Prelude for a Lord

by Elliot, Camille

  It was the most enjoyable two hours she had spent in many years. Alethea forgot about Lucy, sitting in the corner as her chaperone. Dommick had the ability to write music that sounded elaborate, yet was straightforward to master. Lord Ravenhurst had uncanny intuition about tweaking passages to create more emotional impact. Lord Ian suggested changes that enhanced the strengths of the individual instruments.

  Clare and Lady Morrish entered the music room to sit and listen to the final product of their practice session. Lady Morrish expressed pleasure at the piece, but Clare sat immobile for a full minute after they had finished, her mouth in an O and her eyes darting at the musicians, landing most often upon Alethea. Finally she gasped, “Bayard, that piece is your most commanding composition yet. And, Alethea, your talent is . . . staggering.”

  “Yes, she is brilliant,” Lord Ian agreed.

  “I thank you.” Their praise should have made Alethea feel vindicated after her interest in the violin had been denigrated by so many people. Yet she felt uncomfortable. She did not want to stand out from the other musicians—she realized she wanted to belong to them. They never made her feel like an intruder to their circle, but she nonetheless was not quite one of them. And she longed to be. She longed to call them her intimate friends.

  “I should return to my aunt,” Alethea said reluctantly.

  “We shall see you and your aunt tonight at Mrs. Pollwitton’s rout?” Lady Morrish asked.

  “Of course.”

  Alethea replaced the violin in its case and gave it to Lord Ian to carry downstairs for her. Lucy had gathered her mending and waited to follow them all out, but Alethea held back to reach for her hand.

  “I have never heard you play so well,” Lucy said.

  “I am glad you were here.” Alethea left the room and Clare fell in beside her.

  “I knew you would be remarkable. The entire household could hear all of you practicing and it sounded wonderful,” Clare said.

  Something about Clare’s comment caused a tickle of unease in her stomach, but it was forgotten as she retrieved her coat and bonnet from the butler. This time Lord Ian joined them on the drive back to Queen Square.

  Dommick said, “For our next practice—”

  There was the sudden crack! of a gunshot. Alethea’s heart tried to shoot out of her chest.

  “What—” Lord Ian looked out the window, then was flung backward as the carriage jerked forward.

  They rattled along the cobblestones as the horses raced down the street. Alethea heard cries as people darted out of the way of the runaway horses. The street was short, and as the horses skidded and tried to turn, the carriage slid and flipped onto its side.

  The sound of wood crashing and sliding along the pebbles filled the carriage. Clare landed atop Alethea, and she grabbed the girl and held on tightly, curling them both into a ball. A gentleman bounced atop her legs.

  Then the carriage stopped moving. The frantic cries of the horses filtered through the fuzziness in Alethea’s brain, along with screams and the babbling of bystanders. She cast an eye upward where the window of the carriage opened to the sky.

  A shadow passed through the light, and then the carriage door was wrenched open. The face of the cadaverous man peered inside.

  Alethea screamed.

  His grey eyes darted around the carriage, and he reached in to grab the violin case. Dommick kicked at him and hurled himself out of the overturned carriage at the man, and they disappeared from sight. Ian clambered out after him.

  Alethea smoothed the dark hair from Clare’s pale face. “Are you injured? Are you in pain?”

  “I am well,” she said in a squeak.

  Alethea struggled to a sitting position, but her heavy woolen skirts hampered her. She pulled herself upright by grasping the edges of the carriage door and peered outside.

  The cadaverous man was fleeing, jostling through the crowd. Dommick gave chase, but Lord Ian turned back to them. He reached for Alethea’s arms and helped her out of the carriage. “Are you hurt?”

  “No.”

  He assisted Clare, wrapping his arm around her waist to carry her out of the carriage and set her upon her feet. He then went to help the coachman with the panicked horses. After they had unhitched them from the broken carriage shafts, he helped the coachman sit down on the side of the street, for there was blood running from a gash on his head.

