Willa took a seat. “Thank you again for having me, Miss—”
“Oh, none of that. Not between old friends.” Gwen grinned and darted a glance toward the door. “You must be Willa and we Daisy and Gwen or we’ll never pull this off,” she added in a whisper.
Daisy’s smile went strained against her pale cheeks. She wasn’t, she had said last evening, particularly unwell at the moment. She just always tended that way. Which was part of what led the sisters to a quiet life apart from the society they could have afforded to frolic in. “It is unsettling though. I can’t remember the last time we had a secret from Miss Blaker.”
Willa shifted on her chair, which wasn’t nearly as comfortable as it had looked like it would be. “I am sorry for the secrecy. If you wish to devise a different story—”
“Oh no. It’s quite all right.” Daisy’s countenance relaxed again. “We are neither of us fond of falsehoods, but sometimes the Lord asks us to do the unexpected for a greater cause. We are helping Britain. We know that.”
Were they? If they were certain of that, then they knew more than Willa did. As to the claim that the Lord had some sort of hand in this . . . that just went beyond comprehension. Never in her life had Willa really heard anything about God that made any sense. But now all of a sudden Rosemary was spouting a bunch of nonsense about Him, and apparently she’d be getting the same sort of rot from these two.
“Well, I am grateful for your hospitality. And looking forward to seeing the workings of the orchestra.”
Gwen’s eyes lit, and she sat forward, dropping her hands into her lap. “They are a remarkable group—simply remarkable. Our trustee, TJ, and his colleagues outdid themselves in collecting the best artists from Belgium. I could scarcely believe it when they returned with Mr. De Wilde.”
Willa’s throat wanted to go tight, but she swallowed to convince it to behave normally. Yes, he had been every bit as handsome as his posters indicated when she saw him on the street yesterday. And a great deal more besides—more moody, more intense, more . . . dangerous. The same kind of dangerous that Cor was, with the added deadly elements of style and money. “I look forward to meeting him.”
The sooner she did, the sooner she could set about her job. And the sooner she could get home to London and streets with names she knew how to pronounce.
“Gwen used to play the violin, you know.” Daisy reached up to check her hair, which appeared to be styled for the evening already. Though the style was muted and a bit frizzy. “She was quite good.”
Willa turned her gaze on the older of the sisters. “Used to?”
Gwen stretched out her hands. “I can’t any longer—it hurts too much. My fingertips, you see, have gone so very sensitive with this nerve ailment I have.”
“She’s resorted to the organ. I’m afraid this house doesn’t have one, but when at home she practices daily. Perhaps at some point you’ll get to hear her.”
“I hope so.” The words came easily, but Willa was stuck on the previous statement. She couldn’t quite imagine giving up the violin. She hadn’t even been able to travel without bringing hers along, as that would mean possibly weeks without it. Unthinkable.
“But the violin will always be my first love. I hope to convince Mr. De Wilde to do some solo performances in Wales while he is here, as well. If I cannot do it myself, I can at least take joy from another’s far greater talent.” Gwen’s smile took on a note of mischief—though so quiet a note Willa wouldn’t have even noticed it in anyone else’s smile.
She couldn’t help but grin in return. “Perhaps we could even convince him to let you attend a few practices.” So that Willa could tag along. Somehow or another, she had to get close to the man. Befriend him, if necessary. She could find her way to his rooms without any personal connection, but if he carried this cypher key on his person . . . Well, then she had to be near the person.
“Who’s to say?” Still smiling, Gwen stood. “We had best get dressed for dinner. Our guests should arrive soon.”
The sisters chatted as they led the way out of the room—something about a new painting that Daisy was working on giving her trouble. Willa didn’t pay much attention. She wasn’t sure how best to gain the confidence of De Wilde. Her original plan had been to play the wide-eyed society girl who was awestruck by his brilliance . . . but she could hardly do that now. Not after that silent little exchange in the street yesterday.
