Prelude for a Lord

by Elliot, Camille

  Thankfully, Signora D’Angelo finished the song with a flourish and a toss of her magnificent head. The applause was more enthusiastic than her performance warranted, perhaps due to her magnificent bosom threatening to fall out of her gold-and-blue gown.

  Sitting next to her, Aunt Ebena muttered something that sounded like, “Thank goodness.”

  Lady Rollingwood announced a brief intermission, and Aunt Ebena went to visit with friends sitting in another part of the room. Signora D’Angelo held court near the front, flashing white teeth framed by red-stained lips. Her eyes, heavily made up with kohl, flirted with the gentlemen flocking about her. Alethea was not hopeful that she would be able to speak to her before the concert resumed. However, the soprano was likely to use the ladies’ withdrawing room after the concert, and Alethea could speak to her then.

  When Alethea fetched glasses of lemonade for herself and her aunt, she met with Miss Terralton.

  “Lady Alethea, may I sit with you?” Miss Terralton asked without preamble. “Mr. Morrish is of our party tonight.”

  “How can your stepfather allow him to pay such attentions to you after what happened?”

  “You must understand. Sir Hermes is of a jovial and complacent disposition. His nephew said that he meant no disrespect to me, and Sir Hermes believed him.”

  Privately, Alethea thought Sir Hermes an idiot. At least Miss Terralton now had Lucy ensconced in their home to protect her. “Of course you may sit with us. Tell me, Miss Terralton, how do you like Lucy as your maid?”

  “She is very like you. And you must call me Clare.”

  They chatted until the intermission was over, and Signora D’Angelo sang another three songs, quite as badly as the first three. Then Lady Rollingwood introduced a young German violinist, Mr. Dohman, who would be performing a new violin concerto of his own composition.

  From the first measure, Alethea was entranced. Dohman played with fire and speed, nothing staid or stately. He played as if the music burned in him, and its power pervaded the room. The notes swelled in her heart and ears, and she closed her eyes. The music brought up memories of the hot, bright sun against her skin and the overpowering scent of lilacs in bloom, a mad dash across the downs on her horse in a storm with the sting of the rain against her face and the bite of the wind through her riding habit, the horrible darkness of sorrow at the death of her dog, Sheltie, a stray whom she had raised since she was ten years old.

  When the music ended, she realized there were tears on her cheeks. She felt drained, as if she’d run across the park without stopping. She gulped in air, then rummaged in her reticule for a handkerchief.

  Aunt Ebena thrust one into her hands, snapping at her, “Compose yourself.”

  She couldn’t help it. Music had always had the power to move her, to play her emotions the way she played her violin.

  Why must she be so different from everyone around her? She supposed she could restrain herself and hide who she was, but that would be a prison. She would rather be alone and free.

  She cleared her eyes to find Clare staring at her, brows knit. She tentatively said, “You enjoy your music with . . . fervor.”

  “I live my life with fervor. Music is a large part of my life.”

  “The way you listen to music . . . it makes me feel as if I am missing something in my life.”

  “Missing something? In not showing proper decorum in a concert?”

  “Sometimes, especially when I am playing music, I want to express myself fully without concern about whether it is proper or not, but I am always afraid of making a fool of myself.”

  Alethea studied Clare, taking in the earnest dark eyes, the droop of insecurity about the soft rosebud mouth. “As you grow older, you will gain more confidence,” Alethea said. “You will learn when to be sensible and when to have sensibility.”

  Clare took several moments to think on her words. Finally, she reached out to squeeze Alethea’s hand.

  Mr. Dohman and the pianoforte player who had been accompanying the soprano began an instrumental piece by Pergolesi that Alethea recognized, although she had not heard it in a long time. It had a simple, lovely repeating melody line that was easily recognizable and lent itself well to the poignant tones of Dohman’s violin. However, she realized that Dohman must have added and embellished, for it differed from the short, simple piece she and Calandra had played together. She listened with delight, remembering the smell of woodsmoke in Calandra’s music room, the patter of rain against the window, the vibrations of the pianoforte on the wooden floor as Alethea played the moody piece with feeling.