  Alethea lent him her handkerchief to staunch the worst of it. “What happened?”

  The coachman nodded in the direction the cadaverous man had taken. “He was at the side of the street on horseback, and he shot a pistol right near the horses. They bolted.”

  “He followed the runaway coach?”

  “Must have. Next thing I know, I sees him opening the carriage. That’s his horse, methinks.” The coachman pointed to where a saddled horse stood with trailing reins, unable to do more than circle nervously because of the crowd.

  Ian was holding the carriage horses, so Alethea grabbed the lone horse to calm it before it trampled someone. It looked to be a hired hack.

  Dommick returned soon, breathing heavily. Strangely, he hesitated before he took the bridle from Alethea. “Is Clare unharmed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Whose horse is this?”

  “The coachman believes it belonged to the cadaverous man.”

  Dommick’s face was white and angry. “How could he have known you had the violin? You didn’t know until this morning that we had a practice session, and none of the servants saw you carrying it.”

  Alethea remembered Clare’s remark, and now understood why it had caused a feeling of misgiving. “The servants heard us playing. Lord Ian walked into the house carrying it, and I was in the music room with you all. It could not be difficult to hazard a guess that the violin was mine and I was playing it.”

  Tension radiated from Dommick, which began to affect the horse. Alethea reached out to pat its neck and speak soothingly, and it quieted.

  Dommick turned to her with burning eyes. “There is a spy in my household.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Bayard walked with Raven toward New Sydney Place the next day. His friend looked like the vengeful Roman god Apollo with his stern face, flashing ice-blue eyes, and white-blond hair as he marched along.

  “It is through no fault of yours,” Bayard said again.

  “Half of those servants are mine,” Raven said through his clenched jaw. “Of course it is my responsibility.”

  “We shall uncover the informer in due time. I asked Lucy Purcell to discover who among the staff may have informed the cadaverous man about Alethea’s violin.”

  “You are certain no one knows Lucy is Lady Alethea’s sister? They look remarkably alike.”

  “Miss Purcell assures me she has not told anyone she has a sister, and she has not visited Alethea on her half day as she normally would. The other servants rarely see her in the same room with Alethea.”

  “This is a wretched situation.” Raven scowled.

  They arrived at New Sydney Place, near the gardens, where the Count of Escalari had taken a house for the winter. Ravenhurst gave the butler his card, and within moments the two gentlemen were being ushered upstairs to a grand drawing room furnished with copious pieces of Egyptian-style furniture.

  “Ravenhurst, it is good to see you.” The count entered with a limp and arms outstretched in welcome. “Your mother is well?”

  “She is with my sister at Windmarch’s estate in Devonshire. You may congratulate her when next you see her, for she has a new grandson.”

  “A boy! She mentioned to me her hopes.”

  “May I present Lord Dommick?”

  “I am acquainted with your mother, Lord Dommick,” the count said. “She and I met at parties in London while you were off fighting Napoleon.”

  “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Bayard bowed.

  “You returned with no injury?”

  “A mere scratch, I assure you.” And the hellish
hole in his sanity.

  “I have my own injury.” The count gestured to his leg as he sat heavily upon a delicate-looking chaise lounge. “Not from war, but from a battle with my horse. The doctor has prescribed the waters of Bath.”

  Bayard and Raven sat in chairs across from him. “My stepfather is here for his gout,” Bayard said.

  “Bath is full of we who are infirm.” The count’s smile crinkled his small black eyes into merry twinkling stars. “The warmth of the waters remind me of Italy, and I grow homesick.”

  Bayard drew the paper from his pocket. Alethea had made him another copy of the initials on her violin. “I hope I might draw upon your reminisces of your homeland. I believe these may be the initials of an Italian nobleman.”

  The count took one look at the initials and his grey-spiked eyebrows rose. “I have not thought of Sondrono in many years.”

  Bayard’s heartbeat stuttered. “You know who that is?”

  “It is Camillo Michele Antonio Giustinani, Count of Sondrono. The S in the middle is his title, and the other initials are his name.”

