A Song Unheard

by Roseanna M. White

  It was engraved, but not with words that she could see. Just a filigree design. So far as she could tell, no cypher key could be hiding in those twists and turns. And the back was unmarked.

  There could be something within the case, though, or even behind the works.

  “Three o’clock. Have you had enough for our first day?”

  Did he have to phrase it like that, as though she were giving up? She leaned down to set the violin in its case. “I had better get back—I promised to accompany Daisy to a hospital she is considering supporting.”

  He closed the watch again.

  She narrowed her eyes at it. “May I see your watch for a moment? It looks a bit like my grandfather’s. Is it a Patek Philippe?” Those were so valuable they couldn’t be fenced—too easily traced. But she’d lifted one for a client once who had paid her directly and made a pretty penny.

  De Wilde unhooked the watch from his fob and held it out to her. “Non. Cartier. My father gave it to me when I gained a position with the Brussels Conservatoire.”

  Cartiers were far easier to move. She nodded and opened it, noting the engraving on the inside of the cover. It just looked like a simple inscription—how was she to know whether it was something more? “What does it say?”

  “‘To mark the achievement of your dreams.’” He chuckled. “My father was the best of men, and a genius, but not with words. So my mother had him add this.”

  He reached down, his fingers brushing hers, and opened the case still more, revealing the inside back, behind the gears.

  More writing. This time he didn’t wait for her to request a translation of the French. “‘If they are a fraction as bright as our love for you, you will soar to the highest heights.’”

  If it was the key, he wouldn’t show a stranger so easily, would he? And all the ones in the examples Mr. V had given her hadn’t made sense in and of themselves. These appeared to be actual words. Not that she knew French, but it looked like real words.

  She handed the watch back. And had a feeling she’d need to find her way to his room before this was over.

  Seven

  Lukas slid the watch back into his pocket, more than a little surprised that she’d shown interest in something of his—and had not jerked away when their hands brushed. But then, she must be accustomed to men taking her hand.

  She’d looked ready to skewer him with his own bow for touching her back though. He tried to tamp down a grin. “There now. Lesson complete. Time for the flirtation.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him and jumped to her feet. “Don’t waste your breath. I’m immune to it.”

  “No flirtation, then. Just honesty.” He took a step toward her, knowing well she’d just back away. Which she did, sidestepping the music stand. “I want to get to know you better. Will you have dinner with me? There is a lovely restaurant a few streets from here. Or tea—you English love your tea, n’est-ce pas? I have seen tearooms, with young couples coming and going without chaperones. This is appropriate here, I assume?”

  They danced another step, him advancing and her retreating. Her gaze remained a glare. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

  “Why not? My intentions are honorable.” He may not know exactly what they were, but they were unlike any intentions he’d ever had for a woman before. He wanted to get to know her. Sort her out. Determine why he reacted to her as he did.

  She snorted. “You seem to forget that your exploits are plastered across all the gossip rags, Mr. De Wilde. I well know your reputation, and how honorable it’s not.”

  “Hmm.” He’d taken another step, but now he stopped. It took him a long moment to identify the waves of feeling swamping him. Regret. “Mère was right.”

  She stopped too, fingers digging into the unfortunate back of a stuffed chair. “What?”

  “My mother. She always said I would regret my hedonistic ways when I met a young lady about whom I was serious.” But he’d never really believed her. Or perhaps never believed he’d meet anyone who could inspire him to seriousness.

  Willa Forsythe all but snarled at him. “As if you’re serious about me. We just met! And we both know I’m not the type of lady you usually spend your time with, so—”

  “But that is the point, non?” She was unlike anyone he knew—hence why he must become better acquainted. He’d never expected to meet someone with the intensity of his sister, the withering stare of his mother, and the dedication of his father. Someone with a talent that challenged him and a face he could watch intently for hours on end, just to see what flitted across it—and what didn’t.