  Clare exhaled softly as the piece ended. “How beautiful.”

  “One of my favourites,” Alethea said.

  “Do you know it?”

  “It is by Pergolesi.”

  “Who?”

  “He wrote mostly opera and vocal works, but this was an instrumental piece that Calandra—my neighbor, Lady Arkright, especially liked. I have the music—would you like to borrow it?”

  “Oh, yes, please. It was such a beautiful, pensive piece. It reminded me of Terralton Abbey in the rain.”

  The concert was over. Clare glanced toward her family. “Mama is signaling to me.”

  Alethea saw Signora D’Angelo heading into the ladies’ withdrawing room. She said to Clare, “I will escort you back to your party.” Afterward, she would waylay the soprano. Hopefully the woman would not be too quick to return to the drawing room.

  As they approached where Clare’s family was seated, Alethea noticed Dommick standing next to a well-built man with curly blond hair. He looked familiar, and as they drew near, she recognized Mr. Kinnier.

  He was a nobleman, an accomplished violin player and well-known. She had often seen him at concerts and parties during her season. She had had the unfortunate experience of overhearing Mr. Kinnier after the ladies in a dinner party had performed for the guests. He spoke to the hostess and disdained Alethea’s harp playing but praised the indifferent pianoforte playing of the daughter of the house. She suspected his intention was to cozy up to the hostess, and she had despised him for such toadying. She had heard him play at several concerts, and while he was of superior skill to most amateurs, he had not been as skillful as Dommick.

  “Oh,” Clare said in a low voice. “It is Mr. Kinnier.” Her tone indicated that Clare might care for Mr. Kinnier’s company as little as she did. “I cannot think what Lady Whittlesby is about, for she knows Mama does not care for him.”

  Lord Dommick held himself stiffly, but Lady Whittlesby had wicked amusement in her eyes as she stood and chatted with the two men. She caught sight of Alethea and Clare and waved them over. “Lady Alethea, you have met Mr. Kinnier, have you not?”

  “Indeed, my lady.”

  She curtseyed to him, and he pretended to remember her. “I am pleased to see you again, Lady Alethea.” He surveyed her with his small, dark eyes, which looked even smaller because his eyelashes were so fair.

  Alethea noticed that Clare had swiftly pulled her brother away to speak to him, leaving Alethea with Mr. Kinnier and Lady Whittlesby.

  Mr. Kinnier did not seem to notice Miss Terralton’s defection. “How do you enjoy Bath, my lady?”

  It was the normal chit chat she expected from evenings such as this, but Alethea wanted to speak to Signora D’Angelo, so tonight it seemed interminable. She said in a slightly rushed voice, “It is very enjoyable. Are you just arrived?”

  “Indeed. And already I find friends among the society here.” He nodded toward her.

  Mr. Kinnier was a hostess’s dream with his excellent manners, but Alethea wished instead for Dommick’s strong opinions—even if he was wrong—and stronger feelings. Mr. Kinnier’s bland good taste bored her, and she could not trust his affable mask since she had witnessed his tendency to say whatever was pleasing to the listener.

  Her question was more pointed than polite. “You have not held a concert in two or three years, I believe. Do you intend to hold one in Bath?” She
had read in the London newspapers three years ago that his last concert had been a dismal failure. He had not held one since.

  His mouth quirked in what could be taken for a smile, but the skin around his eyes tightened. “How kind of you to recall my musical aspirations. Alas, I have no plans for a concert. There are already fine artists to be had, such as at tonight’s event.”

  Alethea was impressed that he could say such a thing without a single wince or indication that the principle musician had been akin to an exuberant parrot. His self-depreciating comment would normally require some flattery in response, but Alethea did not feel like indulging his vanity. She smiled serenely and remained silent. She suspected he had no idea who she was. In finding himself at a loss with a reticent partner, he would probably excuse himself and she would be free to find Signora D’Angelo.

  Clearly she underestimated a charming man’s ability to fawn over a woman. “I look forward to participating in spontaneous musical evenings. Lady Whittlesby informs me that you often play to entertain your hostesses.”