She hadn’t been able to help herself. There had been something in his gaze, something far too intense to go unanswered. Something that had left her only two choices—to step back and look away, admitting weakness. Or to return the challenge.
Stupid, stupid decision, Willa. Had she shown weakness, she could have played it up. Used it against him. But no. Survival instincts had flared up, drowning out her plans.
She shook it off and mounted the stairs behind her hostesses.
Her borrowed room was the size of her entire flat in London. The chamber was roomy and ornate and had a canopy bed the likes of which she’d only ever seen in storybooks. A table sat beside it, and in the corner were a beautiful washbasin and bowl. Against the far wall stood a wardrobe so large she could have fit her own clothes in it and Elinor’s and Olivia’s besides.
Willa bypassed all that and moved to the window, careful to come up to it from the side so that her silhouette wouldn’t be visible through the gauzy curtain if anyone happened to be looking. Easing the fabric aside just a bit, she peered out to the street below.
No brown-clad man stood out there watching. Not within sight.
She let the curtain fall back into place and turned to the wardrobe. There was really no time to be thinking about whoever had been following her anyway—she had to focus on the encounter to come. On Lukas De Wilde and how to find whatever this key thing was.
Only two evening gowns hung within the armoire. Both had been designed by Rosemary, so they were pretty and in vogue and looked like much more than they had cost. She chose one at random—a pale yellow and blue—and changed into it as quickly as she could manage. At home, Ellie would assist her. To get such aid here, she’d have to accept the help of a maid. And that just rubbed her all kinds of wrong ways.
Willa sat on the plush little bench in front of the dressing table and shook her head. She’d sooner struggle for an hour on her own than let the Davieses “lend” her their shared maid. Though granted, it was a struggle to get her hair to stay up.
It hadn’t used to be, when it was longer. She pulled out the pins already jabbed into her low chignon and let the locks fall to her shoulders. Last year for Christmas, she and the other girls had decided to pool their resources and buy some heavy wool for a coat for Barclay—he always gave what they had to one of the younger ones before he saw to his own well-being, and it had been particularly cold that winter. But family policy said nothing stolen could be given as a gift.
So Willa had cut her hair and sold it. She still wasn’t sure how the others had managed the coins they had donated, but they’d no doubt all been creative. And they’d done it—they’d bought some good, thick wool and cloth for lining it too. Rosemary had cut the coat, pinned it, and they had all helped stitch. Then they’d gotten to see Barclay’s eyes light up.
And go wide with shock, too, when he saw Willa’s shorn locks. Her lips quirked up now to remember it. There was nothing so fun in the world as rendering Barclay speechless.
He wouldn’t be now though, were he here—he’d be snapping at her to get a move on. She had a job to do.
She was jabbing in the last pin when she heard footsteps in the hall, along with Daisy’s soft laughter. And then a bell from downstairs.
Time was up. And her stomach had the knots to prove it.
She would take a moment more though. Just one. After waiting to make sure the sisters didn’t knock on her door to fetch her, she moved over to the wardrobe again and pulled out the valise stashed in the bottom beside her violin case. Barclay had altered the thing for her, building i
n a false top in which to hide the papers from Mr. V—one slender enough that no one would look at the thing and think, There isn’t as much space within as there should be—something must be hidden.
It took her fingers a moment to remember the trick to unlatching the compartment. Then another minute to flip through the file and find the photographs Mr. V had provided of known cypher keys.
A ring, one of them. She’d already studied it closely, even using a magnifying glass to try to see how in the world someone could have hidden any secret messages within the gold. There were symbols though—it had the look of a signet or seal or some such nonsense.
The second photo was of a children’s book. More specifically, the end leaf of a book, which had letters in a seemingly random arrangement, as if to look merely playful. That seemed to be the common thread here—an alphabet in some form or another.
That, then, was what she’d look for on De Wilde, or in his room.
She slid the pages back into their place, the valise back into its place, and dragged in one last breath of ease before squaring her shoulders and striding to the door.
