Prelude for a Lord (23 page)

The prickle of thousands of needles poked her neck and back. It was the same feeling from eleven years ago during her season, when she had first heard the outrageous stories that she was a wild woman with no table manners. A part of her wanted to lash out, to defend herself, and another part of her wanted to laugh. That she, a pitied spinster, was accused of lying about her violin in order to trap Lord Dommick was nearly as ridiculous as the stories about her eating her fish with her dessert spoon.

But she did worry about the effect the gossip would have on Lord Dommick’s reputation, and by extension, Clare’s.

She was not entirely certain why the young ladies of Bath did not like her. She knew it was partly because they despised her for being out of the normal way. They disliked independence of any sort and so would not care for hers.

However, especially at moments like these, she felt lonely. She was not married or a mother like Mrs. Isherton, yet she was not quite acceptable to the younger unmarried women. She was her own person. While that should have pleased her, it made her realize how isolated her life had been, both here in Bath and at Trittonstone Park.

No one understood her. No one cared for her and no one cared to know her. They treated her as though something were wrong with her . . .

No, she was being melancholy. She had confidence in who she was, no matter what others said about her. She shook off her dark mood and remembered her initial intention for seeking Mrs. Isherton. Mrs. Layston had finally reached her last granddaughter, and even Mrs. Isherton’s eyes looked slightly glazed.

Alethea interrupted before Mrs. Layston could launch into her grandsons as well. “Ladies, have you heard ought of Count Escalari? Will he arrive tonight?”

“Oh, not tonight,” Mrs. Layston said. “He is expected tomorrow.”

Excellent. Alethea might meet him this week. “He will be a refreshing addition to our society.”

“Indeed,” Mrs. Isherton said. “I believe he enjoys music a great deal, so you may have much to speak about with him.”

Alethea stayed to hear Mrs. Layston as she indeed spoke of each of her grandsons, then excused herself. The pianoforte was still abandoned, so she returned to her spot. She was almost immediately joined again by Lord Ravenhurst and Lord Ian.

“I had wondered where you were,” Lord Ian said. “If I am not mistaken, Raven was most desperate for you to come and tell us that Lady Morrish had need of us or something or other.”

“I was nothing of the sort.” Lord Ravenhurst jerkily adjusted his cravat and turned his back to the general direction of the two ladies they had been speaking to.

Lord Ian’s face grew hard as he said, “I congratulate you in that you managed to escape Mr. Kinnier.”

“I would think you and the gentleman have much in common,” she said carefully.

Lord Ian looked offended. “Not likely.”

She didn’t wish to pry. “I left him in order to find out more about Count Escalari. He is expected in Bath tomorrow.”

“In answer to your previous question, I would be honoured to introduce you to him,” Lord Ravenhurst said.

“Thank you, my lord.” She hesitated. “I heard gossip about Lord Dommick that concerned me.”

Lord Ravenhurst and Lord Ian looked more worried than she would have expected about an idle rumour. “What was it?”

She repeated what she had heard about the false violin and Dommick’s inability to see through the ruse. “I would not have
thought much of it if Mr. Kinnier had not mentioned the same slur earlier.”

Lord Ravenhurst looked grave. “He will be distressed over the repercussions of the gossip upon Clare and his mother.”

Alethea could envision how the rumours might harm Clare’s debut. “The way to counter people’s opinions would be to quickly capture the violin thief.”

Lord Ravenhurst looked to Ian. “Perhaps these new rumours will cause Bayard to revisit his earlier objections to having Alethea play her violin at our concert.”

Lord Ian winked at Alethea. “Have you been practicing?”

“Of course.” In addition to Dommick’s concerto, Lord Ian had given her music for concertos he and Lord Ravenhurst had recently completed as well as two popular pieces the Quartet had played in London years ago. She diligently practiced second violin for all five pieces, but Dommick’s violin concerto was her favourite. Something about it made her almost uncomfortable, as though it exposed some vulnerability of the composer that she was not meant to see, but perhaps she was feeling guilty that Dommick did not know she had a copy of his music.

“Practicing what?” Lord Ravenhurst demanded.

“I sent her copies of the two concertos you and I recently finished writing.”

Lord Ravenhurst’s eyebrows rose, although he did not look unduly upset to hear this.

Lord Ian flipped his hair away from his forehead as he continued, “And I sent her a copy of Bay’s newest violin piece.”

Lord Ravenhurst did not quite roll his eyes, but he did look up at the moulding on the ceiling. “He will kill you.”

“I didn’t give the pieces to Lady Alethea with the intention of featuring her in the concert, but I’m beginning to believe it to be a good idea.”

Alethea smiled at him. “I shall wait for you both to speak to
Lord Dommick. In the meantime, what will be the harm in practicing ahead of time?”

“I am sorry, milord, but Lord Ravenhurst is not in,” Raven’s valet told Bayard.

“Where did he go?” Bayard asked.

“I believe he and Lord Ian were intending to call upon Mrs. Garen.”

Bayard hurried out of the house and walked toward Queen Square. He had heard this morning that the Count of Escalari had arrived in Bath, and Bayard wanted Raven to arrange an interview with him so he could show him the initials from the violin.

It was barely ten o’clock in the morning, and it seemed odd for Raven and Ian to visit Alethea. Or perhaps they had some errand to run for his mother that involved Mrs. Garen.

He did not want to ponder the suspicion that perhaps one or both of his friends were romantically inclined toward Alethea. After all, what would it be to him? He could not become intimate with any woman, not while the nightmares still plagued him. He must first conquer his problems before he could risk letting anyone close to him.

