Prelude for a Lord (17 page)

“How much did you pay her?” Alethea demanded of Mr. Morrish.

He sniffed. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sir Hermes will hear of this,” Bayard said.

“Bay, he will only think it a good joke,” Clare told him.

She was right. And neither Sir Hermes nor Bayard’s mother were averse to an alliance between Mr. Morrish and Clare.

“At the very least, Miss Terralton, you can hire a new maid,” Alethea said.

“Come, Clare.” Bayard also held his arm out to Alethea. “Shall we depart?” He pulled both ladies away without another word to Mr. Morrish.

As they reached the front of the shop, Betty moved toward Clare with an expression of contrition. “There you are, miss. I wasn’t sure where you were.”

“Betty, return to the house immediately,” Bayard said. When she hesitated, he barked, “Now.”

She scuttled out of the shop.

“When we get home, I shall turn her off,” he said.

Clare sighed. “I shall have to find a new lady’s maid.”

The air outside the shop seemed crisp and clean, as if he had been breathing something foul but hadn’t realized it.

“I am not a disinterested observer,” Alethea said, “for I know of an excellent lady’s maid who will never be bribed or distracted from her charge.”

“How can you be certain of her loyalty?” Bayard asked.

“I know and love her better than any other creature in the world. She is my half sister, Lucy Purcell.”

“How could your sister be a lady’s maid?” Clare asked.

“She and I grew up in the same village, but not in the same household,” Alethea said delicately.

An illegitimate daughter of the Earl of Trittonstone? Clare seemed to understand without needing further clarification, but she did venture to ask, “How is it that you are so intimate?”

“Clare,” Bayard said in warning. The conversation was becoming indelicate.

“I assure you, it is nothing scandalous,” Alethea said. “She is older than I by a few months. Her mother married before Lucy was born, giving her respectability, but I grew up always knowing Lucy was my half sister. The matrons of the village wanted to dictate to me whom I could not associate with.” Alethea quirked an eyebrow. “So naturally, I sought Lucy out and we became fast friends.”

Clare looked both astounded and admiring.

“I would trust Lucy with my life.” Alethea’s eyes were dark and serious as they looked to Bayard. “I would have hired her myself had my financial circumstances been different. She has served as a lady’s maid for several gentlewomen in Bath. Right now, she is working for Mrs. Ramsland but would be pleased to move to a different situation.”

“What do you think, Bay?” Clare said.

“Certainly, we should be happy to hire your sister.” After what had just occurred, he did not care if the woman dressed Clare in sackcloth, so long as she could be depended upon to protect her.

“Splendid.” To Alethea, she asked, “Do you attend the concert tomorrow night?”

“Yes, but I have never heard of the soprano who will be singing.”

“I heard that she is very new and supposedly descended from Italian royalty.”

Bayard listened with only half an ear since they had discussed this last night. Now that it was over, he could feel the relief he had suppressed in the bookshop. If Alethea had not thought quickly, Mrs. Herrington-Smythe’s poisonous tongue could have ensured that Clare would be ruined or engaged to Mr. Morrish.

Alethea had risen to protect his sister. Her actions hinted at a self-sufficiency he admired. Things she had said gave him the impression that she had not had many people to rely upon in her life.

And for some reason, that thought bothered him a great deal.

The soprano’s piercing high C was like both ice and fire poured down Alethea’s back as she squirmed in her seat in Lady Rollingwood’s concert. She had already suffered through two songs, and the soprano was nearing the end of butchering a third. However, it seemed that no one around her noticed the woman’s sad sense of pitch, for as usual, many of the fashionable set of society chatted with each other rather than listened to the music. If she did not intend to speak to the singer after the concert, Alethea might have been tempted to leave for the quieter air in the other room.

Thankfully, Signora D’Angelo finished the song with a flourish and a toss of her magnificent head. The applause was more enthusiastic than her performance warranted, perhaps due to her magnificent bosom threatening to fall out of her gold-and-blue gown.

