Prelude for a Lord (21 page)

He wore a bright blue cloak today, which kept the rain from the purple ensemble peeking through its folds. He smiled that odd V-shaped smile, but his eyes were colder than the gusts of wind. He made a pretense of civility as he doffed his hat at her.

Where was the footman who had accompanied them? She turned to look but could not see him. He had wandered off while she spoke with Mrs. Isherton. She considered sending Margaret to find him, in order to get her away from Mr. Golding, but decided against allowing her to wander alone in the park.

“Mayhap you have changed your mind about selling your violin?” His pudgy hands smoothed over his wide, round belly. “Some instruments can be quite . . . dangerous to own.”

The rain grew icy. Alethea’s hands dug into Margaret’s shoulders. The girl was silent and stiff, picking up on Alethea’s tension.

She remembered the horrible sense of violation as she stared at her disheveled room. She remembered the horror of seeing Clare’s limp body on the floor of the hallway.

“Money is no object,” he said.

If she took his offer, she would not have to wait for her inheritance. She could find a small house in which to live with Lucy.
Once the war ended, they would go to Italy. She would seek out the music masters and be accepted into the circles of people who understood how music drew emotions from the listeners, fed emotions into warm hearts.

But it was Calandra’s violin she was bargaining with. Taking it to Italy would be like bringing Calandra with her. When Alethea’s life had been darkness, Calandra had been light. Only when Calandra had died had Alethea’s brother been able to hurt her. The last two knuckles of her left hand throbbed once, painfully.

And as she stared into Mr. Golding’s brown eyes, she saw the malice lurking there like a dragon. She thought of what Calandra would want her to do.

The passionate Italian woman would have told her,
Fight! Fight for what is important to you. When you give in to evil, you give up a piece of yourself to them
.

“I do not surrender to bullies,” Alethea spat.

His eyes narrowed and his smile disappeared. “This is a simple business transaction, milady. You must be reasonable.”

“It is a business transaction if both parties are willing to negotiate. I am not. The violin is not for sale.”

His voice grew less polished, more animallike. “I can make your life very unpleasant if you don’t comply.” His eyes drifted to Margaret. “Your life, and everyone you care about.”

Margaret tore herself from Alethea’s hands. “You don’t frighten me. I won’t let you hurt me or Cousin Alethea. Now leave us alone.”

“I’ll leave you alone when your cousin sees reason.”

“My answer is still no. I can protect my family.” Alethea feigned a firmness she did not feel.

“You foolish girl.” He stepped forward and grabbed her shoulders, his fingers digging so deep that it felt like two pokers had driven into her flesh. “How can you protect them when you cannot even protect yourself?”

“Let go of her!” Margaret grabbed his hand and hung off of it.

“Margaret, find Bill!” The footman had to be nearby.

But instead, Margaret sank her teeth into the exposed flesh of Mr. Golding’s wrist.

He gave a hoarse cry and released Alethea, jerking his hand away from Margaret.

The girl never did anything by halves. Bright blood dripped from a deep half circle of teeth marks on the back of his wrist.

With a snarl, Mr. Golding drew back a meaty paw and backhanded Margaret across the face. She twirled for a moment like a leaf, then crumpled to the muddy ground.

“Margaret!”

Mr. Golding lifted a foot as if to kick her, but Alethea launched herself at him, pulling his hair and jerking at his cravat. He twisted back and forth, shoving her away. She fell hard on the ground, the back of her head bouncing against the dirt.

“Oy!” The shout sounded like the growl of a large dog. Then John filled her vision, planting a facer upon Mr. Golding’s jaw.

The man staggered back, hands grabbing his face, leaving streaks of blood upon his skin from Margaret’s bite.

John was a head taller than Mr. Golding and with his stout physique and the fire in his eyes, he seemed quite intimidating to Alethea.

He apparently seemed that way to Mr. Golding as well, for the round man turned and ran, his blue cloak billowing behind him.

