Prelude for a Lord

by Elliot, Camille

  She opened the door to the room with hands so cold that the door felt warm. She took a step outside and thought she might stumble. She leaned against the wall and staggered to the corner. She must perform. She must make it to the library.

  Everything within her quailed. She could not. She could not do this.

  The door to the library opened, and Dommick appeared. He took one look at her face and came to her. “What is it?”

  She shook her head, unable to speak.

  He took her hands and drew her back along the side corridor, away from the prying eyes of guests entering the drawing room down the hallway. “What is it?”

  “I can’t do this,” she whispered.

  “Yes, you can.”

  She gasped in a few more breaths. “I need . . . a moment . . .” But it seemed the more she breathed, the more lightheaded she became.

  He drew closer and grabbed her shoulders. “You can do this. I believe in you.”

  Her entire body trembled. She wanted to explain about the women’s words, about the fear and pain, about feeling so alone with no one to understand her now that Calandra was gone. But she couldn’t speak. Her mouth was dry, her heart rate faster than a galloping horse.

  His hands tightened on her shoulders. And then his head blocked out the light as he swooped in to kiss her.

  She had never been kissed before, and he was not simply touching her. She could feel him all around her. She could somehow feel his heart beating with hers, she could hear it in her ears. His lips were warm and firm, and the knot inside her slowly unwound. Her hands touched the silk of his waistcoat, and he was solid and dependable. His very presence was sheltering like an oak tree.

  He ended the kiss and looked into her eyes. She could breathe again, and she filled her lungs with the tang of lime, the woody scent of oak, the sharp, warm musk scent that rose from his skin.

  In his eyes was something avid and yet wishful. She caught a glimpse of the vulnerable part of him that he seemed never to show.

  And then he retreated behind an invisible wall. He took a deep breath, which seemed to wipe the yearning from his eyes, and he straightened, although his hands remained on her shoulders.

  She should not have lost control. Not in front of anyone, not in front of a man, and not in front of this man. Especially because of how he made her feel so alive.

  “I am sorry.” She strived for a steady voice. “I was quite . . . out of my mind. I daresay we both were.”

  He dropped his hands from her. “Yes.”

  It was not necessary for him to be quite so quick to agree.

  She straightened, stiffened her shoulders, steadied her knees. “I am ready.”

  He offered his arm, for which she was grateful, because she was not as strong as she pretended to be. They entered the library, and as soon as they opened the door, Lord Ian said, “They’re ready for us.”

  Clare appeared at her side. Lucy was there also to keep Clare company while the four of them performed, and she took Alethea’s clammy hand in a soothing touch. She did not look like an abigail tonight—she had a new gown in rich blue, a gift from Clare, and she looked as elegant as any woman who would be in the music room.

  Alethea gathered her violin from the table and Lord Ravenhurst escorted her into the music room, which had been filled with people. Fans fluttered, waving a rainbow of feather plumes, while the chandelier above and the wall sconces illuminated glittering jewels like stars fallen to earth. Alethea kept her head high, her shoulders back, but as her gaze swept the room, she could not see any of the faces.

  She sat in her seat, but the sheet music on the stand swam in front of her eyes. Then Dommick was sitting beside her, and his leg gave her a not-so-gentle kick in the shin.

  She blinked at him. He gave her a firm nod, and a look filled with all the strength and confidence she did not feel.

  She positioned her violin.

  Her contribution to the first chord was tentative. But her second note sounded stronger, and by the end of the first page, her heart was soaring with the music. She had forgotten the audience, forgotten the men playing alongside her, only knew the sounds echoing in her ears.

  They had chosen to start with Dommick’s composition, which flew her on sweetly harmonious chords to the mountains of Italy, as she imagined them to be in her mind, to the solid castles built into the rock, rising above snow-white mist and the multicoloured hues of the turning leaves in autumn. The music sang of crashing waterfalls, the mist spraying up like tears on her face, the water rushing down and over rocks in a dancing swirl, to slow at last into a tranquil pool that spoke of the cold, still kiss of morning light, of leaves drifting down from dreaming trees, of whispered lovers’ vows.

