, for I assure you the Kings Arm's does
not!
”
“I wish you would put up with
me.
You are perfectly welcome, you know.”
The Honourable Frederick made a face. “Don't fuss, Rhaz! The Arms will do until I make some sort of shift. I won't batten off you and there is an end to it.”
The duke nodded. Useless to argue with Freddie, for the man had a will almost as strong as his own. One of the reasons he liked him, of course, for Frederick was the last man on earth to toad eat him or kowtow sickeningly to his lofty rank.
The duke poured from a bottle on the waiting salver and handed a glass to his friend. He watched in bemusement as the dark, velvety liquid was downed in one breathtaking gulp. “Spain has taught you some tricks, I see!”
“Devil a bit!” Captain Argyll set down his glass and seated himself quite close to the chessboard. His eyes flickered over it absently before returning, once more, to those of the duke. “Truth is, Rhaz, I'm a trifle blue devilled.” He looked rueful as he made this disclosure, for he was loath to admit the extent of his depression of spirits. After returning from the Peninsula, he'd expected his family to greet him with at least
some
degree of warmth. This expectation had proven false, for the Earl of Drummond was consumed with his nuptials and felt unaccountably put out by the return of a handsome, profligate younger brother who might steal his thunder if not actually his bride.
For Captain Argyll, in peacetime circles known as Lord Frederick, was renowned for his bonny nature, insouciant sense of humour and faultless address, particularly with the female sex. It was as well he had no fortune to boast of, for otherwise he might have found himself besieged by young maidens eager for his hand. Lord Frederick, it should be noted, was
not
the marrying type.
It was a strange friendship he had struck up with Rhaz, Lord Doncaster. Where the duke was scholarly, the captain eschewed literature and Greek like the plague, calling all misguided adherents “bookish.” Where the duke had been born to riches, the captain had been born in the knowledge that he was a mere second son, destined to forge his own place in the world. Rhaz loved savoury, Frederick adored sweet. Rhaz rode, Frederick walked. It was said that he had walked across half of Spain at one time and the duke, knowing him intimately, had credited the rumor. Frederick was happiest on a gentle nag of sweet disposition. Rhaz was hamstrung on anything less than a fiery Arabian or a high-stepping grey.
Perhaps it was their mutual passion for music that had first drawn them together in a run-down tavern in Spain. For Frederick, whatever his other objections to the arts, was a musician born. He could close his eyes and imagine the most extraordinary notes tumultuously rising and falling together in a crescendo of power and harmony. Better, he could translate the thought into actuality, using whatever instrument lay to hand. Harp or lute, violin or harpsichord—it was all the same to him. He could create enchantment in an instant, using his fingers or lips as the wellspring of harmony. Whilst the duke could not play, he could listen. And listen he did, with such fierce intensity that Captain Argyll had been forced to acknowledge his presence, playing as he had never done before, because the passion of music was enhanced tenfold by its appreciation.
Whatever the reason, an unshakeable bond had been forged between the duo. Whilst they went their own separate ways in the ordinary manner of things, when they
did
meet, it was as if they'd never been apart. Captain Argyll found himself divulging to Rhaz what he had hardly acknowledged to himself: his driving ambition to earn his way in the world, heedless of title and family. He was heartily sick of listening to his elder brother's cliched pronouncements on everything from the state of the poor to the state of his robes.
The duke's lips twitched in sympathetic understanding, for it was true that the Earl of Drummond
did
have a singularly inflated sense of his own importance. Frederick declared he was entitled to that and welcome, but he needed no part in it.
Further, he scorned to have his music performed at soirees, for
they
, he announced, were judged by rank rather than proficiency. Thinking of his own antics, the duke was inclined to agree. Little Miss Camfrey would have been allowed to sink but he, a duke, had caused her to swim. It was rankly unfair as he would have been the first to admit.
Captain Argyll continued, outlining objection after objection to the life neatly laid out for him by the earl and the dowager countess. No, he did
not
want to become a clergyman however good the living. His mouth quirked at this, for as he cheerfully remarked, he was more likely to be consigned to hell than to heaven.
Between breaths, the duke managed to stop him, recommending to him the excellent goose liver pate and cheeses set down by his housekeeper. The very thought was enough to send Frederick's spirits bouncing back. After the pair had done the kitchens ample justice, Rhaz wiped his mouth carefully and asked his friend if he had any plans beyond merely “jawing on” about what he did
not
want.
Frederick cocked his head to one side and stretched out his long, muscular legs. Though slightly shorter than Rhaz, he was nevertheless superbly built, his well-defined proportions an excellent testament to Cribb's parlour and Gentleman Jack's saloon, where he had spent many an hour in concentrated combat.
Not to
mention
the recent war, which had produced so many narrow shaves that he had become accustomed to hanging off ledges, ducking bayonets and generally exercising his fine physique in all
manner
of intriguing ways. Then there were the nights . . . but suffice it to say that Lord Frederick had a surfeit of activity, pleasurable and otherwise. Sufficient, certainly, to explain his enviably flat stomach and other near perfect dimensions.
“Quizzing me, Rhaz?”
The Duke of Doncaster smiled. “Only prodding you on, dear boy! You would not be Captain Argyll of the Seventh Fighting Dragoons if you did not have a plan!”
