Prelude for a Lord

by Elliot, Camille

  Bayard slumped in his chair. “I cannot do this to her again.”

  “Your mother?” Alethea sat down. “Until now I had not fully understood how the rumours would hurt your mother’s feelings.”

  “Miss Church-Pratton broke our engagement when I was recovering in the hospital after Corunna. Thinking to be clever, she spread stories of the Mad Baron this past spring. My mother lost a great many friends because they feared associating with a woman with a mad son.”

  “Why would your former betrothed do that?” The colour had risen in Alethea’s cheeks.

  “Our betrothal had been arranged by our fathers. I knew she had wanted a man of higher rank, and then my nightmares only heightened her disgust of me. It pleased her to slander me.”

  She sipped her lukewarm tea. “I had been coming to speak to you when Aunt Ebena drew me into the ladies’ visit in the drawing room. Earlier this morning I was going over Margaret’s geography lesson—”

  “You are Lady Dommick now. You can hire a governess for that, you know.”

  She tilted her head. “By jove, you are correct. I had not thought of that. Thank goodness.” She smiled at him, and his world tilted for a moment. “But you will be glad I was her tutor today. She is obsessed with Count Sondrono, and since lessons with her have been a chore, I have been indulging her. I had her look up the flora and fauna of the Alps, and today she gave me this.” Alethea passed him a slip of paper with a small flower drawn upon it. “This is a ‘cat’s paw’ or ‘wool-flower,’ which grows in the area of the Alps where the count’s estate is. She immediately recognized it as a flower carved upon my jewelry box.”

  “How did she know that?”

  “She ransacked my room once—I shall tell you the story another time. Calandra gave the jewelry box to me when Sir William made her a new, larger one. She only mentioned it was from Italy, nothing more. After Margaret pointed out the flower, I looked more closely at my jewelry box, and I believe it is made from the same wood as the back plate of my violin.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “I was going to fetch my violin to be sure.”

  Bayard and Alethea removed the violin from its chest in the music room and headed upstairs to her bedchamber. It was an unfamiliar but comforting feeling to be allowed in her private quarters, to know that as his wife, she shared herself with him in this way.

  Except that she would share in his disgrace as well, especially if Lady Trittonstone’s rumours found their targets in London. The thought depressed his spirits.

  The jewelry box was of a narrow-grained wood that appeared to be similar to the violin, although it was difficult to be certain even in the light from the window.

  “If this is the same wood as the violin, then this box also belonged to the count,” Alethea said.

  “And if Lady Arkright bought this box from the peddler with the violin, then perhaps the peddler received all his wares from the count’s home directly, not from some deceased merchant as we have been supposing. It would explain why Mr. Manco had no records of selling this particular violin, for the count never sold it.”

  “Calandra said that the peddler’s wares were cheap things, and so perhaps the count’s heirs sold his violin with other objects, thinking it to be worthless.”

  “But why did the count not sell this violin if he was so in debt?”

  “I would not sell my violin to Mr. Golding because of my emotional attachment to it,” Alethea said. “Perhaps the count had a strong sentimental attachment to it.”

  “And the family assumed it was worthless because he had already sold off everything else of value.”

  “It is an ugly violin, to be sure, and it had been damaged.”

  Bayard ran his hand down the smooth neck of the instrument. “If one of the count’s family discovered the violin had been mistakenly sold to the peddler, he would pursue it, believing it rightfully belongs to his family.”

  “That is a strong incentive.”

  “My previous inquiries have turned up naught, but I must redouble my investigation into the count’s living relatives and look into Mr. Kinnier’s family tree.”

  She replaced her jewelry box and sat in her chair. “For your family’s sake, we must win the spot in Lady Whittlesby’s concert.”

  He was silent.

  “I heard Lady Whittlesby called upon you last week, but I hadn’t found opportunity to speak to you about it.”