  “Indeed, Lady Alethea, your harp playing at Mrs. Isherton’s card party was exquisite,” Lady Whittlesby said.

  “You would be a welcome addition to our amateur performances,” she said to him. “Perhaps you could compose something, such as an aria for our Signora D’Angelo.”

  His polite mask subtly hardened. He was aware of her goading him. She did not care. She had no patience with frauds who would speak one thing to one person and the opposite to another.

  “I’m afraid I have not the skill to compose vocal pieces, especially any that would properly flatter the lovely soprano.”

  Alethea took this opportunity to escape him. “I was hoping to claim a few minutes of her time to praise her performance tonight. I beg you both will excuse me.” She curtseyed and headed toward the ladies’ withdrawing room.

  She had just entered the hallway when a hard hand grabbed her elbow. “A word, if you please, Lady Alethea,” Mr. Morrish hissed in her ear.

  She yanked her elbow but could not dislodge his fingers, which bit into her skin. The only way to extricate herself would have been to physically push him, but it would draw attention, and she did not want to cause a stir in the home of Lady Rollingwood, a good friend of her aunt. Alethea had already caused Aunt Ebena to lose her friendship with Lady Fairmont.

  She planted her feet, staring Mr. Morrish into his serpentlike eyes since they were of a height.

  “You will stop interfering in my business or I shall shred your good name and that of your aunt.”

  “My aunt is one of the most respected women in Bath. What do you suppose people will believe—her word or yours? You are a stranger, Mr. Morrish, and the Bath residents are very loyal to each other.” Alethea wasn’t certain that was true, but she was reasonably sure her aunt’s friends would stand by her over a fortune-hunter.

  His rosy cheeks grew dark and blotchy, and his sneer emphasized his protruding front teeth. “You dare threaten me? You are merely a weak woman.”

  “You are merely an ineffectual bully.”

  His grip on her elbow clenched, crushing her bones. She could not school her expression against the pain, and she turned away as tears sprang into her eyes and she grit her teeth.

  “Do not underestimate what I would do to anyone who stands in my way.”

  She was about to tell him not to underestimate a woman who knew exactly where to place a well-aimed kick when a voice called, “Mr. Morrish, your uncle is in immediate need of you.”

  Dommick stood a few feet away. His gaze was stormy, but Alethea immediately felt a steadiness under her feet as though she had found a rock to stand upon.

  Several people milling around nodded to Dommick and looked curiously at Mr. Morrish. Mr. Morrish’s grip spasmed even tighter, causing her to hiss with pain.

  Dommick stepped between them and forced Mr. Morrish to break his hold on her. Mr. Morrish stumbled to prevent falling down on his elegantly clothed behind.

  Dommick’s tall figure shielded her from Mr. Morrish, and she clung to his arm with trembling fingers, trying to slow her breathing.

  Dommick cast a scornful glance over his shoulder. “Your uncle seemed most urgent in requiring your services, Mr. Morrish. I suggest you make your way to him posthaste.”

  Alethea raised her head to look at Mr. Morrish. He stood with his hands fisted low at his sides and cheeks sullen, which made his weak chin almost disappear into his cravat. He gave Dommick’s broad back a stiff bow and left them.

  She gripped his arm tightly and closed her eyes, concentrating on her rapid heartbeat. His warm hand covered hers, the fingers gently massaging her knuckles.

  After several moments, she opened her eyes to find his face very near. He smelled of soap, and something that brought to mind walking in the oak wood at Trittonstone Park on a cool autumn day. Mr. Morrish melted away, and she felt as if she were home again, safe.

  But suddenly his mouth firmed and he jerked his head away. The moment broke as if a crystal goblet had shattered.

  She pulled her hand from his arm and stepped back. The noise of the party swept in around her. Thankfully, no one noticed them for there were more important and interesting people to gossip about than a spinster and a once-popular nobleman musician, and none of them had known Mr. Morrish.

  “Thank you, my lord. I beg you will excuse me.” She turned to go but he reached out to clasp her elbow. When Mr. Morrish had done so, her arm had shrunk from his touch, but Dommick’s gloved hand was gentle. She stopped.