Once in the hallway, she could hear strains of everyday music—laughter and voices, and the chink of something tapping against a glass. The clear tenor of a man’s voice. A baritone of another. A high, feminine laugh that couldn’t possibly belong to either Gwen or Daisy and so must be Miss Blaker’s. Willa had met the sisters’ former governess and current companion only briefly the night before and hadn’t known quite what to make of her.
With any luck, she wouldn’t be here long enough to form a solid opinion.
Padding along in her new pumps, Willa hurried down the stairs and followed the voices toward the parlor. But then she paused in the shadows outside the door and looked in. Daisy and Gwen, of course, were playing hostess and pouring something or another from a crystal pitcher. It wouldn’t be the traditional spirits—not here. They had already mentioned last night that theirs was a temperance household. But lemonade, perhaps? With berries? It was pink rather than yellow.
And unimportant. Her gaze skimmed over Gwen, Daisy, and Miss Blaker, who sat primly in a chair. Settled on the two dark-haired men who stood in the center of the room.
De Wilde stood beside the same man who’d left the concert hall with him yesterday. If Mr. V’s notes could be trusted, he was Jules Bellamy, a cellist and De Wilde’s closest friend. He was a bit taller than her mark, slighter, with what she could only term a scholarly look about him—hooked nose, intelligent eyes, hollow cheeks, spectacles. Pleasant enough in appearance, but unremarkable.
Which made a marked contrast to Lukas De Wilde. He was about the same height as Barclay—just above average. A trim but solid figure that hinted at muscle whenever he moved. Rich dark hair, eyes so deep that from here they looked black—and piercing. And his face . . . his face was just as it had been yesterday. Utter male perfection.
Willa granted herself a moment to draw in a breath. To tell her stomach to behave itself and her nerves to be calm. He was a man like any other. It didn’t matter that he was handsome. And rich. And quite possibly the best violinist alive today. He was a mark.
A mark who swung his gaze over to the doorway when she slid into it and yet again gave her that look that had ruined everything yesterday. Intensity masking challenge.
Her spine eased into the perfect alignment she and the other girls had practiced amid much laughter before they decided to brave the society functions in search of a few sparklies to liberate. Her chin came up a notch. Or two. But she forced her face to remember itself. Pasted on what she hoped looked like an easy smile and stepped into the room.
“And here is our guest.” Gwen handed one of the glasses she held to Bellamy and the other to De Wilde. “Allow me to introduce Miss Willa Forsythe. Willa dear, this is Mr. Jules Bellamy and Mr. Lukas De Wilde.”
She enlarged her smile and nodded at each of the men with a polite “How do you do?”
Bellamy returned the greeting, along with a murmured response. De Wilde was reaching for the glass—but his movement was uneven. And pain flashed, dark and stormy, in his eyes. His smile remained neutral and easy, but . . .
He was injured—his right arm. Probably his shoulder, given the way he was moving. How in the world could he play if it hurt him so? Had he pulled a muscle, perhaps? Pinched a nerve?
If so, he must have done quite a job of it, because that pain didn’t clear from his eyes as he returned his arm to his side and switched the glass to his left hand. He ought to have reached for it with that one to begin with—and no doubt was thinking the same thing even now.
Their hostesses didn’t seem to notice. They continued their chatter, inviting everyone to sit if they so desired, assuring all that the meal would be ready shortly. Daisy pressed a glass of pink stuff into Willa’s hand.
She moved toward a sofa but had no intention of sitting unless she must. She thought better, observed better, on her feet. Moving in the general direction of the sofa would hopefully suffice. Likely would, given that Miss Blaker had asked some question or another of Mr. Bellamy, and he remained where he was standing to answer her, gesturing with his glass.
“I am so glad you could join us, Mr. De Wilde.” Gwen stepped into the space beside him, looked from him to Willa.