  The concerto ended with a delicate, winsome air of two violins chasing each other round and round until they met in a rapturous chord that died into the silent room.

  The applause was thunderous. Even at other concerts Alethea had attended in the past year, she had never heard such a response. She came to herself and realized there were tears on her cheeks.

  Dommick had an exultant smile. “I would give you my handkerchief, but I seem to have misplaced it.”

  She laughed and dug his handkerchief from her reticule. She dabbed her cheeks and met the triumphant look from Lord Ian, the proud expression from Lord Ravenhurst.

  As the applause quieted, Lord Ravenhurst flipped the page on his music stand. “Ready?”

  They completed the next two pieces flawlessly. While Lord Dommick’s piece had been evocative, Lord Ravenhurst’s concerto was the most technically challenging, and Lord Ian’s quartet cleverly highlighted the unique tone of her violin in the measures where it soared above the other instruments or resonated with power in the melodic line.

  They stood to more applause and exited the room back into the library. Alethea’s hands now began to shake as if she had a fever. She touched her forehead, but it was cool and damp.

  Lord Ian grabbed Alethea’s hand and kissed it with a smack. “Quite amazing, my lady.”

  Lord Ravenhurst gave her a regal bow, then a blinding smile. “Indeed.”

  But it was Dommick’s gaze that made the room spin about her until he clasped her elbow. Then the world righted itself, and all she saw were the dark stars of his eyes. A breath or two, and she was herself again.

  Clare and Lucy were beside her. “You were wonderful. You did not even look nervous,” Clare said.

  “You could see us?”

  “We watched through the open library door,” Lucy said. “The angle is perfect. If we stand behind the closed one, no one can see us.”

  The door was closed now and murmuring had erupted in the music room as the guests mingled during the short intermission. After intermission, Clare’s three pieces were not long, and then the Quartet would play the last two compositions.

  Alethea took a deep breath as Lord Ravenhurst escorted her into the music room. She was surrounded by people, some she knew only as casual acquaintances, who were fervent in their praises. Cynically, she wondered which of them were speaking truthfully in their compliments.

  But the most meaningful words were from Aunt Ebena, who waited for a break in the people around Alethea before she approached. “Your practice has been to good purpose,” she said severely.

  “Yes, Aunt.”

  She hesitated, her face impassive, then said in a low voice, “You were quite good, Alethea.”

  Those words, more than the most fulsome praises, made satisfaction well up in her heart.

  As intermission ended, Alethea and the performers returned to the library. She took Clare’s hand, which pressed hers almost painfully, before Lord Ian escorted her into the music room.

  Lord Ian and Dommick had decided upon a slow, sweet tune to help calm Clare’s nerves. It worked, for Clare’s performance was without error, if a bit wooden. But then for her second solo, she added fire to a quick tempo and created thunder with crashing chords, ending in a gale of sound and power. A
nd for her duet with Lord Ian, she was smiling, as Alethea could see as she watched from the library. The two of them created a playground where the pianoforte and violin played tag like laughing children.

  Lucy stood beside Alethea, their arms about each other’s waists as they had done as children. Lucy whispered, “The song reminds me of our games on the downs.”

  “It reminds me of happy times.”

  “After our final performance, you must circulate around the room with Clare,” Dommick said near her ear.

  “It will not put Clare in danger?”

  “Leave your violin here, in the library. We shall be watching you and the violin at all times.”

  Lord Ravenhurst added, “If you are not with the violin, you shall not be in harm’s way.”

  “I shall stay in the library with Clare while you play your last two pieces with the gentlemen,” Lucy said. “Then you and Clare can go forth among your guests.”

  Clare and Lord Ian finished with a flourish, and after they had bowed to the loud acclaim, she returned to the library with cheeks flushed and eyes brilliant.

