Alethea turned to the farmer. “Thank you, John. I do not know what we should have done without you.”
“I did what any decent man would.”
“You did more than Bill,” Margaret said darkly.
“Where is he?” Alethea’s jaw hardened as she looked around.
“The footman ’oo was with you earlier?” John jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “I passed him back there, flirting with a maidservant. ’Ere he is now.”
Bill came wandering back to them from between the trees. The sight of Alethea and Margaret covered in mud made him goggle.
“Fine job you’ve done,” John growled. “While you were dallying with that tart, your mistress was attacked.”
“Wot?” Bill’s mouth became as round as his eyes.
“I’ll escort you home, shall I?” John said to Alethea.
She shook her head. “Go home to your wife. We are not far. And thank you, John, with all my heart.”
“Only too glad to be of service to you, miss.”
“Thank you, sir.” Margaret waved to him as he strode away.
“I, uh . . . I’m sorry fer being distracted, milady,” Bill said.
She speared him with her gaze but said nothing. She turned to Margaret. “Come. We must get out of our wet things.”
She didn’t know what induced her to look back over her shoulder, but as they passed out of the park, she turned in the direction Mr. Golding had gone.
And saw the cadaverous man.
He leaned bonelessly against a tree. In his grey clothes, he almost blended into the background, his figure smudged by the falling rain. He was looking directly at her.
Then he smiled. And as before, it was not a nice smile.
He turned and sauntered away, following in the footsteps of the departed Mr. Golding.
The second note was hand delivered like the first. Bayard questioned the servants, but the maid simply said that a scruffy boy at the backdoor shoved the note into her hand and raced off.
“Was it the same boy as before?” Bayard asked. She had been the maid to accept the first note.
“No, milord. I’ve never seen him in my life.”
He also received a note from Alethea asking him to call today as she had something to discuss, but the trap Bayard and his friends had set required them to be engaged for most of the morning. And perhaps by this evening there would be an end to this business, and he could bring her the happy news.
Bayard had sent his valet, Ord, to buy a violin yesterday, and between the two of them, managed to stain it to approximate the colour of Alethea’s instrument. It had been Ian who drew the initials upon the neck. From a distance it would look like the coveted violin, although if anyone knowledgeable enough played it, the jig was over.
The note instructed Bayard to be at the Fairy Grotto near the Chinese bridge in Sydney Gardens at eleven o’clock, so Ian and Raven left at half past nine. Bayard impatiently paced his rooms while Ord sat at a table finishing the touches on the faux violin.
“Pacing won’t bring the battle sooner, milord,” Ord said as he set the violin in its case and closed the cover. He had been Bayard’s batman during his days on the Peninsula; he had a strict sense of honour and correctness.
“I don’t wish to think of this as a battle, Ord,” Bayard said softly.
His friend grew grave.
Bayard finally said, “Are you certain you do not wish me to drive you partway to the gardens?”
Ord gave him a look that clearly indicated he was aware Bayard was talking out of nervousness, for they had arranged yesterday for Ord to walk to the rendezvous point. It would be too simple for the grey man or someone else to be watching Bayard’s carriage and follow it. The follower would see him dropping his servant off at some point and suspect some scheme to interrupt the business transaction.
Ord finally glanced at the clock and stood. “I’ll be off, milord. Do pace around the room so as not to wear the carpet in one spot.”
“I had better not see you or recognize you at the gardens,” Bayard growled.
“Do not worry, milord, I shall be careful,” Ord replied, for that was what Bayard had really meant.
He spent a painful half hour waiting until it was time to leave. He conspicuously carried the violin in its case and a large sack of pound notes through the front door to his carriage, which had been pulled up before the house.
It was bitterly cold today, and while there was no snow, the air burned his nose. He instructed his coachman to drive slowly so that anyone following him would have no trouble.