“True! And, yes, I do have a notion of sorts.”
“Care to enlighten me?”
“I am not sure. You may think I have run quite mad!”
“There is no novelty in
that
, Frederick! You should have been safely tucked in Bedlam
years
ago!”
The captain made an unholy grimace. “My pompous windbag of a brother's sentiments
exactly
, I fear. Still, I am out and about and in high grig, too, so that is of no consequence.”
“Do you intend keeping me in suspense all night or is this a novel new way of entertaining me?” The duke's voice was heavy with sarcasm. Frederick, it should be noted, was not cowed in the least. Instead, he grinned broadly and put his hands behind his head.
“A guessing game? What an excellent notion, your grace!”
The duke thoughtfully surveyed the last of the contents of his glass. Then, without warning, he dashed it against his dear, bosom buddy's shirtfront.
Frederick threw back his tousled chestnut head and chuckled. As he reached for a crisp damask napkin, his face was a medley of expressions, the chiefest of these being outraged good humour. “I hope you have a spare shirt at
least,
Rhaz! The King's Arms will never admit me looking like a regular jack o' straws!”
“Good! Stay with me.”
Captain Argyll sighed and brushed a few specks off his creamy pantaloons.
They,
at least, were still immaculately clean.
“Have done, Rhaz. You know my sentiments on the matter! Besides, I have other plans.”
The duke sighed ominously. “And these are?”
For the first time, the Honourable Frederick looked a trifle diffident. “I intend composing. If I
have
this talent—and I think I have—I should use it, rather than become a preaching clergyman, or worse, a complaisant country gentleman! The life of a squire does not suit, I find.”
“So I should think, with that tame nag you choose to ride!”
“Betsy? There is nothing wrong with my Betsy, but that is not to the point.” Brave Captain Argyll looked strangely vulnerable. The duke, seeing this, became serious.
“It is an excellent idea, Frederick, for I believe you have the gift. I will never forget coming upon you in that tavern, for the lilting melody of the panpipe still haunts me. Compose by all means—heaven knows, we need at least one genuine artist among the dross we laud today!”
Frederick was gratified, for he knew that upon such an important issue the duke could be relied upon neither to offer false coin nor prevaricate if the truth had been unpleasant.
“Thank you. My little pipes serve me well! I plan, though, to compose for harpsichord and strings. Perhaps also a lute, possibly a harp. We shall see.”
“Shall I be your patron?”
Frederick coloured fiercely. “If
that
is what you think I am about, then I shall leave upon the instant! I don't take charity Rhaz Carlisle, Lord Doncaster!”
The duke's eyes gleamed. Frederick made
such
a refreshing change from the myriads of people quite prepared to toadeat him for a living. They got short shrift, of course, but sponsoring the captain would have been an unalloyed pleasure.
“Don't get on your high ropes with
me
, Freddie! You and I have come too far to argue over trifles!”
“Indeed! Then you will know I am too sensible to batten upon my friends!”
The duke sighed. “As you wish, Frederick. If
I
am not to aid you, how will you live? Your annual stipend is a mere pittance! Shall you marry an heiress?”
The good Frederick grinned widely. “I'd as soon cut off my nose as get leg shackled! I prefer
variety,
I will have you know! That, I have to admit with relief, is
one
good thing about being a second son. I don't have to marry for heirs and I tell you, Rhaz, I shan't!”
“Touché!” Rhaz raised his hands as if sorry he asked. “What will you do then?”
“I shall become a music master. It is an easy living. I shall earn my keep by day and compose by night. I shall not have the distraction of a social calendar, so I will have ample time to think.” Frederick looked defiant, as if challenging Rhaz to object. To his surprise, Rhaz did not.
“An excellent idea if you neglect to mention you are high born. I doubt too many employers would be overkeen to employ a nobleman.”
“I've thought of that. They wouldn't let me loose without a chaperone, of course. Wise, too!” A mischievous dimple played across his lordship's cheeks.
“You will probably land up with some pudding-faced wench who is a musical illiterate.”
“All the better! I shall earn my keep without falling captive to her charms.”
“I shall hope, then, for a cross-eyed cit.”
“Thank you.” Frederick inclined his head solemnly. I shall be presented as plain Captain Argyll. Suits me, for I've been answering to that name the greater part of two years!”
“What about Drummond? Won't he turn up his supercilious nose at the lark?”
“Thank heavens, no! He shall know nothing about it. I wouldn't put it past him to give the game away if he did. He has followed Prinny to Bath at all events, so we should not cross company.”
“I take it you have found an employer?”
Frederick nodded. “Quite providential, actually. There was an advertisement in the
Gazette
yesterday. I applied in person and appear to have found favour!”
“Excellent! And your music? How shall you go on?”
“I shall write by candlelight and forward the scores on to Mr. Beckett.”
“Miss Austen's publisher?”
“The very same! He has already printed a nonsensical little madrigal of mine and has promised to review anything further that I produce. Of course, he mainly deals in literary works, but he has a knowledgeable partner in the operatic world. His decision rests with that gentleman, so the arrangement works out well.”
“You seem to have it all in hand.”
“I hope so, for I would hate to have to run back to Drummond!”
“You shall not.”
“How can you be so certain?”
The duke eyed him quizzically and took up a chess piece. “I have heard your music.”

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