Dilemma in Yellow Silk (Emperors of London)

by Lynne Connolly

  This one took some concentration, for she had only just learned it. She failed to notice the silence that had fallen until too late.

  * * * *

  Marcus loved coming home. He always regarded Haxby as his home, not the London mansion his family occupied during the season. This time he’d come with his father alone, a fast journey to see Gates and arrange affairs for the estate manager’s period of infirmity.

  The gatekeepers barely got the huge iron gates open in time, but the coachman was stopping for no one and he swept through. Any faster and he’d be taking the corner on two wheels.

  The impetus pressed Marcus against the side of the coach. “You need to tell Harrison not to travel so fast,” he said to his father.

  “Ah, but his thoughts of seeing his sweetheart engross him,” the marquess said, smiling. “He left her behind to take us to London. We’ll find someone else to take us back.”

  Marcus groaned. “Do I have to return? It’s the end of the season. Surely there is no need to have me there.”

  “Your sister is marrying, and your mother is on the verge of betrothing two of your sisters. What do you think?”

  The curse of being the eldest of a large family. They expected Marcus to wish them well and substitute for his father, if necessary, when he’d prefer to stay here. He’d had enough of London and its intrigues. With the season nearly over, he’d hoped to remain at home, one of the main reasons for accompanying his father.

  “Could they not marry from home?”

  “If they marry at all.” He cleared his throat. “Besides, I have something particular to discuss with Gates. It seemed an opportune moment to do so.”

  Another sweep of the drive and the house came into view. As always, Marcus feasted his eyes on the place. The central structure boasted a tower in the middle capped by a lantern dome. It was not the largest of the great houses in the county, but to his mind it was the most beautiful. The central block rose a story above the side wings, the huge pilasters fronting the façade creating a grand display.

  When his father died—may that be many years hence—Marcus would inherit this and all the responsibilities that went with it. The notion of becoming the marquess had always shocked him, an emotion he kept to himself, as not worthy of the heir to the marquisate. Hundreds of people would depend on him for their livelihood.

  They swept up the elm-lined drive, the spaces between the trees affording glimpses of the parkland beyond. The occasional sheep, kept here to keep the grass down between scything, lifted its head to watch the coach going past. The sight warmed him. This—not the house in London—was home for Marcus.

  “Your mother says she will look out for a likely bride for you,” his father said.

  Marcus sighed. “I would like nothing better than to select my own bride. I swear I will choose someone suitable.”

  “She has eyes and ears that penetrate further than ours. She knows the most promising young women about to make their debut in society.” Lord Strenshall shifted in his seat. “Devil take it, these seats are damnably uncomfortable. I’ll have this carriage reupholstered when we return to town.”

  “There are people perfectly capable of doing the job locally,” Marcus pointed out. “Then you won’t have to pay London prices.”

  “But we need to get back in it.” His father sighed. “Perhaps I can wait until the summer.”

  Considering this was June, Marcus considered summer well under way. The day was fine, and they had come home. It had taken three days, since they could move faster without the ladies to cater for. Both Marcus and his father preferred to travel for longer and eat quickly rather than linger on the road.

  “We’ll have a shooting party, come August,” his father said.

  That gave Marcus a clear eight weeks until he needed to concern himself with entertaining guests, including the ones who wanted to marry him. He didn’t fool himself. They wanted his title and his family name as much, if not more, than his person. While not exactly unprepossessing, he wasn’t the kind of person who enjoyed dallying with ladies when there was work waiting for him.

  There was always work. Mostly Marcus told himself he didn’t mind, but sometimes he fretted at the bit. When he dreamed, he soared free, but he rarely remembered his dreams. Just the sensation of flying remained for a few moments after he woke.

  While here he’d talk to the gamekeeper, and ensure the coverts were well stocked. “If Gates is—” He couldn’t finish the sentence. He’d known Gates all his life—and his daughter, although they had drawn apart recently. Necessary, because they lives were destined to take different paths. His duty took him somewhere she couldn’t join him. Much to his regret. But he would not burden the free spirit he remembered with the duties that belonged to him.

  She didn’t deserve that.

  The carriage drew up outside the front door and the efficient machine that ran Haxby Hall clicked into action, its cogs running to the inevitable conclusion. When the liveried footman unfolded the steps of the carriage, Marcus got out and stood before the magnificence of his house with his hat in his hand. The butler stood at the top of the stone staircase. As his father climbed down to join him, Marcus took his first step, and then hesitated.

  The spirit of rebellion stirred within him, as if it had remained dormant until now.

  “I’ll go around the side way,” he said.

  “Trying to catch out the servants?” his father said with a grin.

  Marcus returned the smile. “Something of that nature.”

  He would avoid going through the “Good afternoon, my lord” ritual the footman, and then the butler, and then the maids would go through. His father enjoyed it as little as he did, but Marcus didn’t have to endure it yet.

  He strode off to the side of the house. That in itself was a fair walk, but one he enjoyed, as he reacquainted himself with the place. He’d been in London too long. In November he would refuse to rush to town at the start of the Parliamentary season. What was the point? They never got anything done.

