Prelude for a Lord (19 page)

Lucy bobbed a curtsey, but as she passed her, Alethea reached
out to squeeze her hand. Lucy gave her a smile and squeezed back, then left the room and closed the door behind her.

Alethea sat next to Clare on the sofa. “What will you do?”

Clare lifted her chin. “I will speak to my mother and Sir Hermes. But I fear he will simply tell his nephew to reprimand his servant.” Clare stared at the closed door. “You are so close to your sister.”

“We grew up together. She is my best friend.”

“But you are so far apart in station. What did your neighbors think?”

“Oh, they were disapproving, just as they disapproved of my friendship with Lady Arkright, who was Italian, never mind that her deceased husband had been English through and through. Even the rector would drop nasty hints about ‘low company.’ I simply replied with ‘love thy neighbor.’ ”

Clare stifled a laugh. “How could the rector say such a thing?”

“Oh, he wasn’t the worst one. The pious women in the village—the ones who were forever going on about their good works for the Lord and then mistreating their servants—would cross the street rather than meet with me when I was with Lucy.” Alethea attended church every Sunday, but she listened to the reverend with a very cynical ear. She had little respect for the religious. They were all hypocrites, and they served a God who had abandoned her in her hour of need.

“And you didn’t care.”

“Of course not. Lucy and Calandra loved me more than my family. I never heed public opinion if it goes against what I believe to be right and good.” Alethea added, “Think of your brother. He loves you deeply. Would he forsake you? I could no more forsake Lucy.”

At the tail end of her words, there came a loud crash from downstairs, the sound of a door slamming against the wall. Then another crash, something heavy and wooden dropping to the floor, accompanied by a tinkling descant of shattered pottery.

Alethea and Clare jumped to their feet and raced out of the room.

Bayard should have paid attention to the prickle of unease he felt as he read the letter he received that morning. It was from Jones Brothers, an instrument shop in Chippenham. They had heard of his inquiries about a violin and may have some information for him, if he would be so good as to visit the shop.

He had called for his gig and set off directly after breakfast, but just as he passed the outer edge of Bath, he realized he had forgotten the copy of the initials that Alethea had made for him. He turned around immediately.

He drove up before the house and dashed to the front door, opened by the butler. “Have someone hold my horse, Chapman. I shan’t be a moment.” He bounded up the stairs two at a time and passed the closed drawing room door, where he heard his mother’s faint voice on his way to the music room.

He thrust open the music room door and froze.

A slender man sat at the desk, rummaging through a bottom drawer. He shot to his feet at the sight of Bayard.

It was the grey man from the street.

Bayard rushed forward just as the man leapt over the desk and launched himself at him.

The man caught Bayard’s shoulder and collarbone when he crashed into him. Bayard staggered backward, landing hard against the closed door, and it whipped open to slam against the wall. Bayard toppled to the floor, the man on top of him.

The intruder was whipcord lean and strong, and Bayard grabbed his arms as the man lashed out at his head. He prevented two blows but a third landed above his left ear and made stars
twinkle in front of his eyes for a moment. He grabbed at the man’s torso, but the grey, dingy coat was in the way. The pockets were stuffed with cloth or paper.

Bayard kicked out to shove the man off of him. The thief rolled along the carpet and bounded to his feet with agility. Bayard was slower, and the man kicked him solidly in the side while he was still on his hands and knees

The pain thrust the air from his lungs, but he managed to whip out with one leg and land a blow against the man’s knee. The man grunted and lurched into a table against the wall. The table tipped over, and the vase atop the smooth surface slid down in a graceful dive, shattering against the floor.

Air flooded into Bayard’s lungs in a rush, and he thrust himself to his feet. The man was limping rapidly down the hallway toward the stairs.

At that moment, Clare rushed out from the short side passage that led from the stairs from the bedchambers above. Bayard drew breath to yell, but it was too late.

The man found himself facing Clare, who inadvertently blocked the main stairs. He pushed at her, his legs unsteady and causing him to stumble.

Clare flew into a hallway table in a wild tangle of skirts, knocked against it, and slid to the floor.

“Clare!” he shouted.
Lord, let her be uninjured
.

“Clare!” It was Alethea’s voice. She ran out from the same short passage and dropped to her knees at his sister’s side.

The grey man staggered down the main stairs. Bayard reached the top of the staircase in time to see the man leap down the last few steps, landing awkwardly on his injured knee. He pushed past the startled butler, yanked open the front door, and was gone.

“Good gracious!” His mother stood in the drawing room doorway, her face bloodless as she saw Clare on the floor. She kneeled
next to Clare as Alethea rose, running downstairs calling for Lucy. Bayard crouched beside his sister.

Clare had landed on her stomach, but she now rolled over and was trying to sit up. Bayard tried to stop her. “Do not rise.”

“I’m well,” she insisted. When she sat upright, she swayed slightly, but it soon passed and she looked at them with clear eyes.

“I shall send for a doctor,” Bayard said, but Clare shook her head.

At that moment, Alethea arrived with both Lucy and his mother’s maid, and the three women helped Clare and Lady Morrish to their feet and into the drawing room. “I also sent for tea,” Alethea told him. In a low voice she added, “What happened?”

Bayard explained briefly, and Alethea looked puzzled. “What was he looking for? Did he find it?”

“I don’t know.” Bayard headed back to the music room, Alethea following.

He saw immediately that all his notes on her violin were gone, including the drawing of the initials. “He stole all the information I had gathered on your violin, little as it was.”

Alethea stood by the table. “Your instruments have been moved. Clare and I were here but a few minutes ago. I had thought I saw movement by the window . . .” She shuddered. “He must have been here the entire time we were practicing.”