He exited the coach before the Sydney Hotel and walked into the Gardens. He was not certain where the Fairy Grotto was, but he was familiar with the bridge in the Chinese style that spanned the canal. He met few people on his way because of the weather, and he worried that the lack of crowds would make Ord stand out. Would the man after the violin recognize Bayard’s valet?
He crossed the bridge and came across a bower shaded by sparse tree limbs with a seat carved with a winged fairy along the side. He sat down and looked around.
A maid strolled with a young man, who looked by his clothing to be a groom. A man on horseback who looked vaguely familiar to Bayard nodded to him as he rode down a nearby path. Two young women in warm spencers walked briskly down another gravel path, chatting with each other. There was no one else.
Then from behind him, in the foliage at the foot of the trees, a rustling and a hissed, “Ow! That was my foot.”
“Be quiet, you two,” Bayard said under his breath.
“You haven’t been crouching here in the cold for the past hour,” groused Ian.
“Nor has he had to listen to you complain the entire time,” Raven said.
“You weren’t seen?” Bayard asked.
“Not as far as we could tell. We took the punt down the canal and climbed up at the rough stairs cut in the stones at the south end of the gardens,” Raven said.
“Didn’t see Ord,” Ian said.
“Then he’s doing his job,” Bayard said.
They waited in silence for ten minutes, then a whistling broke through the cold winter air like ice being shattered. The bright peacock colour of a waistcoat flitted through the trees, coming toward him. As the person drew nearer, Bayard saw it was not a peacock-coloured waistcoat, but a peacock-coloured coat, with a claret-coloured waistcoat straining over a large, round belly. From Alethea’s description, it appeared Bayard was about to meet the infamous Mr. Golding.
The man sat casually next to Bayard as though they were good friends. He smiled, a strange V-shaped smile that made his eyes glitter rather like a snake’s. “Good morning, Lord Dommick.” Mr. Golding’s jaw was swollen and bruised.
“Had a brush with someone?”
The smile flattened, and his gloved hand reached up to touch the swollen skin.
“Let us hope it was not a woman.” Bayard gave him a bland smile.
“You have the violin?” the man snapped.
Bayard gestured to the case on the seat beside him.
Mr. Golding pursed his full lips and studied Bayard. “Play it,” he said in a honeyed voice.
Bayard kept his face relaxed, but his stomach clenched. He should have listened to Ian, who had brought up this possibility. “The cold has affected the strings.”
“Play it, or I will send a message to my man watching your home to enter into your sister’s room this time.”
Bayard’s entire body grew taut.
Mr. Golding stiffened, but then lifted his chin against the expression in Bayard’s eyes. “Play the violin, Lord Dommick, if you please.”
The violin was a badly made practice violin, and he wasn’t certain how the staining they’d done would affect the sound. Was Mr. Golding experienced enough to notice?
Bayard stood and took his time removing the cover. At that moment, he saw the bushes behind the bench shift and Ian’s face appeared.
Bayard quickly glanced to Mr. Golding, but the man sat on the
bench, facing forward, and did not notice.
Ian mouthed, Bach Adagio. Bayard knew immediately he meant Bach’s violin concerto in G minor, the first movement, adagio. They had played it often in university, and it had a slightly discordant opening that would work perfectly for the imperfect violin.
He positioned the instrument, then struck the first double-stop. The violin had a tinny sound, but the melancholy music hid some of its worst tones. He did not tempt fate for long and stopped within a few measures. As he dropped the bow away, he exhaled a low, shaky breath.
Mr. Golding gave mocking applause. “Well, at least you have not tricked me on that score. Have you the money as well?”
Bayard noticed the slight tremor of his hand as he reached for the sack of pound notes and shook it, but he did not give it to Mr. Golding.
“That is very satisfactory. You may—”
He was interrupted by rustling in the bushes behind Bayard, then a violent scuffling of earth and leaves, punctuated by grunts. Mr. Golding shot off the bench. There was the thud of a fist impacting flesh, then another. Then a man was flung through the foliage, who landed hard against the back of the seat and flipped over it.
