Reid had been their commander during the war against Napoleon and had led them in the final battle at Waterloo. While creating a musical group had initially been Owen’s idea, once the four friends had agreed to form the Noble Lords, Reid had naturally slipped into the role of leader.
“We are all here now, so what are our first moves?” asked Owen.
Kendal got to his feet. He was the musical maestro of the Noble Lords, a gifted musician and composer. “We need to start rehearsals as soon as possible. Marco and his friends have been playing as a group for some time, but we are only just getting started.”
Reid nodded. “Agreed. I spoke to Eliza earlier, and she has promised to try and secure us some bookings. Knowing how persuasive she can be, I would not be surprised if she has us playing in public within the next week.”
Lady Eliza Follett, Reid’s unwed sister, knew a great many people within London society. She even counted the future king as a personal friend. If anyone could secure the new musical group public bookings, it was Eliza.
Owen took a seat and set his violin case gently on the floor.
I could do with a drink.
He knew his bout of dry mouth was due to nerves. The prospect of playing in front of other members of the ton suddenly didn’t seem such a great idea. It had been many months since he had last played the violin, and he was badly in need of practice.
“Having seen how well the Italians play, we are going to have to lift our game if we are to pose any sort of serious threat to them. Their first violin, Marco’s cousin Antonio, is no slouch. Any man who owns a Stradivarius takes his music seriously,” Owen said and patted the top of his violin case; within it lay his most prized possession. One of only a handful of Stradivari violins which the master Italian craftsman had made in his workshop and held onto all his life, before it had finally made its way into Owen’s hands. It was worth a princely sum.
“What about their second violin? Is he up to scratch?” asked Callum.
Owen nodded. During their time in the army, Callum had honed his skills for finding weaknesses in the enemy’s battle lines; he would no doubt be looking for ways for the Noble Lords to assert themselves over their competition.
“He has a basic violin, but he can still play. I did note that he had some other instrument cases seated next to him when I watched the Italians perform,” said Owen.
He had been grateful for Georgina’s late arrival to the party and so he hadn’t lost her to the competition as well. Although his plans with her for the evening had not turned out so well. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat; he was still in a great deal of pain after the fall.
“What sort of cases?” replied Callum.
“I think I spotted a piccolo and a trumpet case in amongst the boxes and bags. I would not be the least bit surprised if he fancies himself as a bit of a jack-of-all-trades,” replied Owen.
“It doesn’t look like they have an obvious weak link in the group. What else can you tell us about them?” said Callum.
Owen was loath to mention the rest of what he had seen. The talent of the Italians did not stop at their music. “Much as it pains me to say it, they are all dashing chaps; their only weak point would be that their leader, Marco, seems to be the only one with a solid grasp of the English language.”
Though from what he had seen of Antonio’s moves at the party, Owen could tell that the strategic placement of the Italian violinist’s hands on his female companion was overcoming any possible language barrier. The man was a master of the sly grope.
“From what you tell us, this looks to be an enemy with skills comparable to our own. We shall have to take them seriously,” replied Reid.
As Kendal rose from his chair, strolled over to the piano and began to tinker with the keys, Owen’s thoughts continued to drift back to the party. After Reid had left the first party and gone home, Owen had followed the Italians to their next social engagement. It was there that he had gotten his first taste of their rivals’ underhanded tactics. While Owen was off seeing about obtaining a glass of wine for himself and the first woman he had chosen as his prospective bed partner for the night, Antonio had shamelessly swooped in and stolen her.
Bloody bastard.
Owen clenched his fists tight at the memory of the self-satisfied smirk Antonio had gifted him as he’d led Mrs. Timms away to a secluded part of the gathering.
No one had ever before had the temerity to cut in and steal a lover from Owen—especially not from right under his nose. It didn’t matter that he had met with Georgina later that evening and gone home with her. An insult was still an insult. He was single-minded in his determination to have his revenge.
He didn’t care if it took him all summer—he would bring Antonio down.
Sexual deprivation did not sit well with any of the Noble Lords, especially Owen. He was used to having his pick of the women and prided himself on bedding a different lady every night. He never willingly went without sex. He had been so close to success with Georgina, only to see it all end in agony. I need a woman under me, and soon, or I shall go mad.
With that thought foremost in his mind, he lifted the violin case onto his lap and opened it. His gaze fell on the priceless instrument which lay inside, resting on a piece of red silk. It was a magnificent piece of artistry.
He ran his finger along the deep red maple of the violin’s neck. The varnish added a velvety sheen to its beauty. The perfection of the violin was a sharp contrast to the nicks and cuts which dotted Owen’s hands. A soft sigh escaped his lips.
“My love, I have neglected you. Forgive me,” he whispered, taking the violin and bow out of the case.
He didn’t care who heard him talking to his violin. It had been too long since he had last played. He chided himself for having been caught up in his pleasure-seeking lifestyle to pay full attention to the one thing which truly brought him joy. This violin was the love of his life; no woman could ever compete.
Nestling the violin under his chin, he closed his eyes. It was good to hold it again—to smell the rosin on the bow. To be at one with the music.
“I promise I will not fail you again, my love,” Owen whispered.