He looked over the violins, which brought him closer to her. He wanted to wrap his arms around her, offer her comfort. He closed his eyes, hands clenched, jaw tight, as he breathed in her faint scent of rain and roses. Then he scanned the table and moved quickly away from her. “He did not take any violins.”

“It is fortuitous you interrupted him.”

“Yes.” Bayard drew out the letter from his coat pocket and frowned down at it. “I should not have been here.” He handed her the letter.

She shook her head as she read. “How could they have heard about your inquiries? Did you write to them?”

“No, I have only written to the instrument shops in London, since that was where Lady Arkright had the tuning peg replaced.”

“And those shops would not have idly chatted with an instrument shop in Chippenham.”

“I did not feel it prudent to ignore the letter, for they may have had a legitimate reason to speak to me.”

“Of course.” She gave the letter back to him. “But this note conveniently would have taken you from home for several hours. The man could have observed you leaving on a day trip and then entered the house.”

“It was the same man who had followed me.”

Alethea exhaled and rubbed her forehead. “I should not have asked for your help. I have put you and your family in harm’s way. I am sorry.”

“I am the one to apologize. I did not believe you when you insisted the intruder in your bedroom had been looking for your violin. I did not take precautions when making inquiries into the violin. I was so confident I could have the answer quickly.” Bayard turned his back, ashamed to face her. “I have been so arrogant.”

He heard the rustle of her dress, smelled a rose-scented waft of air, and felt the soft touch of her hand upon his cuff. She was not wearing gloves and her fingers brushed the bare skin of his hand.

“You could not know,” she said.

“I should have expected it. He invaded your home in broad daylight, with servants and your niece in the house.”

She fully clasped his hand. Her touch was warm, her fingers strong, and his skin tingled where she touched him.

“We suspected, but we had no proof. We do now,” she said.

Then she slipped her hand from his. He immediately felt the loss, like a cold draft.

The sound of her dress was a sigh in the air, an echo of her presence after she had left the music room.

“An unlocked window? But surely it would have been too small for anyone but a child to fit through,” Lady Morrish said to Bayard at breakfast the next morning.

“The man was very slender and agile.” Bayard sipped his coffee. “I have ordered all windows locked from now on.”

“It is very cold,” Clare said. “I can’t imagine why the window would have been unlocked in the first place.”

Bayard shot her a warning look, which she understood and promptly stopped speculating. He had thought of that yesterday when he discovered the storeroom window, wide but shallow, had been left open. He had asked Lucy privately if she knew if the window was usually left open, but she had not been working in the household long enough to know.

“How could he have made his way from the storeroom to the music room?” Lady Morrish fretted. “Surely someone would have seen him.”

“It isn’t as though the servants were on the watch for a stranger in the house,” Clare said.

“He did not find what he wanted,” Bayard said. “He took my notes on the violin, but that is little enough, and he did not take any of my instruments, although I am unsure that he would recognize Lady Alethea’s violin if it had been among mine.”

“This violin . . . Much as I like Lady Alethea, could you not simply stop investigating this affair?” Lady Morrish asked. “Would it not solve everything?”

“But how would the thief know that Bayard had stopped investigating?” Clare asked.

“Surely if we spread it about that he has withdrawn his help? After all, is that not how the thief came to know Bayard was involved with Lady Alethea’s violin?”

Bayard and Clare were both silent. He could see the wisdom behind her worry.

“But, Mama,” Clare said after a moment, “Lady Whittlesby has told Bay that if he discovers the truth behind Alethea’s violin, she will feature the Quartet—and me too—at her concert. It would be the cachet of the season.”

“But your safety is surely more important than a concert,” Bayard said.

“It is not the concert, but the mark the concert will have,” Clare said reasonably. “All the premier hostesses in London will invite us to their events.”

“Yes, I did not receive as many invitations this past spring,” Lady Morrish said slowly.

Clare bit her lip and glanced at Bayard. His jaw tightened, and he stared at the buttered eggs congealing on his plate. The rumours of the “Mad Baron” had caused several of his mother’s friends to withdraw from her. Only her wedding to Sir Hermes this past summer had revived her spirits.

“Without the concert,” Bayard said, “Clare could still have a good season and none of you would be in danger now.”

“This is all very distressing.” Lady Morrish crumbled her toast into her plate.

“I know, Mama.” Bayard placed his hand over hers. “I will keep you safe.”

“Dear boy, I know you shall.” His mother gave him a tenuous smile and grasped his hand with hers, smearing butter over his knuckles.

At that moment, the butler entered with the post. Bayard wiped his hands and sorted through his letters. He immediately
opened one from an instrument shop in London to which he had written.

Dear Lord Dommick,

In response to your inquiry of the violin previously belonging to Lady Arkright and currently in the possession of Lady Alethea Sutherton, we do recall the instrument in question. Lady Arkright brought us the violin twice. Once many years ago upon her return to England from Italy, she entrusted the violin to my father to sand down scratches on the body and replace the strings. Secondly, six years ago to replace a tuning peg. The violin’s extraordinary tone has made it memorable to my father and to myself. On both occasions, we inquired of Lady Arkright about it, for while we suspected it was crafted by the incomparable Stradivari, we had never seen an instrument of its like. She described buying it from a peddler in Milan, Italy, on her wedding trip. It had been sold to the peddler, along with other inexpensive household items from a man who had recently departed of this life, by his family who had been eager to sell off the last of his possessions. Lady Arkright described the violin as the most valuable of all the peddler’s wares, for the deceased man had not been wealthy. We wish Lady Alethea all the pleasure of many years of performance and wish you to convey our readiness to attend to any of her needs for her instrument.