The Diabolical Baron

by Mary Jo Putney

  She laughed a little, deep sadness in her voice. “I understood that later. I was so crushed with disappointment that my beastly temper took over and I said all those terrible things. After I left you, I rode for hours, trying to understand what had happened. When I finally came to believe that my heart could not have been wrong about how you felt, I rode to the house where you were staying. But it was too late.”

  He looked at her in surprise. “You went to Longford’s house? I never knew that. I had left a bare two hours after you rejected my suit—I knew I couldn’t endure being near you. I suppose you would not have known where to write to me.”

  She shook her head. “I knew so little about you—not even where you lived. I didn’t dare make inquiries— the butler who told me you had left made it very clear what he thought about brazen hussies who called on gentlemen without so much as a groom for escort. I was sure my foolish anger had given you a lasting disgust of me, and I hated myself for throwing away what I wanted more than anything in life.

  “There seemed no help for it, so I went off to London as my father wished. I knew I couldn’t fall in love like that again, but the social rounds helped distract me. Papa received a great many offers for my hand, but he didn’t mind refusing those he considered unworthy of me.”

  She smiled with a trace of mischief. “He never knew the heir to a dukedom was so ill-bred as to propose to me directly. Papa would have expired on the spot if he knew I had turned down such an offer. And I got offers of quite another sort from no fewer than two royal dukes.”

  “Dare I speculate which two?”

  “A lady never boasts of her conquests,” she said primly. More seriously she said, “During that spring I came to know John Sterling better. He was a captain then. He came from Wiltshire near the Hanscombes’ and had known me from when I was a child. As the Season came to an end, he told me he had always loved me but had been waiting for me to grow up and see something of the world. Even when I said I loved someone else, he wanted to marry me.”

  She stopped again, then said haltingly, “I needed very much to be loved. My father objected, but I had a stronger will than he, and swore I would elope if he didn’t give his permission. He knew I would, so he threw up his hands in despair and let me go. We were married quietly and left the country soon after.”

  She smiled nostalgically. “I learned so much about love from John. He was all that was generous, always giving, never asking for more than I was willing to give in return. And soon I loved him too, though not the same way I loved you. One never loves two men in the same way, I suppose.”

  She started to rise, saying, “And that is how I came to be here. I am grateful for the chance to explain myself, and to beg your pardon for the wrong I did you.”

  Jason grabbed her hand and pulled her down again. “Do you think you can just leave now, as if you had finished a morning call? Do you think I will let you walk out of my life again?”

  She looked at him steadily. “I might be willing to be your mistress under other conditions, but not when Caro is your wife.”

  “To hell with Caroline! It’s you that I want to marry. Can you deny you love me?” There was an unfamiliar note of pleading in his voice; he daren’t even consider losing her again.

  She reached out her hand and traced the lines of his beloved face—the thick frowning brows that intimidated Caroline, the dark weathered skin, the unexpectedly warm lips. She said gently, “You are promised to her.”

  “I know that only women are supposed to break engagements, and I’ve always thought it was just so much fustian. Do you think I care what the gossips think of me? Does it matter to you?” He turned his face to press a burning kiss into her palm.

  She sighed and withdrew her hand. “I wouldn’t care for myself, though perhaps I would for my daughter’s sake.”

  “There would be some embarrassment for Caroline, but I doubt she would really mind,” he agreed. “I think her father was selling her, much as your father sold her mother.”

  “There is some truth to that,” she admitted. “Sir Alfred needed the settlement or she would never have consented.”

  “She was willing to wed the ogre for money?” he asked sarcastically.

  “She cares less for money than anyone I ever met. But she loves her sister Gina, and she was told Gina would not be allowed to wed her Gideon unless she agreed to marry you.”

  “So she was the virgin sacrifice for her sister’s happiness. You are certainly bent on destroying my self-esteem! Why can’t I let Sir Alfred keep the damned settlement in return for the blow to his daughter’s spirits?”

  “You know that isn’t possible.”

  “Why not? It’s my money, and I can do with it as I like. Or would I then be unable to afford your bride price?”

  She refused to take it as a jest. “If it were only money, and a minor scandal, I would marry you tomorrow. But it has gone beyond that. Have you looked at Caroline closely?”

  He nodded reluctantly. “She is looking very well. The country agrees with her.”

  “It is more than that,” Jessica said earnestly. “I have known her all her life, and I have never seen her glow as she has these last two weeks. She is a very private person and hasn’t confided in me about her feelings. Indeed, I doubt if she herself knew. But did you observe her three nights ago?”

  He frowned. “Yes, she looked distracted and moody. She was hardly there at all. She has been quiet ever since.”

  “I know. I was worried and went to her room later that night to see if she wished to talk. I heard her singing when she was unaware of my presence. If ever I have heard love, it was in her voice.”

  Jessica swallowed, then continued painfully, “I think she had only realized it herself. That is why she seems withdrawn. Being in love is shattering, particularly when it is for the first time. Seeing you here in your home, coming to know you better ... of course she came to love you. Who would not?”