  “She stopped on her way to London.” Bayard opened his mouth to repeat what he had told the others, but he could not lie to her. “Alethea, she offered me her concert, even without the information on your violin, and I refused.”

  “What? But . . . Clare’s season.”

  “It would be too dangerous for you to be in London.”

  “Then leave me here.”

  “I will not leave you alone.”

  She gave him a small smile, but then sobered. “Bayard, think of Clare and your mother, especially now.”

  “I love my family, and I am . . . very fond of you.” He did not perfectly understand his feelings for her, and he had not had time to meditate upon them. Everything was unfamiliar to him.

  She looked down at her lap and did not respond.

  He continued, “But you are my wife now, Alethea. I will not place you in a dangerous situation.”

  “We may yet discover the villain.”

  “I have until the first of the year to change my mind.”

  “Bayard.” Alethea laid her hand over his, and her fingers were cool. He reveled in the feel of her skin on his. “You must write to Lady Whittlesby. You must do this for Clare and your mother. There is such éclat attached to the concert, it will do everything to counteract the rumours.”

  He laid his hand over hers. “I will do everything in my power to eliminate this threat to you. I wish I had more than a few tidbits about an Italian count’s family. After Mr. Manco said the violin hadn’t been sold, that he couldn’t even verify it belonged to Sondrono . . .” He hated feeling so powerless. “I have nothing. I only desire some guidance . . .”

  She drew him to sit in a chair near her. “I do not know how to advise you,” she said hesitantly, “but I can tell you that I have felt comforted and refreshed in your family chapel. I have been reading your family Bible on the altar, since I have no Bible of my own.”

  “You do not?” He was shocked.

  “My father left me at Trittonstone Park with nannies and governesses. If I owned a Bible, it is probably still there, gathering dust on a shelf.”

  “I shall procure one for you directly.”

  “I would like that. But I enjoy your family Bible, reading your family tree. And the text is . . . piercing at times.”

  Piercing. Yes, he understood that. Bayard realized that he had not spent time in prayer for several weeks, since that one frantic prayer the night Clare was taken. He had drawn away from a faith that had always comforted him in the past.

  There was a knock on the door, and a maid appeared. “The cook wishes to speak to you, milady.”

  “I shall be down directly.” She rose, and in answer to his questioning look said, “The servants were quite shocked at our marriage, more from the fact that they were not able to throw us a proper wedding breakfast. The cook has asked for permission to provide a festive dinner tonight to remedy that.”

  He rose to his feet. “I had not thought of that.”

  “There have been many things I have had to learn as mistress of this house, the first of which is that your cook is not to be argued with.” She smiled at him.

  On impulse, he leaned down to kiss her. Her presence here at Terralton Abbey was soothing to him, fulfilling his life in a way he had not realized he needed.

  She touched his cheek and left.

  Instead of going to the music room, he found himself standing outside the family chapel. The wooden door creaked as he opened it, but the utter stillness within settled upon him like the first snowfall. He sat in one of the pews and let the l
ight from the windows fall upon him, highlighting the dust motes floating in the air.

  His worry over the rumours and Clare’s season seemed like childish things, here in this place, and yet the anxiety gnawed at him like rot overtaking a log. He was nothing in the face of the troubles outside these walls. There was nothing he could do about them that would give peace to his family.

  He rose to his feet. The chapel had only emphasized his helplessness and heightened his apprehension. Here was a place where the stillness enabled a man to count his troubles one by one and see how he was lacking.

  He strode up the aisle . . . and hesitated. Alethea had mentioned the family Bible, and although he’d had no intention of looking at it, something turned his feet around and drew him up the three short steps to the altar.

  The Bible lay open, perhaps where Alethea had been reading it. The print was small, so his eyes skimmed over the page without really seeing it.

  But then a verse seemed to leap up and slap him across the face.

  “Trust in the LORD with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding.”

  Piercing, she had called it. Yes, he felt pierced.

  “In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.”