  Now, for instance, her countenance had gone blank. She squared her shoulders as she ought to do when she played and lifted her chin. “I’m leaving now. And when I come back, you’re going to cease with this ridiculousness. Do you understand?”

  Her eyes were the loveliest shade of blue. Or perhaps green. Or some combination thereof. “Sorry. My English no good. Je ne comprends pas.”

  There, a twitch of her lips. And a breath that sounded far more like laughter than she probably wanted it to. “How do you say ‘idiot’ in French?”

  He grinned. “Mon amour. Try it out.”

  She rolled her eyes instead—apparently even she knew that it meant “my love.” But the twitch had definitely settled into a small, beautiful smile. “Goodbye, Mr. De Wilde.”

  “Lukas. Only my closest friends call me Mr. De Wilde, so if you do not want to give me ideas, you had better call me Lukas.”

  Another laugh-breath. A shake of her head as she strode past him. “I’ll see you tomorrow. In the meantime, rest that shoulder, or you’re going to be an absolute wreck for the concert on Saturday.”

  “Some of us have to practice our music to get it perfect—and memorized.”

  She tossed a look over her shoulder that was flirtatious, whether she would admit it or not. Perhaps she would label it only as teasing. She opened the door. “My sympathies. Really.”

  He wanted to follow her. See if he could earn a full-fledged laugh, a real smile. But he’d probably pressed his luck enough for one day, so he settled for moving to the window. She’d have to pass by it if she was going back to the Davies house.

  It took her a moment to navigate out of the hotel though, of course. Which he spent looking about the street, still largely unfamiliar to him. But it looked like any other seaside street. Nannies and mothers bustled about with babies in prams, children’s palms in theirs. Men strode along with business on their faces. Here and there someone paused, looking at a building number or out to the bay.

  Or leaned against the railing that separated street from sand. He’d have thought nothing of it—Marine Terrace was full of people stopping to take in the view—except that one particular man happened to come to attention just as Lukas’s gaze slid across him. And then the man started across the street.

  Again, it would have been nothing more than a passing thing to note, if Willa hadn’t hurried by the window just then. And the man’s gaze was locked on her. He jogged the remaining distance across the road, dodging a horse and carriage, his eyes following her progress down the sidewalk.

  Alarm rose. She’d never been here before, she’d said last night—she knew no one in Aberystwyth—so it could not be an acquaintance waiting for her. So then who? And why?

  He’d have yelled a warning to her, but a mother with a squalling toddler paused just in front of his window. It left him only one choice.

  He spun for the door at a run.

  Willa heard the footsteps racing toward her a second after she felt that invisible finger-brush over the nape of her neck. Someone was following her—and this time they weren’t being subtle about it.

  She had a split second to decide how to handle it. Which was all she needed. A quick glance around to gauge the crowds or lack of them, where on the street she was, what was nearby.

  She was only steps from where the promenade was intersected by Terrace Road, so it was a simple matter to turn onto it,
her eyes open for any handy alley—of which there were far too few in this city. She had to settle for the nearly empty Stryd y Gorfforaeth. A few strides, then a quick turn into the cubby that led to the hotel’s back entrance. She pivoted, her hand ready to strike.

  A smiling, far-too-familiar face paused just out of reach. “Pretty Willa Forsythe. You do not look happy to see me.”

  Familiarity didn’t make her lower her fist. Fear did. Because this man should not be in Wales, watching her. Watching her like this, coming from a meeting with Lukas De Wilde.

  Something she hadn’t properly felt in years snapped its teeth into her stomach. Panic. “Cor Akkerman? What in blazes are you doing here?”

  His gaze swept her from crown to shoe, noting no doubt the quality of her dress, of her jewelry, of her pumps. Quality that certainly didn’t belong on someone who lived where they did in London.

  He was going to ruin everything. Everything.

  And he smiled about it. “Looking for work, of course.”

  “A hundred and fifty miles from your flat in Poplar? That’s quite a long way to commute, don’t you think?”

