The Beguilement of Lady Eustacia Cavanagh: The Cavanaughs Volume 3

by Stephanie Laurens

  But…he needed to think carefully before he leapt. He hadn’t forgotten the intensity of the mania that had engulfed him all those years ago; he definitely didn’t want to have to weather such an experience again.

  When Protheroe sent Frederick a questioning look, he nodded, and the three of them quietly left the rehearsal room. After shutting the door behind them, Protheroe looked at Frederick and lightly grimaced. “I know your personal interest lies in the pianoforte, but sadly, none of our graduate pianists are scheduled for practice sessions today.”

  Frederick inclined his head. “A pity. However, I believe I’ve seen enough to judge that”—he glanced at Stacie—“as Lady Eustacia maintains, this school is producing soloists worthy of the ton’s attention.”

  Stacie’s eyes lit; he could almost see delight flaring in her eyes.

  Before she could ask if that meant he’d decided to agree to play at her events, he temporized, “I must now think hard about how best I might support your endeavors.” He transferred his gaze to Protheroe. “I congratulate you on all you’re achieving here. I expect Lady Eustacia will inform you of my ultimate decision.”

  At the edge of his vision, he saw the light in Stacie’s eyes fade, and she looked at him in a puzzled, curious way.

  Protheroe, however, was accustomed to such equivocal responses; with no sign of disappointment, he bowed and said, “If there’s any further information I can provide, my lord, you have only to ask.”

  Four young cellists, barely taller than their instruments, were gathered in the hallway a little way along and were regarding Protheroe expectantly.

  He glanced at the boys and smiled, then turned back to Frederick and Stacie. “My next class.” Protheroe looked at Stacie. “If you know your way back…”

  She smiled and assured him she did.

  With another bow, Protheroe left them. Frederick watched him gather his pupils and noted with approval the boys’ transparent eagerness to start their lesson—the sign of an excellent teacher.

  Then he turned to Stacie and found her regarding him through narrowed eyes. He arched his brows at her.

  “You’re being difficult.”

  He humphed and waved her toward the front foyer. “I have my reasons. And if it’s any consolation, on the strength of what I’ve seen today, I’m inclined to agree to your request—I just have to convince myself that doing so will not feature as the most stupid decision of my life.”

  She would have been in the schoolroom when the debacle occurred, and even if his mother and sisters had told her of it—and he wasn’t sure they would have—they had never comprehended the depth of his revulsion; he seriously doubted Stacie had any inkling of what she was asking him to do.

  But when, frowning, her gaze on his face, she opened her mouth to inquire, he tersely shook his head. “No—I’m not going to explain.”

  He looked ahead and heard her softly humph, but she glided beside him along the corridor and around the corner into the hallway that led to the front foyer.

  The familiar chords from the opening of the adagio molto from Beethoven’s “Piano Sonata Number 21” reached them, and Frederick halted. Head tilting, he listened; whoever was playing was accomplished. Not in Frederick’s league—but only a few rungs below.

  Without conscious direction, his feet followed the music to a door along the corridor. Silently, he turned the knob, then slipped through the doorway, into a small practice room housing a grand pianoforte. He paused against the wall, holding still so as not to disturb the young man who was playing with admirable passion and laudable technique.

  The piano faced down the room; if the pianist lifted his eyes, he would see them. But his focus was all for the ivory keys beneath his fingers, his concentration absolute.

  Frederick sensed Stacie beside him, but didn’t take his eyes from the young man—he was in his early twenties at most. His shaggy brown hair fell across his brow, not quite reaching his eyes; from where he stood, Frederick could see the young man’s cuffs were worn, and his coat was little better than threadbare.

  But he could play.

  Frederick ghosted along the wall until he reached a spot where he could see the pianist’s hands. Long, strong fingers tickled the keys, their span impressive and their placement assured. Chord after chord rang clearly, well-executed, yet…

  The young man reached the end of the adagio and, after the usual pause, commenced the rondo—and Frederick couldn’t help himself. “No.” He stalked forward as the young man started in surprise and lifted his hands and the music cut off. “Your balance isn’t correct,” Frederick continued. “Your left hand is overpowering your right.”