Willa took a step toward them, effectively joining their group with that small movement. And making a mental note of how seamlessly her hostess had achieved the inclusion.
“I used to play the violin myself—though of course I never achieved your level of skill and talent.” Gwen looked perfectly at ease, despite the fact that she wasn’t exactly what one would term fashionable. She wore a high-necked gown that bordered on dowdy, though she moved about with confidence. But then, this was her world.
De Wilde only glanced at Willa once, for the briefest of moments, before turning his smile on Gwen. But it was enough to scald her. “I have heard that you played, mademoiselle. And have heard, too, that you are modest—that you were quite good. Would that I could hear you.”
Gwen sighed, her smile sad. “Would that I could let you convince me—however embarrassing it would be. I don’t think I will ever cease missing it.” She rubbed at her fingers, much as she had been doing earlier.
Another flash of his eyes. Not exactly the same intense pain as before, but something similar. Then he leveled that gaze on Willa. “And you, Miss Forsythe? Do you play an instrument? Piano perhaps—I know it is the preference of many society ladies.”
She’d plinked a few keys on the old upright Pauly had. But whatever fluke of nature had enabled her to pick up a violin and a bow and just play, it had not translated to the piano. Hence why she had often thought, in those early days, that her violin was magical. That the music rested in it, not in her.
She ought to claim no musical experience whatsoever. Because really, how much did she have? The only instruction she’d ever received was what she could steal from someone else’s lesson, hovering under open windows and straining upward to listen. For a year or so, she’d found an actual violin instructor who gave lessons in a ground-floor room of his house. Willa had listened outside the window whenever she could manage it.
Then he’d up and moved, the blighter.
De Wilde lifted a brow, so subtly she almost missed it.
Her shoulders went back. “I also play the violin. A bit. I’ve never had formal instruction though, so my skill is certainly nothing deserving of bragging.”
There was nothing wrong with her words—neither in the ones she’d chosen nor in their inflection. Their correctness was proven by Gwen’s expression—a bit of pleasant surprise at the revelation itself, but a smiling kind.
Why, then, did that challenge burn in De Wilde’s gaze? “Do you? Then you must play for us later, after dinner.”
“Oh, I hardly think so.” And why would he want her to? So he could laugh at her? But no, that didn’t seem right. There was nothing cruel in his eyes. Just . . . just . . . she didn’t even
know the word for it. But she didn’t intend to indulge him. “I don’t even have my instrument with me in Wales.”
A lie, of course, but she was most certainly not going to pull out that scarred old thing. Love it as she might, it wasn’t befitting her assumed role.
“No matter. You can play mine.” He motioned to a case she hadn’t even noticed sitting there, under a side table. “I brought it to show Miss Davies, knowing she appreciates the instruments crafted by Stradivari. I thought perhaps she would like to see mine.”
Gwen’s eyes went as bright as a summer sun. “Oh! How good of you, sir. Yes, I most assuredly would.”
He had a Stradivarius? Idiot. Of course he had a Strad—all the best of the professional string players seemed to have one. Willa forced a swallow past a throat gone dry and looked to that case again.
He had a Stradivarius. Here. And he’d offered to let her play it. All for the low cost of her pride—and really, what did pride matter in this? When else would she ever have the chance to actually touch an instrument so fine? To play it? Her head bobbed slowly. “Very well, Mr. De Wilde. After dinner—so long as you promise not to laugh.”
His smile was quick. Mischievous. And nearly curled her toes. “Bon. I shall look forward to it.”
Willa took a sip of her drink—definitely lemonade with some sort of berry in it—and silently thanked the servant who appeared in the doorway and announced dinner. With any luck, she would end up seated as far from this man as possible during the meal and . . .
No. She needed to be close to him, to see what he might carry on his person that could have an alphabet on it. He wore no rings, so that option was ruled out. But perhaps . . . something else. A cufflink was probably too small, wasn’t it? But he could have a pocket watch. A pocket watch could easily have an inscription on it.
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