  There were tears in her eyes as she finished. “Do you see now why it is impossible? I could never buy my happiness at the price of hers. Soon you will love her too. She is a far better woman that I will ever be. And she is ten years younger, just beginning to blossom into her full beauty. What you and I had and lost belongs to the past. She is your future.”

  He grabbed her shoulders and shook her in desperation, seeing her slipping away from him. “Do you think I care about your age or her saintly disposition? I have never been truly happy but in those hours I spent with you. Would you buy your peace of mind at the price of mine?”

  He moved his fingers into the tangled silk of her hair, pulling her close in a violent embrace. With every fiber of passion in him he tried to bind her with hands and mouth and body, to persuade her in ways beyond words.

  She yielded for long moments, then shoved him away with startling strength. He fell back against the log as she scrambled across the clearing, untethering her horse and mounting in a blur of movement. The reins in hand, she looked down at him in anguish. “I will love you always,” she said in a small clear voice.

  Then she was gone. He stood slowly and crossed to Caesar, leaning his forehead against the horse’s sweaty neck. He was grateful for the paralysis that gripped him. It held in check the pain he knew would devastate him when it was released—when he let himself know that she had ridden out of his life for the last time.

  * * * *

  Caroline sighed and pushed a tawny curl off her face as she looked at the music score on the desk before her. Usually she composed directly on the pianoforte, relying on her near-perfect musical memory to hold the sounds in her mind until she could record them. Three nights ago it had been different—she worked in a blaze of creative energy, the notes pouring from her pen onto the paper as the composition pounded in her blood, demanding to be set free. When the music finally released her to her bed, she did not truly understand what she had written.

  She had not looked at the sonata till this morning, unable to confront the intense emotio
ns that had generated it. Now, as it lay on the desk before her in the late-morning sun, she wondered how she could have been so blind. The composition was a declaration of her love for Richard—all her inchoate feelings transmuted into pure melody. She didn’t need to play it aloud to know it was the best thing she had ever done. It should be; every note had been drawn out of her blood and being.

  Letting the music speak her heart had given a curious sense of peace after the confusion of the last weeks. She could see now how innocent she had been, living in her own dreamy world. Unlike most young girls, she had seldom thought of love and marriage; that was why both had caught her unaware. Her violent initial reaction to Jason had been caused as much by shock at the idea of marriage as by his alarmingly forceful personality. She had never fancied herself in love, not even the schoolgirl infatuations her sisters had suffered. Now the reality of loving had changed her whole world. Her emotions were hitting highs and lows she had never dreamed of, while her body stirred with barely comprehended yearnings.

  She had never loved before, and she knew with aching certainty she would never love again. It was equally certain there could be no possible future with Richard. The engagement to Jason had taken on an unstoppable life of its own; her family’s needs were not changed by the fact that she had lost her heart to the wrong man. To a slightly damaged former soldier, in fact. Her lips curved involuntarily to a smile as she thought of him.

  Even if she were free to love as she chose, she had no reason to believe he felt anything stronger than friendship for her. She suspected he and Jessica were half in love with each other; she had seen how happy they were to meet again.

  Jess had mourned her husband long enough and was ready to move into a new life, while Richard had once told her that every officer in Spain had been expiring of love for the magnificent Mrs. Sterling. She had been a symbol for them of the best of English womanhood, not just beautiful and brimming with vital charm, but patently loving and faithful to her husband. The major had been the most envied man on the Peninsula.

  She hoped they would make a match of it; better to have Richard in her life that way than not at all. And they were the two people that she loved best in the world; she thought she had enough generosity to wish them happy.

  Uncle Richard? Her heart twisted a little at the thought. If that happened, she hoped it wouldn’t be too soon—she wasn’t quite ready for that yet.

  After she married Jason, she would be busy pretending to be a lady. And there would be children— another subject that she had never much considered, but found more appealing now. She no longer feared or hated Jason—might she someday feel a kind of love for him? Perhaps it would be best if she didn’t; he showed no desire for a doting wife. He wanted a presentable and undemanding partner; she wasn’t sure if he even knew what love was. She hadn’t known herself.

  Her musings were interrupted by a soft knock at the door, and her maid, Betsy, came in. “Excuse me, Miss Hanscombe. I know you said you didn’t wish to be disturbed, but the gentleman said it was important.”

  Caroline looked up in surprise. It couldn’t be Jason; the maid would never apologize for bringing a summons from the master of the house. “Who is calling, Betsy?”

  “It’s the military gentleman staying at Wargrave, miss. Captain Dalton.”

  Caroline felt her face draining of color. She had been sitting here, pleased with her calm resignation, and now it was shattered at the mere thought of seeing him again. How could she look at him normally when her whole world had irrevocably changed? Forcing herself to reply steadily, she said, “Tell him I will be down in a few minutes. Is he waiting in the small parlor?”

  The maid nodded and left the room with the message. Caroline stood and gave a despairing glance in the mirror. It was another irony that she who had never cared for her appearance was now as anxious as any other love-struck maiden. Fortunately all her new dresses were flattering; the soft peach-colored morning gown she wore looked well enough to disguise her slight pallor. Her hair had been dressed simply that morning, and it required only a touch with the comb. Unconsciously squaring her shoulders, she went down to the small parlor.

