The Diabolical Baron

by Mary Jo Putney

  “I believe the brows go back to this reprobate here, Sir Ralph Kincaid. He was granted the original manor, apparently for his services in promoting Henry II’s various affairs. Ralph the Panderer he’s called by the family. He is said to have introduced Henry to the Fair Rosamund.”

  Caroline and Jessica viewed the small dark portrait with interest. “It certainly makes history come alive,” Jessica said admiringly. “Was Ralph really such a scoundrel?”

  “With that face, what else could he be?”

  Caroline compared Ralph’s visage to Jason’s. “But he looks just like you.”

  “I rest my case.”

  That produced peals of laughter from both women. Caroline was beginning to appreciate the sense of humor lurking beneath the sardonic Radford eye. The aspects of him coming to light in his home made the future seem more plausible.

  Her speculations on his character vanished at the sight of the large room behind the portrait gallery. “Good heavens!” she said. “I thought this sort of thing belonged only in Scottish castles.”

  It was a genuine weapons room, with swords set in arcs on the walls, crossed pikes, morning stars and halberds, cases of firearms from the age of muzzle-loaders on, and suits of armor standing about.

  Jason glanced around the assorted instruments of mayhem. “The previous Wildehaven was a castle. These weapons survived the fire, and my honored ancestor decided to house them in splendor. It is used now as a gun room and for fencing practice.”

  The house contained one other surprise, but it was one of omission. They had reached the end of the house tour, and Caroline knew her comments were expected. “My lord . .. Jason, Wildehaven is the most splendid house I have ever seen. It has clearly been cherished and loved. But. ..” She hesitated, then went resolutely forward, “there is something missing.”

  “Oh?” Amazing how quickly the brows could turn threatening.

  “There is no music room. Nowhere have I seen a pianoforte, nor any other instrument.”

  The brows remained drawn together, but now they appeared thoughtful rather than dangerous. “You are quite right. It is a sad lack but we have never been a very musical family. My mother’s pianoforte was given to the vicar’s daughters after she died. No one really missed it, so it was never replaced. I will be happy to buy you whatever instrument you wish. Just write down the name of the manufacturer and the kind you prefer. I am sorry my house has failed you.”

  “Oh, no, I meant no criticism,” Caroline said hastily. She was a little startled by Jason’s quick cooperation. She was not in the habit of asking for things because her wishes had seldom been considered of account.

  Jason had not finished thinking. “It will take several weeks to get a suitable instrument here. If you like, I can arrange for you to practice at Wargrave Park. The late countess was very musical and had a fine pianoforte. We can go over now and I’ll introduce you to Somers, the butler. He’ll be happy to accommodate you.”

  Caroline turned a dazzling smile on Jason. “That will be wonderful! You are so kind.”

  Her intended looked startled. It was the first time she had directed any warmth or enthusiasm at him. He decided he liked it.

  Chapter 8

  Richard Davenport’s first view of his ancestral home produced neither respect nor a sense of homecoming; his predominant emotion was amusement.

  Josiah Chelmsford had stopped the chaise at the gates of Wargrave Park and invited the captain to step out and look at his inheritance. Richard was glad to comply. The long journey in cramped quarters had been hard on his injured leg, and it felt good to stretch out.

  They had stopped the night before near Witney rather than do the trip in one day, and as they neared their destination he felt some qualms about what he would find. He had not expected the eccentric building clearly visible in the early afternoon light.

  As one side of his mouth quirked up humorously, he said, “It appears to have been designed by a committee over a period of five hundred years.”

  “You’re right,” Chelmsford replied, also amused. “The oldest part of the house is thirteenth-century. Since no Davenport was willing to tear the place down, your ancestors just kept adding on.”

  The result was certainly unique. The central part of the sprawling building was Elizabethan, with handsome mullioned windows and twisted brick chimneys.

  A medieval great hall stretched back to the left while the right wing was of fairly recent construction. Someone had been unable to resist the lure of towers; from this distance it was impossible to tell if they were genuinely old or more recently applied follies. What appeared to be a small Greek temple lurked in the woods to the right.

  Wargrave Park’s saving grace was that it was entirely built of local materials. The gray-golden warmth of Cotswold stone created unity out of architectural disparity. The house appeared to have grown out of the underlying hillside. While it did not inspire awe, it had an undeniable charm.

  Returning to the chaise, they soon drew up before the main doors. As Richard studied the asymmetrical facade, he wondered again why his father had turned away from his past so completely. Although duels were illegal under English law, the consequences were usually forgotten quickly—a few months abroad might have sufficed. What had driven Julius to leave forever when he was younger than Richard was now, no more than twenty-one or twenty-two? He had asked Josiah that yesterday, and received a shrug for an answer.

  “I don’t know the whole story. There was a fearful scandal. Most of the details were hushed up, and the rumors that came my way are too lurid to recount. Your father killed his man in a fair fight, from what I understand, but Barford had influential relatives who got a murder charge against him. Julius came to see me the night of the duel, saying your mother was in the carriage and they were leaving England forever. He gave me authority to liquidate what assets he had and directed me to send the money to a banker in Paris.”