Sitting next to her, Aunt Ebena muttered something that sounded like, “Thank goodness.”

Lady Rollingwood announced a brief intermission, and Aunt Ebena went to visit with friends sitting in another part of the room. Signora D’Angelo held court near the front, flashing white teeth framed by red-stained lips. Her eyes, heavily made up with kohl, flirted with the gentlemen flocking about her. Alethea was not hopeful that she would be able to speak to her before the concert resumed. However, the soprano was likely to use the ladies’ withdrawing room after the concert, and Alethea could speak to her then.

When Alethea fetched glasses of lemonade for herself and her aunt, she met with Miss Terralton.

“Lady Alethea, may I sit with you?” Miss Terralton asked without preamble. “Mr. Morrish is of our party tonight.”

“How can your stepfather allow him to pay such attentions to you after what happened?”

“You must understand. Sir Hermes is of a jovial and complacent disposition. His nephew said that he meant no disrespect to me, and Sir Hermes believed him.”

Privately, Alethea thought Sir Hermes an idiot. At least Miss Terralton now had Lucy ensconced in their home to protect her. “Of course you may sit with us. Tell me, Miss Terralton, how do you like Lucy as your maid?”

“She is very like you. And you must call me Clare.”

They chatted until the intermission was over, and Signora D’Angelo sang another three songs, quite as badly as the first three. Then Lady Rollingwood introduced a young German violinist, Mr. Dohman, who would be performing a new violin concerto of his own composition.

From the first measure, Alethea was entranced. Dohman played with fire and speed, nothing staid or stately. He played as if the music burned in him, and its power pervaded the room. The notes swelled in her heart and ears, and she closed her eyes. The music brought up memories of the hot, bright sun against her skin and the overpowering scent of lilacs in bloom, a mad dash across the downs on her horse in a storm with the sting of the rain against her face and the bite of the wind through her riding habit, the horrible darkness of sorrow at the death of her dog, Sheltie, a stray whom she had raised since she was ten years old.

When the music ended, she realized there were tears on her cheeks. She felt drained, as if she’d run across the park without stopping. She gulped in air, then rummaged in her reticule for a handkerchief.

Aunt Ebena thrust one into her hands, snapping at her, “Compose yourself.”

She couldn’t help it. Music had always had the power to move her, to play her emotions the way she played her violin.

Why must she be so different from everyone around her? She supposed she could restrain herself and hide who she was, but that would be a prison. She would rather be alone and free.

She cleared her eyes to find Clare staring at her, brows knit. She tentatively said, “You enjoy your music with . . . fervor.”

“I live my life with fervor. Music is a large part of my life.”

“The way you listen to music . . . it makes me feel as if I am missing something in my life.”

“Missing something? In not showing proper decorum in a concert?”

“Sometimes, especially when I am playing music, I want to express myself fully without concern about whether it is proper or not, but I am always afraid of making a fool of myself.”

Alethea studied Clare, taking in the earnest dark eyes, the droop of insecurity about the soft rosebud mouth. “As you grow older, you will gain more confidence,” Alethea said. “You will learn when to be sensible and when to have sensibility.”

Clare took several moments to think on her words. Finally, she reached out to squeeze Alethea’s hand.

Mr. Dohman and the pianoforte player who had been accompanying the soprano began an instrumental piece by Pergolesi that Alethea recognized, although she had not heard it in a long time. It had a simple, lovely repeating melody line that was easily recognizable and lent itself well to the poignant tones of Dohman’s violin. However, she realized that Dohman must have added and embellished, for it differed from the short, simple piece she and Calandra had played together. She listened with delight, remembering the smell of woodsmoke in Calandra’s music room, the patter of rain
against the window, the vibrations of the pianoforte on the wooden floor as Alethea played the moody piece with feeling.

Clare exhaled softly as the piece ended. “How beautiful.”

“One of my favourites,” Alethea said.

