Prelude for a Lord (20 page)

Your obedient servants,

Samuel and Jacob Swithers

Swithers Instrument Shop, London

Bayard read the letter through two more times. While it did not convey much more information than Alethea had given to him, there was something about the story that teased at him. Something
that he could use in his research. He would need to meditate upon it further.

He turned to the next letter, and it caused a tightening in his chest.

There was no postmark, so it had been delivered by hand. The handwriting was uneven, perhaps written with the left hand or by someone not well versed in his letters. It read:

I require Lady Alethea Sutherton’s violin and the sum of five hundred pounds in exchange for the safety of your sister and mother. If amenable to this transaction, hang a red cord in the front drawing room window and await instructions.

At first, he felt as cold as if entering a room with an unlit fireplace. Then his body burst into flame. He almost expected the note to turn to ashes where he crinkled it in his hand.

He wanted to ram his fist into a man’s face. He wanted to smash the coffeepot. He would not stand for this.

“Is anything the matter, Bay?” Clare looked at him warily.

He smoothed the note on the table and schooled his features into a more neutral visage. “A problematic business concern.”

“I do hope it will not take you from Bath,” his mother said. “Ravenhurst mentioned that his mother has written. She intends to arrive within the fortnight, and you must be here to greet her and thank her for the use of her home.”

“I shall make every effort.”

At that moment, Raven and Ian came down to breakfast, and Bayard stood. “May I have a word with both of you in the library?”

Ian gave a sorrowful look toward the sideboard, laden with food, and Raven impatiently said, “Bring your breakfast with us, you greedy guts.”

In the library, the three men gathered around a small round
table near the window. Bayard handed Raven the note, and Ian read over his shoulder while shoveling food from his piled plate into his mouth.

Raven fingered the paper. “Very fine quality. It is from someone of means.” He held it up to the light. “Pity there’s no watermark.”

“I had suspected the grey man had been hired,” Bayard said. “And Alethea mentioned that Mr. Golding, who approached her about selling the violin, had spoken of a wealthy client.”

“What shall you do about this, Bay?”

“I shall certainly not submit,” Bayard growled. “How dare he threaten my family? It is as good as a glove in the face.”

“Not quite so honourable, for he neglected to sign his name,” Ian drawled.

“While this man is alive and able to threaten me, I shall never feel secure and never be able to keep my family safe.”

“If you give him the violin, he might go away.” Ian flittered his fingers, although his cynical expression belied his words.

“Right now he wants the violin and five hundred pounds,” Raven said. “But men like this will always push an advantage if they have one. After you give in, next he will demand something else. He will continue to endanger your family.”

“He must be a very stupid person to think this would work.” Ian flipped the note between his fingers.

“I don’t know what to make of him,” Bayard admitted. “I’m sure there are other violins less protected.”

“The violin is not valuable to him,” Raven said. “The violin is
precious
to him.”

“That is why I need to know who the instrument belonged to. It must point to who would want it so desperately.” Bayard looked at his friends. “In the meantime, may I count on you both to guard Clare and Mother?”

Raven nodded gravely, but Ian ran his fingers through his tousled
hair. “Your sister will be even more annoyed by my presence than normal. And if she complains, I will tell her that you ordered it.”

Raven gave Ian a sour look, then said to Bayard, “You should do your best to find the answers quickly, else your sister might do bodily harm to your friend.”

Bayard remembered the letter from the instrument maker and passed that to them. “Alethea said that the peddler had wanted to be rid of the violin. The letter adds that he had bought it with other items from the household of a recently deceased man. All of low value. All unusual company for a violin that was a custom-ordered Stradivarius.”

“How did the dead man acquire the violin?” Raven said. “Was he the one who ordered it, or did he buy it from the man who did?”

“Why should a nobleman’s family have need to sell the man’s common household items?” Ian asked. “Would not the entire estate become the property of the heir?”

“I am becoming convinced that a merchant or middle-class family somehow obtained the violin,” Bayard said. “It would be something a nobleman could sell for a significant amount, if he had pressing gaming debts.”

“And then our merchant died and the violin passed to our estimable peddler,” Ian said.

“Have you heard yet from London about the initials?” Raven asked.

Bayard shook his head. “I wrote to the Count of Casafuori and also to Lord Mabrey to inquire of his wife, but have not heard from either as yet. Should I inquire of Italian merchants about the violin?”

“Would you really expect one Italian merchant to happen to know of another Italian merchant who died decades ago who used to play the violin? Your better course of action would be to trap this fellow.” Ian tapped the extortion note on the table.

Raven’s light blue eyes glittered like ice. “That sounds much more profitable.”

They discussed a plan for the better part of the morning, and then Bayard found a red tapestry cord and hung it from a corner of the front window. He had misgivings, but they were overruled by his frustration and confusion as to the man he was dealing with. Why did he need this particular instrument? What sort of man would resort to these measures for a violin? He could not understand, and even worse, he could not control the situation.

The only way to ensure the protection of his family would be to stop this villain. Permanently.

CHAPTER NINE

A
lethea would not have picked such a day for a walk in the park, but the house seemed too close and Margaret was restless, so she bundled them both in long, wool cloaks and sturdy half boots, commandeered one of the footmen to accompany them, and headed out into the fitful drizzle.

Aunt Ebena was positively gleeful they were both leaving. “Do not hurry back. I have no use for your brooding and her screeching,” she said, referring to Margaret’s fledgling efforts on the violin.