  Scents assailed him as his feet crunched on the gravel path. Flowers, mostly, the kind women enjoyed, but they made a fine show in the beds at the front of the house. His mother had decided to remodel, and they were looking into replacing the formal Tudor gardens with a more informal stretch of parkland.

  While the house would appear more à la mode, Marcus would miss the bright displays. Perhaps they could keep something. He wanted the flowers.

  The stone walls were not entirely even, partly from design and partly because the Palladian façade covered a much older house. Parts of the central block dated from Tudor times, when a courtier of Elizabeth won the land for singular service to his queen. Marcus’s grandfather had extended the house, making the E shape into a closed double quadrangle and adding to the wings on either side. He’d created the grand enfilade of state rooms from a hodgepodge of salons, creating the house Marcus had grown up in.

  Marcus descended a staircase, opened a door, and entered the servants’ quarters. He looked to neither right nor left as he took the well-remembered shortcut to the side door. That cut out traversing the wings. He wasn’t in the passage long enough to create a commotion; in fact, nobody saw him as far as he knew. He was into the inner courtyard before anyone could register his presence.

  A short walk along the stone paved path took him to the side entrance, and the shortcut to his rooms. His valet had set off early that morning, so he could arrive early and have everything ready for his master. Marcus prayed that included a decanter of burgundy and something to eat. Freshly baked bread and local cheese would not come amiss.

  Then, fortified, he’d return to being the Earl of Malton and join his father for whatever duties awaited him.

  Entering the side door without ceremony, Marcus enjoyed the sight of a large footman scrambling into his silver-laced coat. “My lord!”

  “Good afternoon, Tranmere. How is Gates?”

  Tranmere stare
d at him and then found his voice. “Broken ankle, my lord. He’s resting at his house.”

  “Ah.” Well. That was one concern dealt with. Gates had fallen from his horse and hurt himself, but the messenger had left in such haste they had not ascertained precisely what was the matter. Marcus had been glad to use the excuse, but worry for the estate manager had also driven him to discover for himself.

  Leaving the man stammering, Marcus climbed the stairs two at a time, not giving the poor footman a chance to sort himself out. His childish amusement was not worthy of him, he knew that. But the welcome had suited him in his present mood more than the ceremonial one awaiting his father.

  Pausing at the state rooms, he decided to go through them. His rooms were equidistant if he took the corridor with guest rooms or the state rooms.

  He opened the first door. He recognized the sign that maids were about. The door at the end was closed, but the others were open. That meant they’d finished up to the closed door.

  Marcus grinned. Mrs. Lancaster would be furious he’d caught them working. She preferred the family to think that fairies dealt with their needs, invisible ones preferably.

  Notes of music drifted to him, so delicate his fanciful notion of fairies became real. Through the first salon, the anteroom, and then the main salon, the huge space that never got warm in winter unless they packed it with people. Then the third. The music room.

  He paused. The maids chattered in the library. Some sang along with the music. Smiling, he tiptoed across the parquet floor to the connecting door and closed it as silently as he could.

  Chapter 2

  Concentrating on her music, Viola nearly jumped out of her skin when a large body plumped down on the stool next to her. She shrieked, spun around, and closed her eyes. “You!”

  “Why, weren’t you expecting me?”

  His expression of innocence did not fool her for a minute.

  “Not here, not like this. Did you run from the last staging post?” she demanded. She should not talk to the Earl of Malton like this. Right now he was less the earl and more Marcus, the boy she’d known so long ago. “Oh, my lord, sir, I’m sorry!”

  She should recall her place, but she was finding the task difficult when he was wearing the same mischievous grin he’d used at nine years old.

  “I couldn’t resist. Do you know what you were playing?”

  The heat rushed to her face. “Yes.” No sense dissimulating. Of course she knew.

  “And if you don’t stop ‘my lord’ and ‘sir’ing me, I’ll have you sent home forthwith. When we’re alone, it’s still Marcus.”

  What had happened to him? Marcus had slowly moved away from her, gone from a childhood friend to a dignified, proper aristocrat. She understood the move, because he would have responsibilities to take care of, but sometimes she missed him. He’d remained a distant figure ever since, growing more pompous every time she saw him. Now he seemed to have cast all that off.

  “I thought—that’s not right.”

  Sighing, he shook his head. “And I’ve stopped you playing. A pity—I was enjoying that. Carry on.”

  “Is that an order—sir?”

  He growled deep in his throat, such a small sound she’d have missed it if he were not sitting so close to her. “Stop it. I’ll be Malton in about an hour.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’ve spent the last three days in a closed carriage with my father, and I want to forget the stateliness. He would, given the chance. But with outriders and men riding ahead to warn innkeepers we were on our way, we had little chance.”

  “So they commit the great crime of ensuring the best bedrooms are free. The cook is bursting from his waistcoat, trying to cook the best meal he’s capable of making. If only my journeys were so tedious!”

  His laugh rang around the room. “Exactly. But we’re welcomed with ‘Good evening, my lord,’ and ‘How can I serve you, my lord?’”

  “You poor thing.” She should guard her tongue, but she delighted in reacquainting herself with the man she used to know.