“Do you know it?”

“It is by Pergolesi.”

“Who?”

“He wrote mostly opera and vocal works, but this was an instrumental piece that Calandra—my neighbor, Lady Arkright, especially liked. I have the music—would you like to borrow it?”

“Oh, yes, please. It was such a beautiful, pensive piece. It reminded me of Terralton Abbey in the rain.”

The concert was over. Clare glanced toward her family. “Mama is signaling to me.”

Alethea saw Signora D’Angelo heading into the ladies’ withdrawing room. She said to Clare, “I will escort you back to your party.” Afterward, she would waylay the soprano. Hopefully the woman would not be too quick to return to the drawing room.

As they approached where Clare’s family was seated, Alethea noticed Dommick standing next to a well-built man with curly blond hair. He looked familiar, and as they drew near, she recognized Mr. Kinnier.

He was a nobleman, an accomplished violin player and well-known. She had often seen him at concerts and parties during her season. She had had the unfortunate experience of overhearing Mr. Kinnier after the ladies in a dinner party had performed for the guests. He spoke to the hostess and disdained Alethea’s harp playing but praised the indifferent pianoforte playing of the daughter of the house. She suspected his intention was to cozy up to the hostess, and she had despised him for such toadying. She had heard him play at several concerts, and while he was of superior skill to most amateurs, he had not been as skillful as Dommick.

“Oh,” Clare said in a low voice. “It is Mr. Kinnier.” Her tone indicated that Clare might care for Mr. Kinnier’s company as little as she did. “I cannot think what Lady Whittlesby is about, for she knows Mama does not care for him.”

Lord Dommick held himself stiffly, but Lady Whittlesby had wicked amusement in her eyes as she stood and chatted with the two men. She caught sight of Alethea and Clare and waved them over. “Lady Alethea, you have met Mr. Kinnier, have you not?”

“Indeed, my lady.”

She curtseyed to him, and he pretended to remember her. “I am pleased to see you again, Lady Alethea.” He surveyed her with his small, dark eyes, which looked even smaller because his eyelashes were so fair.

Alethea noticed that Clare had swiftly pulled her brother away to speak to him, leaving Alethea with Mr. Kinnier and Lady Whittlesby.

Mr. Kinnier did not seem to notice Miss Terralton’s defection. “How do you enjoy Bath, my lady?”

It was the normal chit chat she expected from evenings such as this, but Alethea wanted to speak to Signora D’Angelo, so tonight it seemed interminable. She said in a slightly rushed voice, “It is very enjoyable. Are you just arrived?”

“Indeed. And already I find friends among the society here.” He nodded toward her.

Mr. Kinnier was a hostess’s dream with his excellent manners, but Alethea wished instead for Dommick’s strong opinions—even if he was wrong—and stronger feelings. Mr. Kinnier’s bland good taste bored her, and she could not trust his affable mask since she had witnessed his tendency to say whatever was pleasing to the listener.

Her question was more pointed than polite. “You have not held a concert in two or three years, I believe. Do you intend to hold one in Bath?” She had read in the London newspapers three years ago
that his last concert had been a dismal failure. He had not held one since.

His mouth quirked in what could be taken for a smile, but the skin around his eyes tightened. “How kind of you to recall my musical aspirations. Alas, I have no plans for a concert. There are already fine artists to be had, such as at tonight’s event.”

Alethea was impressed that he could say such a thing without a single wince or indication that the principle musician had been akin to an exuberant parrot. His self-depreciating comment would normally require some flattery in response, but Alethea did not feel like indulging his vanity. She smiled serenely and remained silent. She suspected he had no idea who she was. In finding himself at a loss with a reticent partner, he would probably excuse himself and she would be free to find Signora D’Angelo.

Clearly she underestimated a charming man’s ability to fawn over a woman. “I look forward to participating in spontaneous musical evenings. Lady Whittlesby informs me that you often play to entertain your hostesses.”