  He knew these verses, had memorized them as a boy. He had known their meaning like a rock skipping across the surface of the lake, but now they held a deeper meaning he had never known before.

  In all his fears for his sanity, for his sister, his mother, Alethea, his reputation—he had depended upon himself and not upon the Lord. He had only thought about the next steps he could take, the precautions he could establish. But his attitude had been a disbelief in the power of God to work for him, to help him solve his problems.

  He leaned against the altar, head bowed. Lord, forgive me.

  The silence gathered around him like a crowd of witnesses, invisible hands resting upon his head.

  I will trust in thee to heal my mind. I will trust in thee to care for Clare, my mother, and our reputation. I will trust in thee with my marriage . . .

  He did not know what else to pray. His feelings were a jumble of impressions and confusion. And yet even there, perhaps the Lord would help him to untangle the strings.

  I will trust in thee to teach me to love.

  Today, Alethea would tell Bayard that she loved him.

  She had gathered her courage. She had received enough encouragement to know he would not reject her. She would tell him that she did not expect him to love her, but she hoped they might draw closer. And she wanted children. She wanted his children.

  She thought a moment. Mayhap she should not quite mention children just yet.

  Yesterday, when she had first looked inside her jewelry box, after Margaret had shown her the flower drawing, she had seen Bayard’s handkerchief, the reed pipe, and Bayard’s penknife, which she had intended to return to him, but hadn’t. All precious treasures. Embarrassed, she’d placed them in a drawer before going to look for him to tell him about the jewelry box.

  This morning she slipped all three into the pocket in her old-fashioned morning gown. When she found him, perhaps they could go to the gazebo to talk. Playing pipes with her had lifted his spirits, so he might be cheered by them again today.

  As she descended the stairs, she heard a curious sound from the morning room. Women’s laughter, loud and raucous, hooting with mirth.

  She entered the room to the sight of her Aunt Ebena, Lady Morrish, and Lady Ravenhurst gathered around the table, laughing so hard that tears streamed down the faces of Lady Morrish and Lady Ravenhurst. Gone was the anxiety that had lined Lady Morrish’s face yesterday, and Alethea could not help smiling.

  “I can scarce believe she did such a thing,” gasped Lady Morrish. “Good morning, Alethea.”

  “You three are quite disturbing the household.”

  “Shall you tattle on us to Lady Dommick?” Lady Ravenhurst said cheekily.

  “Your aunt has the most amusing tales of London,” Lady Morrish said.

  Aunt Ebena looked pleased. “When you have the number of acquaintances that I do, you collect a vast number of stories about them, for they are each gossiping about each other. Lady Jersey is an especially voluble letter-writer.”

  “Lady Jersey?” One of the most feared and powerful society hostesses in London?

  “Oh, yes. We have known each other many years. I no longer see her in London, but she visits me in Bath once every two or three years, and we write frequently.”

  “Your aunt was writing to Lady Jersey for us,” Lady Morrish said. “We owe her a debt of gratitude.”

  “It is nothing,” Aunt Ebena said gruffly. “Sally owes me a favour.”

  While Lady Morrish and Lady Ravenhurst had their embroidery work before them on the table, Aunt Ebena had a half-finished letter. “What are you writing?”

  “I am writing ostensibly to give the on dit about Dommick’s hasty wedding. You needn’t worry, miss, I am writing of how he could not be torn from your side in Bath, which culminated in his invitation to his house party.”

  Alethea realized that Bayard’s actions indeed would appear to be a besotted swain. No wonder the misses in Bath had seemed jealous—she, an aged spinster, capturing a wealthy nobleman? Of course they were gnashing their collective teeth over it.

  “Sally will appreciate the firsthand account of all the details, and the haste with which she will receive it ahead of anyone else,” Aunt Ebena said. “But I am also writing to request her influence in town for Clare’s come out and to refute any nasty stories put about by Lady Trittonstone.”

  “She will do this?” Alethea asked.

  “Oh, yes.” Aunt Ebena looked smug, but did not embellish her comment.