  The young man frowned. “I’m left-handed.”

  “So?” Frederick curtly gestured for him to move along the piano stool. “Ultimately, you play by ear—it shouldn’t matter which is your dominant hand. Listen.” He set his fingers to the keys. “This is how it should sound.”

  He didn’t need the music sheets; he opened himself to the music and let it pour through him, guiding his fingers on the keys.

  He played the rondo from start to finish, then lifted his hands and turned to see the boy staring at the keys with his mouth partly open. “Do you see—or rather, did you hear?” Frederick asked.

  Slowly, the boy nodded. “Yes,” he murmured. Then with greater confidence, he repeated, “Yes.” Impulsively, he shifted along as if to bump Frederick aside and reclaim the keyboard, then froze and colored and glanced at Frederick. “May I?”

  Frederick slid to the end of the stool and gestured to the keys. “Try it again. Just the rondo. You had the adagio perfectly gauged.”

  The lad set his hands to the keys, paused, then started playing.

  Silent and still, Stacie remained by the wall and watched and listened—and gave thanks. She could see the musician in Frederick rise to the fore and take charge. He watched the young man’s hands with an eagle eye, and when the piece ended and the young man raised his hands from the keys and looked, Frederick nodded approvingly. “Much better.” He hesitated for only a second, then asked, “Do you know Schubert’s ‘Fantasy in F Minor?’”

  His eyes lighting, the young man nodded. “I’ve played it, practiced it, but I’m not as good as you.”

  “No, you’re not, but playing with pianists like me will improve your touch, which is what you need to work on. So.” Frederick nudged the young man along. “I’ll let you have the easier part.” He set his fingers to the keys. “Ready?”

  Somewhat nervously, the young man nodded—and Frederick launched into the piece and swept the younger pianist into it by sheer force of personality.

  Stacie listened and marveled. It felt like a blessing to be able to hear such music at close quarters, to be able to watch and see the performers, Frederick with his fingers dancing unerringly over the keys, and the lad matching him—drawn in his wake by the power inherent in the composition.

  Finally, the music ended, and she softly sighed.

  The young man swung to face Frederick, stars in his eyes. “Are you a new teacher?”

  “No. I’m Albury.” Frederick rose and looked down at the younger man. “But you and I will play together again. What’s your name?”

  “Brandon, sir. Brandon Miller.”

  “Well, Brandon Miller, I strongly advise you to continue practicing. Your technique is excellent and your playing is, too, but your touch doesn’t so much need work as you need to learn to trust in your feelings about how the music should sound and let that guide you.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’ll do as you say.”

  With a nod of farewell for his newfound acolyte, Frederick walked to where Stacie waited and tipped his head toward the door. The strains of the Beethoven rondo, played with noticeably better balance, followed them into the corridor.

  Stacie glanced at Frederick’s face; his expression was once more austere and impassive—utterly impossible to read. While he’d played, his features had been mobile, reflecting the emotion
he invested in his playing; it was almost shocking to realize how definite and absolute the wall he usually maintained between him and the world actually was.

  In the foyer, when she would have paused at the counter, he grasped her elbow and steered her directly toward the door.

  “Goodbye, Mrs. Withers!” Stacie called over her shoulder.

  She saw Frederick’s lips tighten, but he didn’t slow—not until they were through the door.

  Then he halted on the cobbles, released her elbow, and looked down at her. “Did you arrange that?”

  She blinked up at him. “The young pianist?”

  When he curtly nodded, she shook her head. “No.” Then she confessed, “But if I’d known that was what it would take to tip you into agreeing to play, I would have.”

  He sighed, closed his eyes, and pinched the bridge of his nose.

  She studied him, then finally felt it was safe to ask, “You are going to play at my musical event, aren’t you?”