  Richard was looking grave as she entered, but his face softened to a warm smile at her entrance. She offered him her hand, saying, “This is an unexpected pleasure. It is your first visit to Wildehaven, is it not?”

  He nodded. “Yes. The house is splendid and the land is in good heart. Lord Radford has earned his reputation as a good landowner. But I didn’t come here to talk about Wildehaven.” He stopped, apparently unsure how to continue.

  “Yes?” Caroline prompted, seating herself on one of the brocade-covered chairs while her visitor chose another.

  “I’ve taken a great liberty, Caroline. It is not irrevocable, but you may well be angry with me.”

  She raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Indeed?”

  He gave her a rueful smile. “It might be easiest if you read this.” He pulled a letter from inside his coat and handed it to her.

  She opened it curiously. The paper was headed with the style and address of London’s largest music publisher. Her eyes widened as she read:

  Dear Mr. Dalton,

  We are delighted to be chosen as publishers of the compositions you submitted. They are works of stunning power and virtuosity, equal to the very best of the modern European composers. I am particularly pleased that the man you represent is English-born; our island has produced few musicians of the top rank. We will be happy to comply with your principal’s desire for anonymity; simply let us know what name or initials he wishes to use.

  I think I can say with confidence that we will be honored to publish any future compositions. I hope you will be able to come to London soon to discuss the financial arrangements.

  Your most obedient servant, Silas Winford

  “What does this mean?” she breathed, hardly believing.

  “I copied the works you had left at Wargrave and sent them to Winford, saying only that they were by a wellborn person who desired privacy. If you truly do not wish them to be published, I can retrieve them for you. Though Mr. Winford would be sadly disappointed.”

  He looked at her earnestly, saying, “I understand your shyness, Caro, but your work deserves to be heard. The beauty of it can bring such joy to others. It need never affect your privacy. I know you will not need the money, but I hoped it would please you to share your work with others.”

  She looked at him, too moved to find the right words. “I can’t believe someone would wish to publish my music. My friends have admired it, but of course they would feel bound to. I just can’t believe ...” She stopped and bent her head, feeling tears beginning to run down her cheeks. Her thoughts were jumbled in broken fragments; her father’s anger, Signore Ferrante’s encouragement, the nights when she lay awake with melodies dancing in her head, fitting themselves together in different patterns. It seemed incredible that an unknown expert really valued her work so much.

  Ever practical, Richard handed her a clean handkerchief. She thought she felt a feather-light touch on her head as his hand withdrew, but wasn’t sure. She wiped her eyes and looked up apologetically. “I’m sorry to be such a watering pot. I can never think what to say when I feel something strongly.”

  “Does this please you?” he said, watching her keenly.

  She nodded. “Yes. I don’t want my name on the music. Having people talk about me, criticize me for composing—that would be dreadful. I don’t like to be noticed; indeed, it makes me very uncomfortable. I shan’t make a very good peeress, I fear. But it means a great deal to me that others should care for my work.”

  Richard broke into a relieved smile. “Then I am forgiven?”

  “Of course.” She gave him a shining look as she started to feel the first tendrils of excitement. “I am just beginning to believe it.” She stood up suddenly, then whirled in a circle, throwing her arms wide in an unladylike gesture. “In fact, I feel wonderful!”

  Richard
stood also, saying, “I will be going to London tomorrow for two or three days to complete the transaction. Mr. Chelmsford can accompany me to ensure that your interests are protected. I will contact you when I return.”

  Caroline stopped, her exhilaration dimming. “Wait for a moment. There is something I wish to give you.” She hurried from the parlor and upstairs to her bedchamber. When she returned, she carried the sonata she had just written. Looking up at him shyly, she said, “This is not for publishing. I wrote it for you only.” She turned and fled the room, unwilling to stay and see his reaction.

  When Richard returned to Wargrave, he went immediately to the pianoforte to play the composition. The message came through as clearly as if it had been written in English, the gentle opening melody developing richer themes of great complexity, from innocence to love, with darker stirrings of lambent passion. There were joy and pain together, discovery and wonder, and the sonata ended in haunting echoes of loss. He sat at the instrument long after the final notes had faded into memory. When he finally rose, he knew what needed to be done. It only remained to discover how.

  Chapter 12

  There were two arrivals at Wildehaven that afternoon, both demanding Jason’s reluctant attention. The first was Caroline’s pianoforte, accompanied by a high-strung Italian gentleman who refused to consign it into the hands of a mere butler. It was a magnificent instrument, made by the great Broadwood himself, and its escort insisted on seeing that it would be properly appreciated. Faintly amused even through his black depression, Jason had Caroline summoned to oversee the installation and tuning.

  While the Italian gentleman chattered delightedly to this satisfactorily musical lady, Jason was observing her very carefully. He was forced to admit that Jessica might be correct in her assessment of her niece’s emotions. This was not the same shy child he had met at Almack’s a bare two months before. She had a grave dignity about her, a confident womanly beauty. And she no longer shrank from him.