  Bayard had not thought that the enlarged S was separate from the other letters. “How do you know of him?”

  “He and my grandfather had estates in the north of Italy, in the Alps near Livigno, but they did not see each other often except by chance in Milan or Turin. Where did you get this?”

  “The initials were painted on the neck of a violin.”

  “Ah, yes. Sondrono and his wife were musical patrons. They performed for close friends on rare occasions.”

  “What instruments did they play?” Bayard asked.

  The count shrugged. “I never heard. But his wife sponsored many musicians until she grew ill and the count’s gambling grew severe. Sondrono was infamous for his reckless gambling, which grew worse after his wife died, according to my grandfather.”

  “We had suspected gambling debts would induce the owner to sell the violin.”

  “I do not doubt it. He died in penury at his estate, with no children. His estate passed to his nephew, who had to sell much of it to pay Sondrono’s debts. There was not much left, according to my grandfather, because Sondrono had sold most of his family’s treasures to fund his gambling.”

  “Did you hear of any musical instruments he sold?”

  “No. My grandfather mentioned Sondrono’s vast art collection, but not musical instruments. However, those are Sondrono’s initials, so the violin probably belonged to him.”

  “Do you know of the count’s living relatives?”

  “All in Italy, I imagine. I know none of them personally.”

  A servant tapped upon the door and entered. Escalari nodded to him. “Yes, yes, I am coming. I beg leave you will excuse me, gentlemen. I am expected in the hot baths. I must follow my doctor’s instructions.”

  “Of course. Thank you for seeing us.” Raven stood.

  Bayard also stood. “May I ask one more question? Are you acquainted with Lady Fairmont?”

  Escalari’s face immediately lit up. “Yes, her mother’s uncle was Count Inizinesso. I see why you ask. Inizinesso was also a reckless gambler. He lost his estate to Sondrono in an infamous card game, but Sondrono then lost the estate to some other man, I do not recall, who would not allow Inizinesso to buy it back. Inizinesso blamed Sondrono for the loss. Me?” Escalari gave a one-shoulder shrug. “I say Inizinesso should not have gambled with his estate in the first place.”

  That explained Lady Fairmont’s outrage over Sondrono’s initials. It did not appear to be related to the violin. “Thank you.” Bayard bowed.

  As they headed back toward the Crescent, Raven said, “If Sondrono sold his violin, it does not explain why someone would want the violin now. If Sondrono was about the same age as Count Escalari’s grandfather, then Sondrono died over fifty years ago. How long did Lady Arkright own the violin?”

  Bayard tried to recall. “I will need to ask Alethea. Perhaps one of the count’s family believes the violin rightfully belongs to him, and it took until now to track the instrument to Alethea.”

  “In that case, he may be an older gentleman, somehow connected to Sondrono.”

  Bayard bent his head against a cold gust of wind. “We have not fully investigated if there were other Stradivarius violins made with this unusual wood. Alethea’s instrument may not be unique, and the violin may have profound sentimental value to the villain.”

  Raven gave him a long look. “And that would make him a very dangerous villain.”

  They walked in silence for the length of a street, then Bayard said, “Do you know anyone who may be able to tell us about Sondrono’s living relatives?”

  “I have one or two I can write.”

  They arrived at the house, but as they divested themselves of their hats and greatcoats, Clare appeared at the top of the stairs. “Bay, may I speak to you?”

  He gave her a curious look, but she simply thinned her mouth and widened her eyes at him in exasperation. Shrugging, he followed her up to her bedchamber.

  Lucy curtseyed from where she stood beside the fireplace. Clare closed the door. “We could not allow anyone in the house to know Lucy was speaking to you.”

  “Milord, about the carriage accident yesterday . . . I have discovered who in this house informed the thief about my sister’s violin.”

  “This gig is decrepit. Where in the world did you get it?” Bayard’s neck jostled as the carriage bumped over yet another rut in the road.