  He lowered his hand, opened his eyes, and looked at her—for all the world as if he was irritated, but, she sensed, not with her. “God help me, yes. I’ll play at your damned event. Those young men in there are good—in time and with the right experience, some might even achieve greatness. Brandon Miller isn’t up to my standard yet, but he’s ten years younger. With the right encouragement, he could have the world at his feet.”

  Frederick watched her face transform—with joy, delight, and not a little relief. To his eyes, she all but glowed with happiness; the sight stole his breath and left him giddy.

  “That’s wonderful! I’m so glad you agreed to come and see the school and the pupils. Protheroe will be in alt.”

  “I daresay.” Frederick steeled his senses and took her arm again. “But I would prefer you refrained from informing Protheroe for the moment. Give me a few hours to come to grips with my decision.”

  She cast him a look, but her smile didn’t dim.

  As they reached her carriage, she told him, “You hearing Brandon Miller playing just as we were leaving was obviously serendipity at work.”

  He didn’t answer, just helped her into the carriage; he was going on to his club. He needed a drink. Several drinks. “We can meet tomorrow and decide on the details.” He closed the door and saluted. “I’ll see you then.”

  Smiling, she leaned out of the open window. “Until then.”

  He stepped back and watched the carriage roll away.

  She’d ascribed him hearing Brandon Miller playing at the very moment his guard was at its lowest to serendipity.

  He deemed it fate.

  Chapter 3

  After a restless night during which every possible scenario in which Frederick might change his mind and decide against supporting her scheme had played in a continuous loop through her head, Stacie called at Albury House as the clocks chimed ten-thirty—the earliest hour at which she could possibly call on a gentleman.

  It was also an hour at which Frederick was highly unlikely to have left the house.

  Indeed, on being admitted by the butler, who recognized her from her previous visits, she stepped into the front hall to see Frederick leisurely descending the main stairs. He saw her and paused, then resumed his unhurried descent.

  Stacie surrendered her half cape, then turned to face Frederick as he neared. “If I could beg a few minutes of your time, my lord, I believe we have several matters to discuss.”

  One brow faintly arching, he halted before her and reached for her hand. “Good morning, Lady Eustacia.”

  Damn! “Indeed, my lord. Good morning.” She allowed him to take her hand and bow over it, while she sank into an appropriate curtsy.

  As they straightened, he met her eyes; the line of his lips was not quite straight. Releasing her, he waved toward the drawing room. “I do have a few minutes I can spare. Perhaps we might sit and address your ‘matters.’”

  Frederick ushered her into the drawing room. As he passed Fortingale, caution reared its head, and he murmured, “No need to shut the door.”

  He was perfectly certain Stacie had no notion of using propriety to trap him into offering marriage—in fact, now he thought of it, her lack of matrimonial interest in him was one of the things he found most refreshing about her—but others in his household might not be so inclined to overlook an opportunity such as discovering them together, in private and under his roof. Other gentlemen had found themselves leg-shackled for less.

  True to his reading of her, she glided into the room and, with a swish of her skirt—today’s in a rich shade of plum—claimed a seat on the chaise. He crossed to one of the armchairs opposite, sat, and looked at her, transparently waiting for her to speak.

  A slight frown creasing her brow, she offered, “The first thing I believe we should decide on is how many events to include in the first year of our campaign.”

  He blinked. “Campaign?” He straightened as a feeling awfully like panic gripped him. “I thought we were speaking of one event—a single evening of music.”

  Her frown growing more definite, she aimed it at him. “As must be obvious even to you, a single event—an isolated evening—would achieve very little.” She gestured dismissively. “A single evening would hardly be worth our time. We need to present our selected musicians to the ton at large, and while I admit I might have used the term ‘event,’ singular, I always envisaged a campaign.” She met his eyes. “In terms of achieving our goal of introducing worthy young musicians to the notice of the ton, the only approach that will work is an organized sequence of events—in other words, a campaign.”