  He’d followed her here. He must have.

  Cor chuckled and slung his hands into his pockets, dislodging his buff jacket—which, come to think of it, was higher quality than what he usually wore in London too. He looked almost like a gentleman, except for the hair that was a bit too unruly.

  “Well worth it,” he said in that Flemish accent that suddenly grated rather than sounding charming, “to spend time with you.”

  Why did he follow her here? He didn’t like her that much—she was just a new face, one of the countless he’d been flirting with, she was sure. Nothing special to him, that he should have followed her.

  Her stomach cramped. How had he followed her? All these arrangements had been made by Mr. V with the utmost secrecy.

  She was in so much trouble.

  “Willa!” New footsteps pounded, and another voice spoke her name with an accent she didn’t much want to hear right now.

  A few choice words vied for a place on her tongue. She leveled a finger at Cor Akkerman’s chest. “You cause me trouble and I will pluck out every hair on your head and make you eat them.”

  Cor merely narrowed his eyes and half turned. “Have a new beau already? You move quickly, Willa Forsythe.”

  He was about to see how quickly she could move her fist into his eye. Or her knee into his groin.

  She stepped past him to lift a hand, palm up, to the man who came to a halt at the corner of Terrace and the unpronounceable street she’d opted for. “I am well, Lukas.” Perhaps the use of his first name would calm him.

  Or perhaps it would make possessiveness flare to life in his eyes when he saw how Cor lounged against the hotel’s rear wall.

  Men were all such oafs.

  “I saw someone chasing you. And as you do not know anyone here—”

  “Oh, but she does.” Cor straightened and stepped to her side, actually slung an arm around her shoulders.

  She jerked, that instinct rising to step away. But his fingers bit into her shoulder, holding her fast. Her teeth clenched.

  Lukas’s eyes narrowed.

  Cor chuckled and pulled her tight against his side. “We are old friends from London. So naturally, I dropped by when I arrived in Aberystwyth. Is that not right, Willa?”

  She suddenly wished Lukas were stupid—stupid enough to believe him, anyway. But he obviously wasn’t. He measured Cor as if taking full stock of him in two seconds flat.

  What did he see that she hadn’t when they were safely in London?

  “Odd. How can you possibly be old friends when you surely did not arrive here in Great Britain any earlier than I did? A few weeks ago?”

  Cor stiffened. Not enough that her eyes probably would have noticed it, but she felt it in the muscles of his arm. “You assume much.”

  “It is an easy assumption. Your accent is clearly from the Antwerp province—and I know when the Germans invaded that region. You could try to convince me you were here already, I suppose, and are not a fellow refugee. But I would not believe you.” He looked like some lord, standing there at the alley’s end with his chin raised and disdain dripping from his eyes.

  Perhaps that was how all the French Belgians viewed the Flemish—how was she to know? Or perhaps it was just because he had wealth and fame and thought it made him better than the rest.

  Or perhaps he was jealous. Odd thought, that. But it matched the burning in his eyes.

  Cor chuckled. “I see you are an open-minded and fair man, Monsieur . . . ?”

  Rather than provide his name, Lukas held out a hand toward her. “May I see you home, Miss Forsythe?”

  It called for a quick calculation—which of them would it be riskier to offend? Lukas, who was the entire focus of her reason here? Or Cor, who knew too much of who she really was?

  The hand left her shoulder. “Go ahead, pretty Willa. I will call on you later.” I know where you’re staying, he might as well have shouted. He offered her a handsome smile. “We can reminisce together. Tell your hostesses all about London.” I’ll blow your cover if you don’t do what I say, his eyes screamed.

  Blast him. Teeth still clenched, she stepped away from his side and put her fingers in Lukas’s palm. It felt warm and a far cry more welcoming than Cor’s hand had on her shoulder. But then, De Wilde had come out here solely to try to help her. Not to threaten. Or blackmail. Or whatever it was Cor intended.