The day was cold, so he walked quickly, but his mind returned to the two letters he had received this morning, both from his contacts in London with connections to the Italian nobility. Neither had known of any Italian nobles with those initials. His investigation was at an impasse.

He was forced to consider Alethea’s suggestion of using her and the violin as bait in their concert in two weeks. Everything within himself rejected the notion of putting her in such a dangerous situation, but he saw the wisdom of her plan, and a part of him even applauded her courage.

Was it courage or foolhardiness? He didn’t know.

He was approaching the house when he heard strains of music. The sound was faint, so at first he believed it was only a single violin, but as he drew nearer, he realized it was two. Was Ian playing with Alethea? Perhaps she had wanted more instruction in the instrument. Was she so much more comfortable with Ian that she would ask him for help and not Bayard?

It was after he had knocked on the door that he recognized the piece they were playing.

It was his.

It was untitled. He had started it the morning after meeting Alethea again in Bath. He had poured more of himself into that composition than he had felt in a long time. She was in every line, every measure. His frustrations, his attraction to her, even the nebulous intensity stirring deep inside had been written into that piece. It was a private part of him. It was a real part of him, which he hadn’t had the courage to show to anyone else. Even Ian and Raven did not quite understand him in this inner place, but he had written the piece because somehow he knew, from that first short, tense conversation, that Alethea would understand him. And it made him afraid.

And she was playing it.

The butler opened the door, but Bayard could only stare in shock. Bayard looked down at his waistcoat. He had been ripped open. He should be bleeding.

“My lord?”

Somehow she had gotten possession of it and was playing it.

He suddenly saw only a red, blazing haze before his eyes. He pushed past the startled butler, and before he knew it, he was at the drawing room door and slamming it open.

Mrs. Garen started in her seat near the fireplace. Bayard’s gaze swung around the room and came to rest on Alethea and Ian
standing in front of two music stands, with Raven sitting at the table nearby.

“How dare you?” he demanded.

Ian hastily put down his violin. “Bay, listen—”

He suddenly understood how she had acquired that particular piece of music. Ian must have taken it from the music room, made a copy for her, and then replaced it before Bayard knew it had been missing. Why that music? Of all the pieces he could have taken?

“How could you take it and give it to
her
?” It was coming out all wrong but he couldn’t stop himself.

“Lord Dommick!” Mrs. Garen’s strident tones sliced through his pain, his shock. She had risen and stood tall and magnificent, horrified by this spectacle, ready to instill order.

He did not want order. He wanted to be rid of this feeling that Alethea had somehow seen inside him.

Dommick turned and left, pounding down the stairs and out the front door.

He didn’t remember the walk back to the Crescent. He remembered the cold wind, which at some point swept away his hat so that he arrived at the front door hatless.

That piece of music. He had wondered what he would do with it, if he would ever have the courage to show it to her. He had wondered what it would sound like if she played it, and yet a part of him had not wanted to think about it. She could never see it. No one could see it, or they would immediately know his confusion and weakness.

Oh, God, how could you let this happen?

The butler gave him a startled look when he entered the house, but quickly dissolved his curiosity into an unobservant mask. Bayard didn’t remember him removing his greatcoat. He suddenly found himself in the drawing room. He had come here out of habit, but he did not want to be here. He needed to be alone. He turned
almost immediately to leave when the nearly inaudible sobs stopped him.

Mama sat alone upon the sofa, face buried in her handkerchief, trying not to cry out loud.

“Mama,” he whispered.

Her hand flew to her mouth. She turned her face away, trying to staunch the tears still falling. Her shoulders were hunched and shaking.

He was by her side in a moment, arm around her, pushing her face into his shoulder. He had held her like this earlier this year, in London, when he had come across her after the visit of some of her “friends” who had relayed the vicious rumours about the “Mad Baron.”

Last night at the dinner party he had attended, he had heard new rumours. People were disparaging his abilities, and the remembrances of the “Mad Baron” had been resurrected.

“All will be well, Mama.”

“It will not.” She sobbed even more. He caught her cries in the superfine of his coat, wiped her tears with his cravat.

She calmed enough for her breath to no longer come in gasps. “Bayard, Mr. Morrish attempted to kiss Clare, and she slapped him.”

His hand on her back clenched into a fist. In a low voice he said, “When did this happen?”

“Today, upstairs in the hallway outside her bedchamber. He should not have been there.” Her voice rose at the end of her sentence. “I ordered him out of the house. Sir Hermes is to return from the hot baths soon. I don’t know what I shall tell him.”

“I will speak to him.”

“No.” She inhaled a shaky breath. “I will speak to him. Clare is my daughter. It must come from me.” She sobbed once, then said, “I should have listened to you.”

“Don’t think that, Mama.”

“I did not like Mr. Morrish’s behaviour no matter what he said to Sir Hermes, but I did not want to displease him.” She began crying again.

He tightened his arms around her. All his life, he remembered his mother nervously wanting to please his exacting father and hurt by his cold reaction when she did not. His father never publicly humiliated his mother, but the servants knew he berated her behind closed doors. His children knew how he had insulted her.

Bayard had shown his father respect, but they never spoke of his father’s behaviour toward his mother. When he died last summer, Bayard could not say he missed him.

He wanted to always protect his mother, but he had been able to do nothing about his father’s treatment of her. He had been able to do nothing as his mother agreed with everything Sir Hermes decided about his nephew.

He could do nothing now, but he would not leave her alone.