  It seemed he had reached out to her without consciously thinking of it, for he dropped her elbow like a hot coal. He cleared his throat. “Where are you going?”

  “I wanted to speak to Signora D’Angelo about the initials.”

  Dommick gave a wince. “I shall spare you the effort. I spoke to her before the concert.”

  “Was she able to identify them?”

  “I didn’t ask her. It would have been of no use.”

  “No use?”

  “Did you know that I speak Italian?”

  Alethea blinked at him. “What?”

  “For I can assure you that ‘Signora D’Angelo’ does not.”

  “You mean—?”

  Dommick nodded. “She isn’t Italian.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  When Alethea knocked on the door to the Marquess of Ravenhurst’s home the next day, she was surprised to find it opened by Clare herself, with the butler hovering behind her. “Miss Clare . . . ,” he said in a pained voice.

  The girl pulled Alethea inside. “Thank goodness you’ve come.”

  Alethea said to her maid, “Sally, feel free to have a cup of tea in the kitchen.”

  “You may send your maid home after she has her tea, if you prefer,” Clare said. “When Bayard returns, he can accompany you home.”

  Alethea nodded to Sally, who curtseyed and headed to the kitchen. The butler moved to accept Alethea’s cloak.

  Clare led Alethea toward the drawing room. “Mr. Morrish arrived half an hour ago. Bayard is on some errand, Ravenhurst is attending to estate business, and Ian is paying a call on a friend of his mother who lives outside of Bath. Mother is complacent about allowing Mr. Morrish to sit beside me, and quiz me about my embroidery, and comment on my dress. Next he shall ask to see my teeth.” Clare stomped up the last few steps.

  “I shall pay my respects to your mother, and then we can remove into the music room.” Alethea handed Clare the sheaf of music she had brought. “Here is the Andantino, for violin and piano, by Pergolesi.”

  “That melancholy song from last night? Oh, thank you.” Clare riffled through the music as she walked.

  Lady Morrish lounged on a chaise in the drawing room, her embroidery a tangled mess about her but her face revealing only a languid contentment. “How lovely to see you, Lady Alethea. Do sit and have a cup of tea.”

  Mr. Morrish had risen to his feet, and the smile he gave to Alethea was wide and cold.

&nb
sp; “Thank you, my lady.” Alethea positioned herself next to Mr. Morrish so that Clare sat next to her mother instead.

  “How is your aunt, Lady Alethea?” Lady Morrish asked.

  Clare handed Alethea a cup of tea. “Quite well,” Alethea said.

  “I am so distressed by what happened at Lady Fairmont’s ball,” Lady Morrish said. “I have asked among my acquaintance, but I cannot find out why she would have behaved so.”

  “She has removed to her country house for the winter, I believe.”

  “Yes, more’s the pity. But I am likely to see her in town this spring when Clare has her come out, so if I have an opportunity, I shall speak to her for you.”

  “Thank you, that is very kind of you.”

  “Indeed, Aunt.” Mr. Morrish flashed a toothy smile at the lady. “I was not present when Lady Fairmont spoke to Lady Alethea, but I heard about the incident and it grieves me greatly.”

  Alethea was sure it did, about as much as a tickle in his toe.

  She had taken her second sip of tea when Clare jumped to her feet. “Mama, Alethea and I shall be in the music room. She has brought some new music for me.”

  “Certainly.” Lady Morrish returned to picking at the tangle of her embroidery silks. “Mr. Morrish, will you assist me? I cannot seem to . . .”

  Mr. Morrish’s pained expression was the last thing Alethea saw before she left the room.

  “You have made it clear that you do not wish to entertain Mr. Morrish’s suit, have you not?” Alethea asked as they made their way down the hallway to the music room.

  “Yes, but Sir Hermes simply laughs and says I am yet too young to know my mind firmly. Mother goes along with everything he says.”

  “Has he no respect for your wishes?”

  “Sir Hermes desires the match. Bayard would have refused Mr. Morrish entry into the house, but Mama prevailed upon him, saying it would cause too much talk to deny Mr. Morrish his uncle.” Clare huffed. “And so nothing prevents Mr. Morrish from inflicting his presence upon me.”