John knelt beside her. “Are you hurt, miss?”

“I don’t think so.” The back of her head ached, but that was the worst of her pains. “Is Margaret injured?”

“I wish I’d kicked him in the shins too!” Margaret’s voice was full of ire.

Alethea sat up and saw Margaret already halfway to her feet. John helped Alethea to stand while Margaret picked leaves out of her brown curls.

“Did he hurt you?” Alethea touched Margaret’s face, and the cheek he had hit was warm to the touch and swollen.

Margaret pulled her head away with a slight wince. “Stop fussing.”

“Ye’ll have a beautiful black eye come tomorrow,” John said cheerfully.

“Will I?” Margaret grinned. “I shall have to show Elizabeth.”

Alethea turned to the farmer. “Thank you, John. I do not know what we should have done without you.”

“I did what any decent man would.”

“You did more than Bill,” Margaret said darkly.

“Where is he?” Alethea’s jaw hardened as she looked around.

“The footman ’oo was with you earlier?” John jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “I passed him back there, flirting with a maidservant. ’Ere he is now.”

Bill came wandering back to them from between the trees. The sight of Alethea and Margaret covered in mud made him goggle.

“Fine job you’ve done,” John growled. “While you were dallying with that tart, your mistress was attacked.”

“Wot?” Bill’s mouth became as round as his eyes.

“I’ll escort you home, shall I?” John said to Alethea.

She shook her head. “Go home to your wife. We are not far. And thank you, John, with all my heart.”

“Only too glad to be of service to you, miss.”

“Thank you, sir.” Margaret waved to him as he strode away.

“I, uh . . . I’m sorry fer being distracted, milady,” Bill said.

She speared him with her gaze but said nothing. She turned to Margaret. “Come. We must get out of our wet things.”

She didn’t know what induced her to look back over her shoulder, but as they passed out of the park, she turned in the direction Mr. Golding had gone.

And saw the cadaverous man.

He leaned bonelessly against a tree. In his grey clothes, he almost blended into the background, his figure smudged by the falling rain. He was looking directly at her.

Then he smiled. And as before, it was not a nice smile.

He turned and sauntered away, following in the footsteps of the departed Mr. Golding.

The second note was hand delivered like the first. Bayard questioned the servants, but the maid simply said that a scruffy boy at the backdoor shoved the note into her hand and raced off.

“Was it the same boy as before?” Bayard asked. She had been the maid to accept the first note.

“No, milord. I’ve never seen him in my life.”

He also received a note from Alethea asking him to call today as she had something to discuss, but the trap Bayard and his friends had set required them to be engaged for most of the morning. And perhaps by this evening there would be an end to this business, and he could bring her the happy news.

Bayard had sent his valet, Ord, to buy a violin yesterday, and between the two of them, managed to stain it to approximate the colour of Alethea’s instrument. It had been Ian who drew the initials upon the neck. From a distance it would look like the coveted violin, although if anyone knowledgeable enough played it, the jig was over.

The note instructed Bayard to be at the Fairy Grotto near the Chinese bridge in Sydney Gardens at eleven o’clock, so Ian and Raven left at half past nine. Bayard impatiently paced his rooms while Ord sat at a table finishing the touches on the faux violin.

“Pacing won’t bring the battle sooner, milord,” Ord said as he set the violin in its case and closed the cover. He had been Bayard’s
batman during his days on the Peninsula; he had a strict sense of honour and correctness.

“I don’t wish to think of this as a battle, Ord,” Bayard said softly.

His friend grew grave.

Bayard finally said, “Are you certain you do not wish me to drive you partway to the gardens?”

Ord gave him a look that clearly indicated he was aware Bayard was talking out of nervousness, for they had arranged yesterday for Ord to walk to the rendezvous point. It would be too simple for the grey man or someone else to be watching Bayard’s carriage and follow it. The follower would see him dropping his servant off at some point and suspect some scheme to interrupt the business transaction.