  Alethea was not as nervous during the last two songs. The Quartet was most famous for these particular concertos, and to be part of them made her feel as if she possessed a true, close-knit family. For those minutes, she pretended they were the brothers she had never had, ones who would support her rather than sell her to the highest bidder.

  They ended to magnanimous applause, and after bowing, returned to the library.

  Unaccountably, a chill swept through Alethea as if a draft had shot through an open window. She did not understand. She should be relieved, for it was over and she had not been drowned in censure.

  Then suddenly she realized what was missing. “Where are Clare and Lucy?”

  They all grew still.

  Alethea ventured further into the room and checked in corners where she knew the two women would have no reason to be. Her ribcage began to ache. “Where are they?”

  And then near the door that led into the hallway, she spotted an object on the floor. She picked it up.

  It was a woman’s cloth slipper in a rich blue colour. It had been ripped from the ribbons attaching it to the wearer’s ankle.

  “What is that?” Dommick’s voice was urgent.

  She held it out to him, and her legs began to tremble. She nearly fell as she whispered, “This is Lucy’s slipper.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Bayard tried to convince himself that Lucy’s slipper did not necessarily indicate that Clare and Lucy were in danger, but as he headed into the bowels of the house, he knew he was lying to himself.

  The two women had not been in any bedchamber. Raven and Ian searched among the guests, but Clare was not there, nor had anyone seen her.

  Alethea trailed behind him. He had delivered her violin to Ord to hide it away. Bayard had trusted him with his life at Corunna and knew he could trust him now.

  Bayard found the butler in the kitchen, about to oversee the laying out of the cold light supper in the dining room. “Chapman.” His voice was harsher than he intended.

  The butler snapped to attention. “Yes, my lord?”

  He was about to blurt out about Clare, but a small voice of caution made him amend his question to, “Have you seen Miss Terralton’s maid?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Have any of the servants seen her?”

  Chapman clapped his hands and the kitchen noise dropped in volume. “Has anyone see Purcell?”

  Silence. Bayard pressed his fists into his thighs, but they still shook. “Where else would the servants be?”

  “They should be here or in the dining hall, but they could be where they should not.” Chapman’s mouth was grim.

  Alethea said, “Are there any servants whom you have not seen within the past fifteen minutes?” It had been that long since they had discovered the women were missing.

  A maid said, “George and Anna?”

  Chapman shook his head. “I saw them a few minutes ago in the dining room.”

  “Jack and Mays?” a footman said.

  A hitch of silence, then Chapman barked, “Who saw them last?”

  “I sent Mays to the storeroom for a platter,” the cook said, “but I don’t recall when that was.”

  Chapman’s grey brows drew low. “I sent Jack to the storeroom for a different epergne for the dining room half an hour ago.”

  Bayard, Alethea, and the housekeeper followed Chapman to the storeroom at the back of the house. The heavy wooden door was shut, but it opened when Chapman touched the latch.

  Two young men lay on the stone floor, stripped of their livery, their hands and feet tied and gags stuffed into their mouths. As the door creaked open, one lifted his head and feebly tried to rise.

  Alethea gasped. The housekeeper pushed past to bend over the man. “They’ve been knocked in the head.” She untied his gag.

  “Send for a doctor,” Bayard said. Alethea turned to go, but Bayard grabbed her wrist. He would not allow her out of his sight. He sent the housekeeper upstairs, and she bustled away.

  Chapman said, “With the marchioness’s new servants in the household, it has been difficult for all the staff to remember each other.”

  Bayard ground his teeth. An under-servant might see two footmen in livery and not realize they were impostors. He knelt beside one of the men and untied his bindings while Chapman untied the other man. “Do not get up. What is your name?”

  “Jack,” he said in a hoarse voice. “Milord, I didn’t expect—”

  “I would be surprised if you did. Did you see them? Was there one man or more than one?”