The rain did not bother Margaret, who skipped through puddles and caught drops on her tongue, but Alethea pulled her cloak around her more tightly as occasional gusts dampened her pelisse. Aunt Ebena had been correct, Alethea had been brooding. She had been trying to think of other ways she could find clues about her violin. So far, her efforts seemed pathetic and trite.

She wanted to stop reacting to things. She wanted to lash out at her enemy.

Perhaps not lash out. Perhaps . . . lure him in. With the one thing he desired, her violin. Like a rat in a trap. But what kind of trap?

The park was more occupied than Alethea would have expected, but perhaps other children had been annoying their nursery maids and governesses. As they crossed the street, Alethea happened to see a familiar figure walking toward the shopping district of town.

“Hello, John,” Alethea greeted the farmer from whom she had bought vegetables at the market.

“Why, miss, how nice to see you somewhere b’sides the marketplace.” John tipped his hat to her, then cast a curious eye on the bored footman tailing her. “Haven’t seen you lately.”

“My aunt’s cook has been sending one of the maids to do her shopping instead.” In reality, Alethea hadn’t felt safe going by herself. Aunt Ebena had preferred sending a maid or a footman to market while Alethea supervised Margaret’s schooling. “How is your family? Did your youngest daughter recover from her cough?”

“Oh, aye, and shouting to bring down the rafters.”

“You are doing your own shopping today?” It was not market day, but in addition, John was dressed in a finer coat than he normally wore at the marketplace.

“Going to the jeweler’s. It’s my wife’s birthday tomorrow and I had a ring made for her.”

“How lovely. I pray you will give her my compliments.”

Margaret, bored with the conversation, tugged at Alethea’s cloak, and the footman, slightly scandalized to witness his mistress fraternizing with a farmer, had sidled a little ways away from them.

“Good day, John.”

“To you too, miss.” John continued on his way, whistling and heedless of the spitting rain.

They followed a path in the park. Margaret pointed to a small girl with flyaway strawberry curls. “Look, it’s Elizabeth.” She ran over the wet grass toward her friend.

Mrs. Isherton, Elizabeth’s mother, was with her daughter along with her maid. Mrs. Isherton’s aunt was Lady Rollingwood, Aunt
Ebena’s friend, but Alethea had not known her well until Margaret had joined the household. Mrs. Isherton heard of it and suggested her daughter as a suitable playmate, as they were of an age.

“I see the rain has not kept you indoors either,” Mrs. Isherton said.

“The scamp was driving Aunt Ebena to distraction with her scraping on my violin.”

“She will either grow bored with the instrument and lay it down, or she will master it. Your eardrums will be spared.”

“But not quite
yet
.”

It was awkward to Alethea to speak of raising children. She hadn’t thought to ever have the duty since she had her own plans for her inheritance, and she’d always felt ashamed that she cared not for the normal things other women wanted, a husband and family. Her own examples of family love had been defective, so she couldn’t imagine wanting one of her own. She had wondered if there was something wrong with her. She had avoided mothers and neighborly relationships in the country surrounding Trittonstone Park so that people would not realize how different she was.

But caring for Margaret was nothing like she had expected. Perhaps Alethea’s plans for her inheritance were not because she did not want a family, but because none of the men she had met had induced her to want to change her goals.

Lord Dommick’s face flashed in her mind as she had seen him yesterday after escorting her home from her visit with Clare, his dark eyes intent on hers as he bowed over her hand at the door to her home. It had been odd to her how a man’s gaze had somehow given her value, like turning a stone into gold.

No, she needed no one but herself.

Mrs. Isherton nodded to where Margaret and Elizabeth chattered like magpies. “She is outgrowing her dress. She may grow as tall as yourself or Mrs. Garen.”

“Oh, no. I had not noticed.” Now Alethea could see that Margaret’s sleeves were short for her long, wiry arms. “I just had that gown made for her.”

“It is that way with them until they are grown. When you next take her to the seamstress, have the woman make the sleeves a trifle longer, and put a deeper hem in the gown so that you can let it down.”

“I had not thought of that.” Alethea felt woefully inadequate. “I am certainly much obliged to you for your help.”

Mrs. Isherton lowered her voice. “I have learned much from the governesses and maids I have spoken with here in the park. Most mothers leave the raising of their children to servants, but I have never desired that. I want to mould my child myself and have a hand in all that concerns her.”

Certainly, Alethea’s own father had left her to governesses and maids, but in that case, perhaps it was just as well. Her father had been incapable of loving anyone but himself. He had had some small amusement in the companionship of his son, but no tenderness for him.

Alethea had relied on Calandra for motherly love and Lucy for sibling affection, but against her logic and reason, a part of her had insisted upon longing for some sort of approval from her father. She had scolded herself into gratitude for what she possessed. God had not been kind enough to give her a loving family, so she would accept it and rely on herself.

They continued to chat until Elizabeth, running after Margaret, fell upon the slick grass with a sound of fabric renting.

“Good gracious.” Mrs. Isherton brushed at the mud on Elizabeth’s dress and examined the gaping hole where a section of the skirt had come detached from her bodice. “We must return home, my dear.”

“But we just arrived,” Elizabeth cried.

“And there are many people here to whom I do not wish you to reveal your petticoat. Come. I bid you good day, Lady Alethea.” Mrs. Isherton nodded to her, then carted her daughter and maid away.

“Must we leave?” Margaret pleaded. “I promise not to tear my dress.”

Alethea eyed Margaret’s dress askance. “It matters not, for you have dirtied it beyond belief. And how did you get mud in your hair?”

“Lady Alethea, if I may have a word?”

The oily voice had the power to freeze her to the spot. Heedless of the mud, she pulled Margaret close to her and turned to face Mr. Golding.