  “And your aunt has agreed to come stay with me and Sir Hermes at Morrish House after the new year,” Lady Morrish said. “Ebena, you must stay with us in London this spring as well.”

  Aunt Ebena’s cheeks glowed peach. “I shouldn’t wish to discommode you—”

  “We should love to have you.”

  “I think that would be lovely, Aunt,” Alethea said. “I shall keep Margaret with me, if you like.”

  Her aunt gave her a small nod. “Thank you.”

  Alethea left the morning room with a bounce to her step. This good deed of her aunt would alleviate Bayard’s concerns as they had lifted Lady Morrish’s anxiety. She couldn’t wait to tell him.

  She also reflected that now that she was Lady Dommick, she needn’t give up her dreams of Italy after all. Perhaps a family trip with Aunt Ebena and Margaret?

  First she needed to find him.

  As she was about to head down the more deserted corridor toward his study, she heard footsteps behind her. “My lady?” It was Forrow.

  “Yes?”

  “Mrs. Coon is here to see you. She said it is quite urgent.”

  “Where is she?”

  “In the drawing room.”

  Before heading there, Alethea asked him, “Where is Lord Dommick?”

  “He received a letter, and after reading it, set off for Chippenham, I believe, not more than half an hour ago.”

  “Did he indicate when he would return?”

  “He said he would return in time for tea.”

  Alethea entered the drawing room and was startled to see Mrs. Coon pacing in front of the fire. “Mrs. Coon, whatever is the matter?”

  “Lady Dommick, I do hope I am not alarming you unnecessarily,” Mrs. Coon said. “I have just seen your sister, Lucy, with a strange man in the woods.”

  “Mr. Collum, her betrothed?” But then she remembered Mrs. Coon had met Mr. Collum at Alethea’s wedding.

  “No. Lucy was without her cloak, my lady, and she looked frightened.”

  “Where was this? What did the man look like? When did you see them?”

  “As soon as I saw them, I came here directly. The man was very slender, with grey clothes. He had grey hair and he walked . . . loosely.”

  Alethea�
��s heart stopped. Pain radiated from her chest, across her shoulders, down her arms.

  “I saw them in the woods, but I know of an old gamekeeper’s hut nearby. If you have a map of the estate, I can show you where it is.”

  “I’m sure there is a map in Lord Dommick’s study.”

  Her limbs felt leaden but she forced them to move. As they headed toward the study, she repeated to herself as though afraid to forget, Find Ravenhurst, Ian, or Ord. Find Ravenhurst, Ian, or Ord. They would know how to find Bayard.

  She scanned the orderly top of the desk, then began opening drawers. A bottom one held rolls of paper and she removed them, dropping them all onto the desk. She and Mrs. Coon fell to unrolling each one until Mrs. Coon said, “This one.”

  They spread it out upon the desk, anchoring the edges with paperweights and the ink stand. Mrs. Coon pointed to a place in the forest. “When I saw them, they were here. They were heading in the direction of the hut, which is here.” She pointed to another place nearby.

  Alethea nodded, her neck stiff. “I will tell Bayard. Thank you.”

  “I shall be praying, my dear. I am afraid I must return—I left the girls home alone in order to come to tell you.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Mrs. Coon departed, leaving the door open. Alethea heard her footsteps retreating down the corridor.

  She studied the map, then grasped a pen and opened the ink stand. Footsteps approached the study. She hoped it was one of Bayard’s friends. She drew an X where the hut was.

  A voice like rancid butter spoke from the doorway. “Might I have a word, milady?”

  She looked up.

  Mr. Golding stood just inside the doorway.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  At first, her mind could not grasp that he was here in her house. It was so bizarre that she could only blink at him. Mr. Golding stepped into the study and shut the door. “And before you think of calling for the servants, your sister will die if I do not deliver you within fifteen minutes.”

  She gasped, trying to pull air into her lungs. She gripped the edge of the desk.