  Ian, at the reins, gave him a pained look. “I would think you would be more grateful that I managed to acquire this nondescript equipage in such little time.”

  “We could have used your carriage if you had not sent it back to your estate,” Bayard said.

  “In Bath, there was no need for mine. And you cannot be certain the bounder would not have recognized my carriage.”

  The bounder in question rode almost a quarter mile ahead of them on a hired horse. Lucy had discovered that a footman, Simon, had inexplicably come into a large sum of money after the carriage accident. He insisted it was from gambling, but the other servants confided that Simon had no head for cards.

  As a test, Bayard had mentioned loudly in Simon’s presence that Alethea would be arriving with her violin the following day at three o’clock. They had watched and waited, and sure enough, Simon had snuck out of the house, hired a horse, and headed out of Bath.

  Following a man while posing as two unremarkable gentlemen had not been as difficult as Bayard would have supposed, once Ian had procured the ancient gig and even more aged horse. They dressed in their most shabby coats and hats, and if Bayard’s neck did not snap in half from the rough and tumble motion of the unsprung carriage, all was going smoothly.

  Then the footman’s horse threw a shoe.

  Ian groaned. “Do you think he would notice if we hung back and waited for him to continue?”

  “If we travel too close to him, he will recognize us.” Would they be forced to abandon this plan when they were so close to seeing the footman’s contact?

  “I have an idea.” Ian turned the gig onto a side road, and they left the footman cursing his horse in the middle of the main road.

  This side road was pitted with more ruts than the other, and then it began to climb. From their vantage height, they could see the main road and the footman walking, leading the lamed horse. Ian paused the gig near the top. “He can’t travel much farther with that horse.”

  “Let us hope he does not hire another one, or we shall lose him.”

  He stopped at a shabby inn down the road. Ian continued along the side road until they could turn onto another path and meander back to the main road. However, he drove the horse along the side, hiding them amongst a stand of trees with the inn in sight. The footman loitered in the inn yard, waiting for someone.

  They hadn’t long to wait. A landau pulled into the inn yard, and the footman immediately stepped up to the window. The angle of the vehicle gave them an excellent view of the two hor
ses, well-matched dappled greys, but not a good view of the interior of the carriage.

  “Can’t see inside,” Bayard muttered. “Can we get clos—”

  The landau pulled out of the inn yard after stopping for barely a minute. It turned and barreled down the road away from them.

  “We’ll lose him!” Bayard half rose in his seat.

  Ian whipped up the poor horse, and they pulled out of the trees onto the main road. Bayard caught sight of the footman’s startled expression as they sped past the inn yard.

  However, the landau, with its two horses, was much faster, and the distance between them widened.

  “They are heading to Chippenham,” Ian said through chattering teeth. The day was too cold for a long-distance trip in the open gig, and the horse was flagging.

  They lost sight of them at a bend in the road. When they reached the bend, there was a fork with no indication as to which they’d taken.

  Bayard slapped the side of the gig in frustration.

  “Should we pick a fork and go along for a ways?” Ian asked.

  “They were too far ahead of us. And the horse would strenuously object.” It was lathered and its sides heaved.

  “Poor creature couldn’t do anything strenuously.”

  But the horse did not mind turning around and heading back to Bath at a more sedate pace. They were chilled by the time they turned the horse and gig over to the groom.

  “At the very least, we can dismiss Simon,” Ian said as they dragged themselves into Raven’s house.

  “My lord.”

  Bayard recognized the soft voice as Lucy Purcell’s. She stood in the shadow of the staircase, kneading her hands.

  Bayard quickly gave his greatcoat to the butler and approached Lucy. “Is Clare safe?” He sensed Ian close at his shoulder.

  “Yes . . . now.”

  That one qualifying word was like a gunshot that sent his heart beating rapidly against his throat. “What happened?”

  Lucy swallowed, and in that moment she looked exactly like her sister. But when she spoke, she had a softness and diffidence that was missing in Alethea. “She asks that you meet her in the music room.”