  He rewarded her with another laugh. “I know. It’s such a hardship.” Lifting his feet, he spun around on the bench so he faced the keyboard, as she did. “You got a phrase wrong. The tune is based on the traditional one, but it’s varied in the last line of each verse. Slightly different each time. Like this.”

  When he demonstrated, Viola understood exactly what he meant. But with the amusement, her heart ached. She had missed him so much. At the delicate age of nine, two years after his breeching, Marcus had begun his training, and since then, he’d become engrossed in his life’s work. Before then, the laughing boy had had no cares, and they’d played together.

  Until someone remembered their different stations in life, and she did not think it was Marcus.

  “Your turn.”

  After giving him a doubtful glance, she copied the phrase. He sang the verse along with her, his baritone blending with her untrained mezzo. At the end of the verse they continued with the next one. Then he added one she hadn’t known about.

  By the end of the song, she was quite in charity with him. The years slipped away. Or rather, they did not, because never at any time did she forget that a man sat next to her, not a boy.

  Viola hadn’t been this close to Marcus for years. In this lovely room, with sunshine streaming in through the windows, they could be in another world—one of their own, a place out of time.

  Playing scurrilous songs on a valuable string instrument seemed part of their world. Eventually she joined with him as his infectious laughter rang around the room.

  “Do you remember this?” She played a few notes. A two-handed exercise taught to children to help them accustom themselves to the keyboard.

  “Ha, yes I do.”

  He joined in, taking the upper part of the tune. It was simple but capable of infinite variations. At the end of the piece she changed the pitch and they continued. Four times they went around, until she stopped with an emphatic chord.

  She rested her palms on the edge of the harpsichord. “This was tuned last week. I was only supposed to check it, not play it until it’s out of tune again.”

  “Do harpsichords lose their tuning so easily?”

  He really didn’t know? “It’s a harpsichord. The strings are delicate. Even damp can send them completely wrong. Each quill has to be checked and replaced if necessary. Don’t you know anything?”

  He shrugged. “I know how to address a duchess and how to dance a minuet. I can shoot straight and use a sword.”

  “So can I. The last part.”

  He widened his eyes. Such a perfect shade of blue they were. She hadn’t seen them this close for years. Far too long. “You can fence and shoot?” he said, his voice rising.

  “I shoot better than I fence, but I know one end of a sword from the other. I know how to stop someone taking it off me.” Considering her position, her father had considered the training useful. The daughter of a land steward, especially an only child, needed to know how to take care of herself.

  “I will certainly test you on that.” He patted his hip. “But I don’t generally travel with a sword at my side. We have them in the carriage, though. Shall I send for them?”

  She bestowed a jaded smile on him. “No. Or fetch them yourself, come to that.”

  His cheek indented slightly, as if he were biting it inside. Stopping laughter? Then she was a source of ridicule? No, he wouldn’t do that, not the Marcus she’d known.

  But she had not known him for years. Only seen him at a distance and occasionally exchanged polite nothings.

  He shook his head as his smile faded. “Why did we not tell my tutors to go to the devil, Viola? What harm did our friendship do?”

  “They were teaching you to be an earl, and eventually a marquess.”

  “Ah yes. That. But you continued to play with my brothers and sisters.”

  She lifted one shoulder. “I hardly missed you at all.�
��

  That was a lie. She had missed him very much. His way of talking, the way he would say what he was thinking without hesitation—but he would hardly do that any longer. People hung on his every word, at least some people did. The people wanting the ear of his father, or for Marcus to do them a favor.

  “I missed you,” he said softly. “I would like us to be friends again, as we used to be.” He covered her hand with his own.

  Startled, she stared at it, but she didn’t move. His warmth seeped through her, heating more than her fingers. He’d been her childhood sweetheart, but they had both known they were only playing.

  He did not mean it in that way. Occasionally she’d allowed herself to dream of him, but never allowed her fantasies to creep through to real life.

  Marcus had grown up tall and handsome, and unlike most men she knew, he wore his own hair tied back in a simple queue. He rarely powdered, his one concession to his wishes rather than the dictates of fashion, but he would consent to wear a wig on ceremonial occasions.

  The first time she’d seen him dressed for a grand occasion had served to distance him completely from her. Without those glossy dark brown locks, and dressed in the finest London could provide, Marcus appeared a different person, one Viola didn’t know at all. So when he said he missed her, he probably meant the carefree days of his childhood.

  Viola could not pass this opportunity by. She turned her hand and curled her fingers between his. He clasped her hand warmly.

  She stared at that symbol of friendship, as if it weren’t her hand. “I missed you, too.”

  “You’ve grown up a beauty, Viola,” he said softly.

  She shook her head vigorously. “No. I’m ordinary. You’re—” She cut off her words, fearing she would give away more than she meant to.

  “Your hair is darker than mine, and it shines like a raven’s wing. Your eyes are fathoms deep.”

  His words made her laugh, but that was to prevent her heart cracking. Once she’d dreamed of a man saying such things to her. But now she knew better. She would never hear that in love. Friendship would have to serve. “My face is too narrow, and I’m too tall.”