He set the bow to the strings and began to play. The soft strains of Vivaldi filled the air. Kendal and Callum soon joined him on the piano and flute respectively. Reid, having been relegated to the role of group conductor, sat quietly on his chair, listening.
The first song was immediately followed by a second. Kendal started a third piece, then stopped.
“No, I don’t like that one,” he said.
He then proceeded to spend the next twenty minutes starting and stopping several more songs by a mix of Vivaldi, Haydn, Handel, and Rossini. Owen and Callum were left to scramble and try to recognize the pieces. Owen found himself constantly picking up and setting down various sheets of music.
“Oh, for crying out loud, could you settle on something?” he moaned, laying his violin back into its case.
When Kendal began a popular piece by Handel, both Owen and Callum sighed with relief. Owen picked up his violin once more and started to play.
When the music finally ended, Kendal launched into a darker, heavier piece by Beethoven and the others were left to try and keep up. After a few minutes, Callum shrugged and put his flute down. He turned his focus to his glass of brandy.
Owen, however, was determined to keep going. He attempted to add some light touches to the overbearing music, an extra flourish here and there. The sort of musical flair that would be certain to attract the ladies of the ton.
“No,” said Kendal, and stopped playing.
“What now?” Owen replied, flustered. He rested the bow on top of the violin’s strings.
Kendal sat back from the piano and stared hard at him. “The tempo is not right. You start out fine, then go and up down like a whore’s skirts.”
“It’s a fucking dirge. We are supposed to be entertaining people, not putting them to sleep,” he bit back.
> He glanced at Reid, seated beside him. His friend was blinking hard. Owen pointed his bow in Reid’s direction. “Look, it’s sending him to the land of nod. We need something livelier.”
Reid stirred from his half-slumber and sat up straight, failing to stifle a yawn.
“Owen is right. No woman is going to fall on her knees and service any of us if she is too busy trying to stay awake to listen to us play in full. I want to hear groans of satisfaction, not snoring,” said Reid.
Kendal lay his arms over the top of the keys, his long fair hair falling about his face. He sighed the sigh of the long-suffering genius. “So, what do you suggest we play?”
“How about Mozart?” Callum sat back in his chair and smiled. The cunning bastard knew full well how to bait Kendal.
Owen and Reid both groaned.
Bloody hell, Callum, don’t stir his temper up. None of us have had enough to drink for that.
“Fuck off. We are not playing bloody Mozart,” replied Kendal.
“What’s wrong with Mozart?” said Callum.
“Everything,” ground out Kendal.
Callum shot a huge grin in the direction of Owen and Reid. “Oh, really? I didn’t know that. I thought he was your favorite. Silly me.” He chuckled.
“I am not playing his shit,” said Kendal.
Owen set his violin and bow back into the case. He was tired, and, much as he loved Beethoven, he was also in danger of falling asleep if they continued to play him.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Reid get to his feet. He couldn’t blame him for needing to stretch his legs and get his blood moving. It had been a lengthy and tedious rehearsal session, with many fits and starts. And it was only their first.
Reid cleared his throat. “There is something I wish to discuss with you all. We have Kendal on piano, Owen on violin and a few other stringed instruments, while Callum handles the flute and woodwind. That leaves only me. My role in the Noble Lords at the moment is as the token conductor. None of you need anything more than a simple count in to play so I really don’t have much of a part in the group other than to supply us with food and drink,” he said.
Owen caught the edge of bitterness in Reid’s words.
Reid continued. “I have had a think about the group, and especially what we should be offering in order to entertain people. We need to approach this like we are at war, and that means getting the audience on our side. I want to call on the patriotism of the ton, especially the ladies. England versus Europe. Or, in this case, the Noble Lords versus the Italians, or something to that effect. And if we are going to succeed, I think we need a singer. I will take on that role.”
Kendal looked at Owen; he in turn looked at Callum. No one spoke for a moment, during which time Owen could sense that Reid’s gaze was fixed firmly on him.
He couldn’t blame Reid for feeling more than just a little put out. Reducing his role in the group to that of a mere bystander had not been perhaps the best decision Owen had made of late. He was proud of Reid and his well-thought-out argument. It was good to see that he wanted to fight for his place in the Noble Lords. To have a full role in the group.
Kendal gave a half shrug, then lowered the lid on the piano. He got to his feet and wandered back over to where the others were.
Callum looked up at Reid. “About time.”
Owen nodded his agreement. “Yes.”
The tension in the room immediately evaporated. A smiling Reid turned and faced them all.
“Thank you, gentlemen. Now when it comes to what music we should be playing at our performances; it makes sense that we find out what the Italians are doing. They are clearly winning sexual conquests and we need to know to which tune. As luck would have it, I know that they are scheduled to play at Lord and Lady Martin’s home tonight, so let’s get our coats and go and do a spot of intelligence gathering,” he said.
Owen closed the clasps on his violin case and got to his feet. “That is a brilliant suggestion. I didn’t get to hear their whole set. And Marco didn’t sing,” he said.
The sooner they started playing in the same style as the Italians, the quicker he could go back to seducing the wicked wives of London society.