  “No.” Adamantly, he shook his head. How had he got roped into this? Just the thought of performing at multiple events made him shudder. “No campaign.” He held up a finger. “One event, nothing more.”

  “Frederick—that’s nonsensical.” Openly exasperated, she stared at him. “If you can perform at one event, given your ability, how much more effort would it take to perform at several more, spaced out over an entire year?”

  She was right, of course; in terms of effort, the difference was negligible. But that wasn’t the problem, and he wasn’t about to explain.

  His jaw set, he met her eyes. “The simple fact is, I don’t want to appear before the ton at all. However, after seeing the need, I agreed to one—singular—event. That’s all I’m prepared to play at.”

  Stacie narrowed her eyes on his face, with its hard edges and implacable expression. She’d thought she’d won his agreement to provide the drawcard she needed for her campaign and wasn’t about to meekly surrender that position.

  Head tilting, she studied him. I don’t want to… Those were the crucial words in his refusal. So what would motivate a man like him to change his mind?

  Inspiration struck, and she smiled.

  His eyes narrowed in response, and she battled not to grin. “I happen to know that the Raventhorne Abbey library holds a collection of medieval musical texts—all originals—as well as five folios of very old sheet music.”

  The interest that lit his golden eyes was impossible to mistake.

  More confidently, she went on, “If you agree to perform at least one piano sonata at six events spread out over the coming year, I’ll arrange for you to borrow those texts and folios.”

  He stared at her for several moments, then asked, “Have any other scholars studied those volumes?”

  “As far as I’m aware, they’ve been moldering in the abbey library for decades, certainly since before I was born. My great-grandmother was the one who bought them—she had an interest in music, too. No one in the family between her and me has been of a musical bent, so I suspect the books and folios have simply sat on the shelf.”

  “But you’ve looked at them?”

  She nodded. “And I can report that they’re in excellent condition.”

  Frederick felt his resistance wavering, weakened by the desire to see those old texts and folios. “Three events spread over the year, and I play whatever piece I choose.�
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  Her eyes narrowed again. “Four events over a year, with a performance at least as long as a sonata, but you get to select the piece or pieces.” She paused, then added, “That’s my final offer.”

  He would have laughed except he truly wanted to get his hands on those texts, let alone the folios. Often, significant discoveries were unearthed in just such out-of-the-way and forgotten private collections. His gaze locked on her face, he considered the stubborn set of her chin, the adamantine glint in her eyes. “I suppose,” he mused, more to himself than her, “that once I weather the first event, we’ll know how to handle it.”

  She frowned in puzzlement. “Handle what?”

  He paused, then replied, “The over-avid interest of the ton’s ladies. Trust me, I know of what I speak.”

  She wasn’t about to be distracted. “So are we agreed? Four events on the terms I stated?”

  He inwardly sighed. He wanted access to those tomes; who knew what they might contain? “Very well. Four events over the year, a sonata-length performance at each, with pieces chosen by me.”

  The clock on the mantelpiece chimed eleven times; he glanced at it, then looked at her and rose. “If that’s all, I have an appointment I must keep.”

  “All? But…we’ve only just started.” Dismayed, she looked up at him. “We need to discuss how the events will run, what form will best suit to introduce the younger musicians, the timing and length of performances, whether we should restrict the repertoire or at least impose some guidance as to what style of pieces should be played.” She flung up her hands. “There are countless details we need to decide, and not least of those is the date for our first event.”

  He frowned; she was right, and he didn’t want her making those decisions alone. He met her eyes. “I’m due at the museum at half past eleven—a private viewing of an exhibition of ancient musical instruments and artifacts. The curator is an old friend, and he’s invited all the scholars of ancient music to peruse the exhibition ahead of the public opening tomorrow.” He paused, wondering at the impulse prompting him, yet went on, “You could accompany me—we can discuss the details of these events of yours in the carriage on the way, and you might find the exhibition of some interest.”