Ord finally glanced at the clock and stood. “I’ll be off, milord. Do pace around the room so as not to wear the carpet in one spot.”

“I had better not see you or recognize you at the gardens,” Bayard growled.

“Do not worry, milord, I shall be careful,” Ord replied, for that was what Bayard had really meant.

He spent a painful half hour waiting until it was time to leave. He conspicuously carried the violin in its case and a large sack of pound notes through the front door to his carriage, which had been pulled up before the house.

It was bitterly cold today, and while there was no snow, the air burned his nose. He instructed his coachman to drive slowly so that anyone following him would have no trouble.

He exited the coach before the Sydney Hotel and walked into the Gardens. He was not certain where the Fairy Grotto was, but he was familiar with the bridge in the Chinese style that spanned the canal. He met few people on his way because of the weather, and he worried that the lack of crowds would make Ord stand out. Would the man after the violin recognize Bayard’s valet?

He crossed the bridge and came across a bower shaded by
sparse tree limbs with a seat carved with a winged fairy along the side. He sat down and looked around.

A maid strolled with a young man, who looked by his clothing to be a groom. A man on horseback who looked vaguely familiar to Bayard nodded to him as he rode down a nearby path. Two young women in warm spencers walked briskly down another gravel path, chatting with each other. There was no one else.

Then from behind him, in the foliage at the foot of the trees, a rustling and a hissed, “Ow! That was my foot.”

“Be quiet, you two,” Bayard said under his breath.

“You haven’t been crouching here in the cold for the past hour,” groused Ian.

“Nor has he had to listen to you complain the entire time,” Raven said.

“You weren’t seen?” Bayard asked.

“Not as far as we could tell. We took the punt down the canal and climbed up at the rough stairs cut in the stones at the south end of the gardens,” Raven said.

“Didn’t see Ord,” Ian said.

“Then he’s doing his job,” Bayard said.

They waited in silence for ten minutes, then a whistling broke through the cold winter air like ice being shattered. The bright peacock colour of a waistcoat flitted through the trees, coming toward him. As the person drew nearer, Bayard saw it was not a peacock-coloured waistcoat, but a peacock-coloured coat, with a claret-coloured waistcoat straining over a large, round belly. From Alethea’s description, it appeared Bayard was about to meet the infamous Mr. Golding.

The man sat casually next to Bayard as though they were good friends. He smiled, a strange V-shaped smile that made his eyes glitter rather like a snake’s. “Good morning, Lord Dommick.” Mr. Golding’s jaw was swollen and bruised.

“Had a brush with someone?”

The smile flattened, and his gloved hand reached up to touch the swollen skin.

“Let us hope it was not a woman.” Bayard gave him a bland smile.

“You have the violin?” the man snapped.

Bayard gestured to the case on the seat beside him.

Mr. Golding pursed his full lips and studied Bayard. “Play it,” he said in a honeyed voice.

Bayard kept his face relaxed, but his stomach clenched. He should have listened to Ian, who had brought up this possibility. “The cold has affected the strings.”

“Play it, or I will send a message to my man watching your home to enter into your sister’s room this time.”

Bayard’s entire body grew taut.

Mr. Golding stiffened, but then lifted his chin against the expression in Bayard’s eyes. “Play the violin, Lord Dommick, if you please.”

The violin was a badly made practice violin, and he wasn’t certain how the staining they’d done would affect the sound. Was Mr. Golding experienced enough to notice?

Bayard stood and took his time removing the cover. At that moment, he saw the bushes behind the bench shift and Ian’s face appeared.

Bayard quickly glanced to Mr. Golding, but the man sat on the bench, facing forward, and did not notice.

Ian mouthed,
Bach Adagio
. Bayard knew immediately he meant Bach’s violin concerto in G minor, the first movement, adagio. They had played it often in university, and it had a slightly discordant opening that would work perfectly for the imperfect violin.