An image of the Pied Piper of Hamelin was swirling in his mind as he headed for the door of the ballroom.
Follow me, ladies. I will lead you to the land of pleasure.
Chapter Four
Lord Perry’s Estate
Rickmansworth, Hertfordshire.
* * *
“I am not a bloody horse to be traded!” Lady Amelia Perry stared hard at her father. Rage coursed through her veins.
“No one said you were being treated like livestock; I just happen to think that this marriage is a good idea,” replied Lord Perry.
She took a deep breath and tried to calm her temper. It didn’t work. She unclenched her fist and pointed a finger stiffly at him. “You thought betrothing me to Lord Owen Morrison was a good idea. A man I have never met but whose reputation well and truly precedes him. Have you lost your mind?”
Lord Perry rose from his chair but remained behind the safety of his giant wooden desk. Amy couldn’t fault his decision to stay out of harm’s way. The way she was feeling this morning, there was every chance that if she did get hold of her father, she would commit patricide.
“Now calm down, Amy. Let’s you and I discuss this like rational people,” he replied.
Amy snorted; she was well past the point of thinking straight. Her blood pumped so hard through her brain that it made her head hurt. “Call it off. That is all you need to do. Call this ridiculous betrothal off,” she snapped.
Her father’s demeanor suddenly changed. His back straightened and he met her gaze with his eyes clear and focused. “I cannot do that, Amelia; I gave Lord Lowe my word. And you know I will not break my promise to him. Not unless I have a very good reason. And you thinking that you might not like your future husband is not nearly reason enough,” he said.
Her father only ever called her Amelia when he was asserting his authority. All the fight in Amy suddenly fled, and cold, hard realization took its place. She was trapped.
Her father was an honorable man, his word was his bond. If he had promised his only daughter in marriage to the son of his lifelong friend, her fate was as good as sealed.
She dropped down into the chair opposite her father’s desk and hung her head. If she had not seen the betrothal agreement in writing, she wouldn’t have believed it to be true. Her father had gone to visit the Marquess of Lowe in Abbots Langley a week earlier, only to inform her upon his return that he had secured her a fiancé.
“I thought you loved me. How could you do this to me?” she pleaded.
Her father resumed his seat. They both sat for a time in painful silence, Amy wishing that he would say something that would at least give her some form of comfort.
“I do love you, Amy; that is why I went ahead and made the offer of your hand in marriage. I thought you would be happy knowing that when you marry, you would become a countess just like your mother. But, unlike her, someday you will rise to the exalted rank of the Marchioness of Lowe. The Morrisons are one of England’s oldest and most prestigious families. You just need to open your mind to the possibility of this being a good union,” he said.
His argument, though on the surface sound, did not make sense to her mind. Her father had never before made any sort of mention of Owen Morrison to her, let alone broached the subject of marrying him. She also knew full well that her father did not place that much importance on noble titles. It would take more than that for him to convince her of the merits of his argument.
No. Something else was in play here.
Rising from the chair, she came around to her father’s side of the desk and stood over him. He turned his head away seemingly finding the walls and then his hands to be things which held great interest. He was interested in anything but meeting her gaze. There was a decided air of guilt about him.
Am
y may have thought her level of discomfort had already peaked, but Lord Perry’s odd behavior now had her seriously worried. “There is something not right about this, Papa. What are you not telling me?”
He finally looked up at her and met her gaze once more. There was a sadness about him she had not noticed before. “Lord Lowe has a number of significant loans which he is struggling to pay. Your dowry will enable him to get out from under his creditors. If you don’t marry Owen, the Morrisons will be utterly ruined. I couldn’t stand by and let my friend endure that kind of humiliation, not when I could help.”
Amy blinked back sudden tears. She was being forced into a marriage in order to help settle a debt. This was worse than she had imagined. Despite her father’s protestations, she was being traded like a prize mare.
But if money was the issue, why didn’t her father give Lord Lowe the money? Her dowry was not the only source of funds that her father had available to him. “Why can’t you lend Lord Lowe the money instead of handing over my dowry? He is your friend; you could help him that way,” she finally replied.
“Because I don’t have it. With the crop failures over the past year both here in England, and at my land holdings in Upper Canada, it is taking all my efforts not to have to go and borrow money myself. Your dowry, however, is a different matter,” he said.
Her dowry funds were from her mother’s marriage settlement and Lord Perry could not directly access them.
“So, you chose your friend over your own daughter,” she ventured. She watched for her father’s reaction, hoping he felt something of the sting of disappointment which pierced her heart.
He closed his eyes and shook his head slowly. “No, of course not. But I was hoping that once you met Lord Morrison, you and he would find that you have interests in common. Once a connection was formed, you would be happy for the marriage to go ahead. I have only ever wanted your happiness.”
“And what about the stories I have heard of him being popular with the ladies of London?” she asked.
“He is a war hero from Waterloo; of course, he is popular. Though, I wouldn’t put too much into rumors you hear at parties. People tend to overexaggerate things. And even if Lord Morrison is a little bit of a scoundrel with the ladies, that does not mean that he will not make an excellent husband.”
Owen Page 2