The man was a stranger, with a face like a roughly cut stone. He had hands the size of small boulders and a solidly built torso under the dirty woolen tunic.
Ian and Raven burst out of the trees, but the man lumbered to his feet and moved away from them. Raven’s knuckles blushed red.
Bayard turned to Mr. Golding. “What is the meaning of this?”
Mr. Golding was already backing away. “I should say the same of you, Lord Dommick. You never would have known my associate was present if you had not also had compatriots hidden.”
“Did you think I would meet with you alone?” Bayard tried to sound reasonable.
“You would if you were serious about trading the violin.” Mr. Golding was now several yards away. “I will consider this a definitive answer to my inquiry and assume you have no interest in completing our transaction.” The man turned and ran.
Bayard hastened after him, but while he had the advantage of height and stride length, Mr. Golding obviously knew the gardens better and had slipped out of sight before Bayard was winded. Ian was only a few steps behind him when he stopped.
“Slippery fellow,” Ian said.
“Raven?”
“He’s after the man with the granite fists.” Ian rolled his shoulder. “He got a solid blow on me before Raven gave him a nice poke in the eye.”
“I am all astonishment,” Bayard said dryly.
“I wouldn’t have been surprised by him sneaking up on us if I hadn’t been saving your bacon.”
“I owe you for that.”
“Too right, you do.”
They returned to the grotto to find Raven there, looking grim. “A great beast such as that should not have been able to catch us unawares. We knew there was a possibility the man would have had his own associate sneaking around.”
“Can a plan be more botched than this?” Bayard muttered.
As Bayard gathered the sack of pound notes and the faux violin, Ian said, “I didn’t see Ord.”
“It will be excellent as long as we don’t see him.” Bayard headed down the gravel walk, flanked by his two friends. “It will mean he is still following Mr. Golding.”
CHAPTER TEN
The card party was an insipid affair, although Alethea admitted her foul mood made it especially less enjoyable for herself. Seated at the hostess’s pianoforte, Alethea pounded out a Bach sinfonia in F minor at a funereal pace. It suited her frustrations, which had plagued her since speaking to Dommick earlier today.
“I believe you are playing that too fast,” Lord Ian said as he came up behind her.
She ignored him and embellished a note into a particularly dismal chord.
“I take it you did not agree with Bayard’s decision?” Lord Ravenhurst appeared on the other side of her.
“Why is it his decision?” she snapped. “It was my idea.”
“You fired it at him rather suddenly,” Lord Ian said. “You must give him time to think it over.”
“He doesn’t want to go through with it because he won’t perform with a woman.” She finished the sinfonia and switched to the fugue in a Bach Toccata in the key of C minor so she could pound out a smashing minor chord.
Lord Ian rattled his finger in his ear. “I believe that piece is supposed to be melancholy, not angry.”
“He didn’t wish to pursue your idea because he felt it would be too dangerous,” Lord Ravenhurst said over the thunderous chords she was producing. “Only consider, we had called upon you bare hours after our trap in Sydney Gardens had failed and Ord had lost Mr. Golding, only to be met with your aunt’s niece sporting a purple eye. And then you suggested playing in our concert in order to display yourself and your violin as bait. You must excuse him for being alarmed.”
“If he truly wishes to protect me and my family, our best course of action is to be on the attack. And after your trap had failed, all the better reason to attempt my trap.”
“I do not understand why you two are working separately rather than together,” Lord Ravenhurst muttered.
“My point exactly. Which is why I should play in your concert in a few weeks with my violin to lure the villain out.”
“Bayard might be more amenable to the suggestion if he were to play the violin instead of yourself.”
“Many men would hesitate to attack another man who might overpower him, whereas the villain would be overly confident in attacking a woman, who is physically inferior. And all of you will be there to protect me.”
“There will also be dozens of people and servants, any one of whom may be hired to kidnap you or harm you.”