  The lawyer frowned. “Your grandfather was an overbearing man and Julius resented his attempted dominance. Perhaps he could only be free away from England. But I find it interesting that he raised you to feel you were English even though you have spent so much of your life abroad.”

  Richard nodded. “It was deliberate on their part. We never lived in one place long enough for me to identify with the country completely. When I was old enough for serious education, we moved to Belfast so I could go to a British school. Then I was packed off to Oxford. But neither of my parents would set foot in England, even when it would have been more convenient in travel terms. I guess I’ll never know the whole story of why they left.”

  “From what you say, they were very happy in the life they chose. Few people are so lucky.”

  Looking at Wargrave Park, Richard tried to imagine his father a boy, but without success. Like most children, he had seen his parents as an immutable law of nature, ever wise and adult. With maturity he realized their little family was unusual both for its contentment and for its rootlessness. They had belonged to each other, and to no one else.

  What would it feel like to be the owner of this estate with hundreds of people dependent on him? In the Army the objective was simple: defeat the enemy when necessary and stay alive and as comfortable as possible the rest of the time. Here the issues would be less clear-cut, the demands much more complex.

  The lawyer said, “Come in now and meet the staff.”

  The next half-hour was spent meeting Somers, the impassively dignified butler, and Hain, the old earl’s agent. Chelmsford introduced him as Captain Richard Dalton, saying that he would be taking an inventory of the property and was to be treated with every courtesy and given whatever information he required. Both of the old men stared at him solemnly and allowed they were pleased to make his acquaintance. After a few minutes of general conversation, Josiah said, “I have some business matters to take up with Somers and Hain, but you can start exploring on your own. I’ll catch up with you when I’ve finished.”

  Richard nodded
agreeably and left. After the door closed behind him the lawyer gazed sternly at Somers and Hain. Both had spent their lives with the Davenport estates and were exactly the kind of family retainers Richard had wondered about. “If you have any speculations about Captain Dalton, it would be well to keep them to yourselves. Do I make myself clear?”

  Somers raised one eyebrow with the supercilious look of a man who would never gossip with the lower staff. Less discreet, Joseph Hain said, “We won’t say anything. But unless my eyes are deceiving me, there may be hope for Wargrave yet.”

  “There may be—as long as he isn’t scared away. In the meantime,. I am sure you will do your best to make Captain Dalton comfortable.”

  His listeners nodded; a conspiracy of silence was under way.

  * * * *

  Richard enjoyed his explorations; the house followed no particular plan but was full of interesting nooks and crannies. There was indeed a medieval great hall, complete with an ox-roaster fireplace and a minstrel gallery added at a later time. It looked like a fine place for dancing and entertainment, if less conventional than a modern ballroom. The furniture in most of the house was shrouded in holland covers but the Elizabethan section boasted magnificently carved wooden wainscoting and a hanging staircase. The small staff had done a reasonable job of keeping order, though there was a general air of musty disuse.

  In the modern wing he began hearing an ethereal wisp of music. At first it seemed imaginary, but it strengthened and led him to a thick oak door in the rear corner of the building. Opening the door, he paused in pure wonder.

  Richard’s first thought was that she was an angel. However, no wings were in evidence, and he didn’t suppose angels needed sheet music. The girl was seated on a bench before a window, backlit by a flood of sunshine that burnished her hair to gold. A few silken curls hung around the exquisitely delicate face as her head bent over a small Celtic harp.

  The tune was familiar to him, but he had never heard it done with such feeling or virtuosity. Seeing her rapt in a world of radiant sound, he thought of a pagan priestess playing to her gods on a moonlit mountain. The bell-like notes throbbed and pulsed, the echoes resonating from the ancient roots of Britain.

  He had forgotten the sound of joy. When had he last seen or felt such a passionate intensity of being? These last months had held little but pain and stoic determination. Hearing that triumphant musical celebration, he could almost feel the blood begin to sing in his veins. The world took on added dimension and color— weightless motes of dust suspended in the sun, polished wood glowing with inner light, and the vision before him impressed irrevocably on his brain. He wanted to laugh out loud as he remembered what it was to live.

  The music ended in a shower of golden notes, leaving a richly silent peace. As he was irresistibly drawn across the room toward the girl, she looked up at him with a complete lack of self-consciousness.

  “It was you, wasn’t it?” she said in a voice as pure and musical as that of the harp.

  “I’m sorry, what was me? Or would it be ‘what was I?’”

  She gave an enchanting chuckle. “That didn’t make sense, did it? I thought I was imagining the sound of a pipe harmonizing with the harp. It blended and counter-pointed with the main theme so perfectly, I didn’t believe it was real. Were you whistling?”

  He returned her smile. “I’m afraid I probably was. Whistling is my besetting sin—I often don’t know I am doing it. My friends have threatened to throw shoes at me as if I were a back-alley cat.”

  “But you whistle so very well,” she said seriously. “Surely you must have known this piece of music.”

  He nodded. “Yes, it is by Turlough O’Carolan.”

  “Oh, you’ve heard of him! I never have. Who was he?”

