Prelude for a Lord (37 page)

The paper trembled in her hands as she read the verses again in Margaret’s very correct handwriting. There was a rousing in herself, deeper than her heart, deeper than her soul. There was a place deeper than knowing, and a Presence there stirred her and soothed her all at once. She was not alone.

God
loved
her.

God would take care of her.

The words blurred before her eyes as the tears fell, but not the bitter, hot tears of earlier. These tears were like the stream, cascading, cleansing, releasing.

She was not alone.

God
loved
her.

God would take care of her.

She surrendered something inside of herself, and there was an uncoiling of tension. God was with her. He would never abandon her as her father had. He would never abuse her as her brother had. He would never leave her as Calandra did. He would never reject her as her peers had done.

In that green space in the wilderness, she felt that Presence all around her and inside her. She was comforted. She was at peace.

What did Mr. Kinnier know about the violin that they did not?

Bayard paced his study until, unsatisfied with the small space,
he flung open the double doors to his music room. Where the study had been dim, the music room was bright despite the cloudy day. In the far corner, upon an inlaid table, the fake violin lay as though carelessly set aside, while above the room in a hidden gallery, Ord sat watching.

He had not seen Alethea since that one horrifying glimpse of her face before she ran out of the drawing room last night. He had searched the house for her after breakfast, and he would have searched the grounds but for the meeting with his steward this morning.

Mr. Kinnier’s superior expression last night had fueled Bayard’s frustration that his inquiries had not produced information in a timely enough fashion.

But even more than the violin, the thought of Alethea being Mr. Kinnier’s wife—being any other man’s wife—felt like an old, venerable oak tree being violently uprooted from his gut. He was undone. He was distraught. He knew that his world was about to change forever.

He simply didn’t know exactly how it would change.

He paced the length of the music room, growing more and more agitated. A germ of an idea formed, but it was so absurd, so imprudent, he could not even voice the idea to his own mind.

A tap at the music room door, and Forrow appeared. “Forgive the intrusion, my lord, but there is a Mr. Guido Manco to see you.”

The Italian art steward whose father had worked for the Count of Sondrono. Bayard realized he was not in the most propitious emotional and mental state to receive him, but here may be the solution to all their troubles. “Please bring him in.”

Guido Manco was older than Bayard’s mother by at least two decades, a short man with a light step, a shrewd eye, and jet-black hair liberally sprinkled with grey. He carried a packet of papers under his arm, and he looked very smart in his London-tailored clothes.

“Thank you for stopping by,” Bayard said.

“I regret I have but a few moments, my lord. We started late this morning on account of a broken axle, and Lady Mayrick expects me at her home this evening.”

Bayard had to remove Alethea’s violin from its hiding place in the presence of Mr. Manco. He laid the violin on the desk near the window.

At the sight of it, Mr. Manco’s expression showed surprise and confusion. He set his papers on the desk and shuffled through them. “According to my father’s records, he sold three violins for the count, a Stradivarius, a valuable Amati, and a Guarnerius. This looks to be a Stradivarius?”

“We believe so.”

Mr. Manco shook his head as he found the paper he sought. “This is not the Stradivarius my father sold.”

Bayard was so shocked he could not speak for a moment. When he exhaled shortly, he realized he had stopped breathing as well. “Are you certain?”

“The Stradivarius had a distinctive scroll pattern atop the pegbox with a carving of the Sondrono coat of arms. My father described it exactly.”

“There was no mention of initials painted upon the neck?”

Mr. Manco’s brows knit. “No, I am afraid not. I reviewed all the records of the count’s musical instruments during the journey here, so my memory is fresh.” He traced the design on the violin’s neck. “The Sondrono family favoured the family crest rather than initials.”

“Is there any chance that your father’s records are incomplete? Or that the violin was sold before his employ with the count?”

“My father was the only agent Count Sondrono utilized when his debts began to require him to sell his family’s possessions, and there are no holes in his records. He was turned off mere months
before the count died, and at that time, there were no items left in the count’s possession to sell. However, my father was not required to inventory the count’s collection. He simply recorded what was sold. If the count owned anything that was not sold before my father’s termination or the count’s death, it would not be in the records.” He sighed. “I am sorry, my lord. I cannot even verify this instrument belonged to Count Sondrono.”

Nothing. Bayard had nothing. “Do you know of anyone I could contact about this instrument?”

“If I may borrow a pen and paper? I have the address of an instrument shop in Turin, where my father sold two instruments—a flute and an oboe. They may have arranged the sale of this violin rather than my father, unknown to him.”

“Thank you, Mr. Manco.”

After Mr. Manco left, Bayard returned to pacing the music room. He had always been able to find solutions to his problems, but now he had no other ideas on where to turn. What did Mr. Kinnier know about the violin that Bayard did not?

How could Bayard keep Alethea from marrying him?

He forced himself to sit at the desk to begin drafting a letter to the instrument shop in Italy. What else could he do?

The door abruptly opening made him blot his paper. When he spied his mother’s and Clare’s drawn faces, he leapt to his feet. “What is it?”

His mother flew to the desk, leaving Clare to close the door behind them. “Bayard, you cannot allow Alethea to marry Mr. Kinnier.”