  Part of her wished he really were just lovesick, following her like a too-clever puppy. But she knew better.

  Lukas drew her hand through the crook of his elbow and just held her there by his side for a moment, while Cor whistled his way past them and back to Terrace, hands still in his pockets.

  Willa drew in a long breath and tried to convince her jaw to relax.

  “Who is he?”

  She had no qualms about lying—but didn’t rightly know what lie to tell. So had little choice but to settle for the truth. “Cor Akkerman. A new neighbor of mine in London.”

  He’d been watching Cor cross the street and walk toward the row of shops but turned his gaze now on Willa. It was dark and rich and far too intent. A shiver coursed up her spine despite the sunshine currently brightening the day. “He is courting you?”

  A scoffing laugh passed her lips before she could stop it. “I scarcely know him.”

  “This matters very little when a woman has caught a man’s eye, ma cherie.”

  Why was she standing so close to him? His gaze was disconcerting enough from a few feet away. This close, it was downright unnerving. She put a few more inches between them. “Yes, well. I never trust a man who calls me pretty.”

  Now those dark eyes snapped and sparkled, and the corners of his mouth tugged up a degree. “And why is that?”

  “Because I’m not. So anyone who would say so is a flatterer, and I’ve no use for that sort.”

  “Ah.” He led her back toward Terrace. “Thank you for the advice. Though I cannot say as pretty would have ever been a word I would choose to describe you. You are far too interesting to be pretty.”

  It was just the sun heating her, not the odd bit of praise. She looked across the street to see Cor disappearing into an ice cream shop. And pulled her hand from Lukas’s arm. “You probably left your violin unattended in the function room. You should go and see to it. I’ll be fine.”

  The mirth left his eyes. “I will walk you home. We will simply go and put the Strad away first.”

  Though it was on the tip of her tongue to disagree, Willa nodded. Away would mean in his room. Which meant she could see where it was without any need for the underhanded. She’d be a fool to pass that chance by.

  And she was already enough of a fool, having dismissed Cor as basically harmless—to all but gullible women—when he was quite clearly not. So she followed De Wilde back into the hotel, into the parlor where his violin still rested happily in its case. She stood ther
e and let him talk about nothing as he gathered all his things—instrument case, box of music, and stand—and then took the box from him, above all his protests. She hadn’t missed his grimace as he lifted it in his right arm.

  Then she followed him to the stairs and up them to what must be the topmost floor. Fourth door on the right. Not exactly ideal for sneaking her way into—it wasn’t on the end or around a corner. Shouldn’t a musician of his caliber have been given a better room? There would be too many people coming and going here.

  She didn’t go in, of course. He’d think it strange—or an invitation she was not making—if she did. But she glanced past him and saw that the room was a suite. This door opened into an outer chamber with a sofa and table and chairs, a fireplace unlit. Another door stood shut to the right.

  Which was the one where he stored his secrets?

  He set down his gear and turned again into the hall, locking the door behind him and sliding the key into his pocket.

  That she could lift easily, when it was time to search his room. Or she could no doubt borrow the hotel’s master key with minimal trouble.

  They were back on the promenade, Cor nowhere in sight, when she interrupted his musings about Paris this time of year with, “What happened to your shoulder?”

  She wanted to know—but more, she wanted to make him stiffen and pull away, to decide to let her walk herself home.

  Instead, he swallowed and covered the hand she’d rested again on his arm with his other one. Anchoring her there. Creating a bond where there ought to be none. “I was shot.”

  Shot? She tried to pull her hand away—it was tucked into the crook of his injured arm, after all—but he stopped her with that second hand. “How? When?” She didn’t have to ask where—he’d already confessed he’d been in Belgium since the invasion, looking for his mother and sister. When else could it have happened?

  He glanced down at her, but then focused his gaze straight ahead. “Two weeks ago, in Brussels. I had gone there when I did not find my mother and sister in Louvain. But the Germans were waiting for me. Watching for me.”