“The point is that it is a trap. We shall be tricking him into doing precisely what we want.”
Lord Ian sighed. “You are quite as stubborn as Bayard.”
Alethea thought it prudent to change the topic of conversation. “Have you heard any news about Count Escalari? Someone mentioned he may attend tonight.” Alethea peeked up to glance around the room before she had to look back down at her hands on the keyboard.
“Is he expected in Bath?” Lord Ravenhurst asked.
Alethea finished the fugue on a mistaken chord, quickly corrected. She winced. “I attended tonight specifically because the rumour was that he would be here.”
“From whom did you hear that?” Lord Ravenhurst asked.
“One of the maids, who had heard it from a maid from Lady Eaglen’s house, who had got it from—”
“Never mind,” Lord Ian said with a groan.
“Why do you wish to see him?” Lord Ravenhurst asked.
“To ask about the initials on the violin, of course. Assuming he is Italian,” she said, remembering Signora D’Angelo.
“He is,” Lord Ravenhurst said. “He is acquainted with my mother.”
“How fortuitous. Would you be so kind as to introduce me?”
“Lord Ravenhurst, Lord Ian.” The hostess, Mrs. Penning, approached the pianoforte with Mr. Kinnier in tow. “I insist you two accompany me. There are two young ladies I wish you to meet.”
Lord Ravenhurst bowed with his usual politeness, although there were tight lines around his mouth. Lord Ian, however, gave Mr. Kinnier an icy stare.
Mrs. Penning continued, “I have brought Mr. Kinnier to turn Lady Alethea’s pages for her.”
Lord Ian glanced at Alethea. She gave him a subtle nod. What in the world about Mr. Kinnier so offended Lord Ian?
As Mrs. Penning led the two men away, Mr. Kinnier turned to her with a very correct bow. “What shall you play next, Lady Alethea? I am at your service.”
“I have been playing from memory, sir.” She nodded toward the card tables. “I wouldn’t wish to deprive you of tonight’s entertainment.”
He leaned closer. “In truth, you have rescued me. I am an indifferent card player, and I easily frustrate my partners. If you
would allow me to keep you company here at this fine instrument, I should be most grateful.”
She could hardly refuse him. She distrusted his smooth speeches, and yet she had only one overheard conversation to base her opinions upon. Was she being too harsh upon him?
Continuing in her Bach mood, she started a partita in the key of E minor. “How have you enjoyed Bath so far, Mr. Kinnier?”
“It is quite lively. I have heard that you have had some excitement.”
Her fingers twitched, causing her to miss a note, but she picked up immediately and it was hardly noticeable. “Excitement? I assure you, my life is hardly exciting.” Could he have somehow found out about Mr. Golding and Margaret in the park?
“Why, the mystery about your violin is quite intriguing.”
“How so? It is a fine instrument, and I would naturally wish to know more of its history.”
“Many instruments have quite treacherous histories, full of theft, extortion, and violence.”
Her fingers crashed into a chord that Bach had never intended to be played in his piano piece. What did Mr. Kinnier know? What was he insinuating? What did he want?
“Oh, forgive me, Lady Alethea, I did not mean to alarm you. I was not serious. I am sure Lord Dommick will discover that your violin has a quite innocuous history.”
She was overreacting, surely. And yet, why would he use those particular words to describe her violin? She could not read his mood or his thoughts, for his face was as pleasant as ever. She continued with the partita.
Mr. Kinnier added, “And Lord Dommick is . . . creative in his ideas.”
“What do you mean, sir?”
“His unorthodox methods certainly give the impression of competence.”
She flared with resentment at his implication. “It is my understanding that Lord Dommick is quite knowledgeable about the violin.”
“That is indeed what was said about him. But he has yet to discover anything about your violin, is that not so?”
“This case is quite difficult.”
“Is it?” He gave her a significant look.
What was he saying? She wished the annoying man would speak plainly. “Mr. Kinnier, are you suggesting I find another investigator for my violin?”
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