“I do not know what I could do to stop it.”

“You can marry her yourself.”

Her words solidified the vague, ethereal idea that had been forming in his head. His heart pulsed at the thought, but then he remembered the chapel, and all that he would need to hide from
her. “Mama, that is a very drastic suggestion.”

“You must listen to what Mama knows about Mr. Kinnier,” Clare said.

“You know I have never cared for him, but I have never told you why, for I did not wish to spread gossip. However, my abigail, Ingle, knows the lady’s maid who served the late Mrs. Kinnier.”

“Mama, I have heard the rumours and there is nothing substantial.”

“I thought so as well, but the maid saw Mrs. Kinnier’s death from behind a cracked door. She was afraid to tell the magistrate for fear of Mr. Kinnier. He was enraged and he pushed his wife down the stairs, Bayard. He is a murderer.”

“Are you certain?”

“All of Mr. Kinnier’s servants knew the truth. Some had witnessed it, others had heard the commotion. It was not an accident. She was killed.”

“Mama, this is all the word of servants.”

Lady Morrish drew herself up and looked him squarely in the eye. “Bayard, mere months after it happened, I spoke personally to Mrs. Kinnier’s maid, and I assure you, she is not exaggerating.” His mother reached out to grab both of his hands in hers. “I have come to know Lady Alethea these past weeks and esteem her greatly. And I would not wish the daughter of my worst enemy to marry Mr. Kinnier. Please do not allow this to happen. You must marry her yourself, before Lord Trittonstone can take her away from here.”

“And she would keep her violin, Bayard,” Clare said. “You cannot allow him to possess it.”

“I would need a special license—”

“I have already spoken to Sir Hermes,” Lady Morrish said. “You know that he has many friends, and among them is an official representative of the archbishop. He is willing to ride to his friend to get a special license for you.”

Bayard would never have imagined the type of service his stepfather would be doing for him now, thanks to Sir Hermes’s extraordinary talent for forming friends wherever he went.

He nodded. “Please ask him to do so. I will speak to Lady Alethea.”

“You what?” Alethea looked at him as though he were stark raving mad.

This was not the most propitious opening to a proposal.

Bayard cleared his throat. “I wish to marry you.”

Alethea exhaled a shaky breath, then turned to walk the length of the music room. It took her some time, as the room was so large, and by the time she returned to him, she looked more composed. Bayard, on the other hand, had grown more tightly wound with each step she took, and he could not understand why.

She said, “Tell me why
you
wish to marry
me
.”

He was not certain, from the way she said it, if she had insulted himself or herself. “It is the solution to your troubles. You were very upset last night,” he said lamely.

Rather than falling at his feet in gratitude, she threw up her hands. “This is as extreme a measure to acquire my violin as Mr. Kinnier’s.”

“This has nothing to do with the violin,” he said hotly. “There is no other way I can protect you.”

She stilled. Something about her look seemed to shine, seemed hopeful, waiting for him to say something else . . . but he didn’t know what.

She dropped her head and turned away from him. “My cousin has signed the betrothal agreement with Mr. Kinnier.”

“It doesn’t matter what they have signed if you are already
married. It will be on Lord Trittonstone’s head that he cannot honour the agreement.”

She whispered, “Why do you care?”

He swallowed. He had avoided examining his feelings because he hadn’t wanted to draw close to any woman, and especially not Alethea. But he could not remain silent and inactive in the face of this injustice to her. “I have heard . . . things about Mr. Kinnier’s character.”

“He killed his first wife.” Her voice was dead, with an undercurrent of anger.

“I cannot stand by and allow you to marry a man whom I know is a monster.”

“But why do you care?” She spoke with frustration, but she looked at him with a glimmer of longing.

“If something were to happen to you, I could not live with myself, knowing I could have stopped it.” Bayard could not tolerate the thought of Mr. Kinnier touching her, possessing her, hurting her. “Please, Alethea, allow me to protect you.”

He saw the moment she relented. There was a softness about her mouth, colour that rose back into pale cheeks, a relaxing of the stress lines around her dark eyes.

“Thank you, Dommick. I will marry you.” And then she burst into beauty. It was as if he had never seen her before. Her look was grateful, but there was also a radiance, an intimacy that drew him, dazzled him.

And even as he took a step toward her, pulled by the promise in her smile, his fear stopped him as firmly as a blow to his gut. She had seen a glimpse of his madness, but she only knew about the nightmares. She did not know about the rest of it, the episodes that had him gasping and weeping, the weakness and helplessness.

He did not want to offer that man to her. He did not want that
man to fall in love with her. He did not want to expose her to all his pain and misery. He was afraid of the expression that would be in her eyes when she discovered his shameful secret. He wanted to care for her. He did not want her to have to shoulder his burden.

He cleared his throat and clenched his hands behind his back. “I apologize for the indelicacy, but I wish to assure you that due to the unusual circumstances of our arrangement, you need not fear that I would impose myself upon you.”

The light went out in her face. “What do you mean?”

“Ours would be a marriage of convenience only.” The words grated.

A spasm passed across her throat and the colour drained from her cheeks. But then she straightened her shoulders. “I understand,” she said softly. “I am most grateful for your sacrifice for me, Dommick.”