  “They hit me from behind. I woke up here, tied up, and two men was tying up Mays. I kept me peepers shut, so I didn’t see their faces, but I heard them. One was cursing fit to be tied ’cause they were late. He said they was supposed to be in position a’fore the concert started.”

  “Did you recognize their voices?”

  “No, milord. Sorry, milord.”

  “Did you hear anything else?”

  “I heard footsteps going out back toward the carriage house.” He nodded toward the back door of the house, which lay near the storeroom door.

  “Good man. Thank you.” Bayard said to Alethea, “Follow me.”

  But she stood her ground, her mouth in a mulish cast. “No.”

  He frowned. “Alethea, I cannot be worrying for you—”

  She lowered her voice so that only he could hear. “It is ridiculous for you to be concerned for me when your sister is missing.” She raised her voice. “Chapman and I shall find Lord Ian and Lord Ravenhurst and send them to the carriage house after you.” And with that, she spun around in a swirl of green skirts and hastened up the passage toward the upper levels of the house.

  Chapman gave him a quick look, and at Bayard’s nod, rushed after her.

  Bayard opened the backdoor, whose hinges had been recently oiled. He dashed across the backyard of the house, a long, narrow strip of gardens and walks, to the carriage house that formed the back wall of the garden. His evening shoes slipped on the grass, and he felt the bite of the evening frost through the superfine of his coat, but he ran on. Surely the coachman in the carriage house saw something. But if he had seen Clare, wouldn’t he have gone to the house to inform someone?

  The door to the carriage house lay in the right corner of the garden wall and opened into a narrow corridor that ran through the structure to the street behind, with a door into the space where the carriages were kept. Bayard hurried into the large room, calling for the coachman.

  The old man came down the narrow stairs from his quarters above. He was dressed in his working garb and not his nightshirt, so he had been awake in the past hour.

  “Did you see anyone? Two footmen in livery?” Bayard demanded.

  After a moment of confusion, the coachman shook his head. “I’ve been upstairs, milord.”

  “Were any other grooms here tonight?”

 
; “They’re all helping at the house, on account o’ the concert.” The staff at the house would have depended on all hands to help with the event. “I was out front directing the carriages and holding horses earlier, when the guests was arriving, but I returned here during the concert until I might be needed again.”

  “You heard nothing? Miss Terralton’s maid has disappeared and two footmen were attacked and stripped of their livery.”

  “I did hear a carriage on the street, and a few minutes later I thot I heard someone in the passageway. Then the carriage moved off. I’m sorry, milord, I had s’posed it to be the neighbors.”

  “When did you hear this?”

  “No more’n fifteen minutes ago.”

  They were not so far ahead of him. “Lend me your cloak, man. I shall run to the stables to procure a horse.”

  “We’ll both ride.” Ian walked into the room, his greatcoat swirling about his shoulders. “Raven’s with Lady Alethea.”

  The news eased some of the constriction in his chest. “Let’s go.” The Ravenhurst horses were not stabled far from the carriage house, but he and Ian dashed down the street and were heaving when they arrived.

  Bayard had not ridden a horse since returning from war. He had not replaced Champion despite the suggestions put forth by Raven and Bayard’s own head groom. He simply could not bear it. He could not bear the thought of touching a horse, as if the contamination of what had happened in Corunna would infect it.

  But now he saddled the fastest horse with a quickness honed from years of war. The movements came to him without thought. The animal caught his desperation and leapt forward as soon as he had mounted. He and Ian galloped out, following the likely path of the mysterious carriage.

  Bayard rode and knew a sense of hopelessness. How could they catch up with a carriage for which they had no description? He could only guess on where the carriage would take Clare—out of Bath, where the villain could have time and space and few neighbors. Why had he taken her? Could Bayard expect a ransom note on the morrow? Wouldn’t it have been more effective to steal away Margaret or Mrs. Garen, to force Alethea to turn over her violin?