  “A superb composer who lived in Ireland about a hundred years ago. His work was in the folk tradition but has Italian elements as well. It’s unfortunate he is not better known outside his own country. But how did you learn to play a Celtic harp so well in England?”

  She looked pleased at the praise. “The box that contained the scores also had notes on the kinds of ornamentation an Irish harper would improvise. I’ve been working on this all day. Was it correct?”

  “I have never heard it played better.” He gazed intently at her for a moment, then looked around. “What is this place?”

  “I think of it as heaven,” she confided, “but perhaps it would be more correct to call it the ultimate music room.”

  Richard suppressed an inward laugh as he turned to investigate. Where else would an angel belong but in heaven?

  The wall opposite the broad windows held a specially built cabinet with an incredible array of stringed and wind instruments. To his left were shelves of vertical boxes shaped like large books. He pulled one out at random and read the label on the spine: Johann Christian Bach, Music for Strings and Chamber Orchestra. A list of individual pieces followed, and inside were the sheets of music described. As he looked further, he saw that it was a completely cataloged music library, classified by title, instrument, composer, and date.

  The young woman had followed him. “Is it not incredible?” she asked eagerly. “I have never seen such a wealth of music. I’m told the last countess was a fine musician—she collected all these instruments and compositions. It must have been her life’s work. The instruments are all of superb quality, and the composers are wonderful. Some are men I never heard of, but all I have tried are more than worthy.”

  Richard looked around the room. It had the high molded ceiling and proportions of a fine library, and there was ample space for several standing instruments. A raised platform at the far end seemed designed for chamber concerts. “I see two dulcimers, a harpsichord, virginals, a clavichord, and a pianoforte. The only thing missing is a pipe organ.”

  The girl laughed. “It is a sad lack, but I’m told the countess had a very fine organ built in the parish church. Perhaps the earl objected to having plaster shaken loose from the ceilings.”

  “How very unhandsome of him.”

  “Perhaps the poor man had no ear for the finer things of life,” she said charitably.

  Richard was gazing at the pianoforte with a longing expression on his face. “I haven’t been near a pianoforte in over a year.” He limped over and seated himself on the long bench, running some experimental scales. “It has a lovely tone. A pity I am so out of practice.”

  He started to play a Mozart sonata, forgetting he was not alone. For someone who hadn’t played for many months, it was a remarkably fine performance. A few notes might go astray, but great feeling and skill were apparent.

  Caroline listened in appreciation for a few minutes, then walked to the instrument and seated herself next to him on the bench. With her right hand she started improvising a descant that blended with the main sonata. Richard accepted her presence without missing a note, and they continued through the piece in perfect harmony.

  After completing the concerto, he turned and looked down at her. “Thank you. I don’t know when I have enjoyed anything more.”

  There was a brief silence before she said rather breathlessly, “Do you know any of the other Mozart sonatas?” He turned wordlessly and began to play again.

  Caroline joined in readily but she felt curiously off-balance. When he looked at her with those warm, golden-flecked hazel eyes, she abruptly realized they were nearly touching. She could feel a calm strength radiating from his body; it was disquieting, but not in the way Jason was. She felt no anger in him, but rather a deep and abiding kindness. She shivered slightly, then let herself be absorbed by the music.

  He took liberties with the tempo but she seemed able to read his mind and followed his playing effortlessly. They passed the next half-hour in complete harmony, taking turns choosing the music and letting the other recognize and join in.

  That was how Josiah Chelmsford found them. He listened at the door for a few minutes, enjoying the rare quality of the performance. He had had no idea Richard
was so talented, but it shouldn’t have surprised him—both sides of the boy’s family had been musically inclined. The lawyer was loath to end the performance but finally intervened after a Mozart sonata.

  “That was a treat for these old ears. Will you introduce me to your charming companion, Captain Dalton?”

  The two young people looked at each other in surprise, then started laughing. “I’m sorry, sir, I have no idea. We haven’t gotten to names yet. If you will permit me to introduce myself, I am Richard Dalton, here at Mr. Chelmsford’s behest to take inventory of the property. Do you live here? I was told only a small staff was present.” Dressed as she was, the girl couldn’t possibly be a servant.

  She looked up at him, shyer with another person present. “My name is Caroline Hanscombe. I am staying nearby and ... it was arranged that I could practice here.”

  Chelmsford looked at her keenly. “Caroline Hanscombe—then you would be Lord Radford’s fiancée. I saw the notice in the newspaper. Delighted to make your acquaintance. Radford is held in very high esteem.”

  Richard watched as she cast her eyes downward. visibly withdrawing. “Yes, he has been everything that is kind. I am most fortunate.”

  The lawyer observed with interest as Richard resumed his usual calm, controlled expression. The girl was a taking little thing. Pity she was engaged; he had never seen the boy look so carefree. Still, it was best he understood the situation; Radford wasn’t the man to let another poach on his preserves.

  * * * *

  Having tracked Richard to the music room, Josiah decided to use the fine summer day to show him some of the property. As they walked to the stables, the general air of shabby neglect that was faintly obvious in the house became much more pronounced. It was clear that the estate had suffered from mismanagement or a shortage of funds or both.