“. . . there will be hell to pay if we repeal the Combination Act,” Lord Calne intoned as he and Vergil and Mr. St. John walked toward their little group. “If the lower classes are permitted to mass, order is threatened. Can’t have it. Too dangerous. It could end up like France in ’93. You’ll be regretting it, Laclere.”
Little fires appeared in Daniel St. John’s eyes. He looked at Lord Calne as if the man was an ass. “It sounds as if you know little of what happened in France. If you did, you would know that the people cannot be kept under a boot forever.”
Lord Calne’s face turned red.
Vergil spoke appeasingly. “England cannot create policy based upon the excesses of the French people a generation ago, Calne.”
“Oh, spare us all. Politics,” Cornell Witherby moaned softly to the ladies. “It is good for nothing but satire.”
A special warmth sparkled in his eyes as he turned his good humor on Pen when she giggled. It looked as if Dante had been correct about the special friendship.
Feeling in a critical frame of mind where men were concerned, Bianca gave him a thorough scrutiny. He cut a good figure and was of average height, but his posture possessed a very unpoetic strictness, as if a rod of steel had been welded to his backbone. Blond hair fell around his forehead and cheeks. His face was a bit too long, but he was a nice-looking man of about twenty-five years of age.
That he wooed a woman who was officially married counted for nothing in her deliberations of whether he was good enough for Pen. More significant by far was his thoroughly engaged expression right now as he looked at Penelope.
She had never seen Vergil Duclairc look at any woman like that, not even Fleur. When the Viscount Laclere examined a woman, she got the impression that he was assessing her shortcomings.
Unless, of course, he was listening to her music.
Or deciding to kiss her.
Or pulling off her dress.
Or . . .
“Well, at least these political deliberations keep your printer busy,” Mrs. Gaston said.
Witherby sighed. “It was only to support the literary arts that I took on the hobby of that press. I would rather tell the men to refuse every commission that was not poetic. However, the tracts subsidize the important work very nicely. As does the patronage of great ladies like yourself.”
Mrs. Gaston appeared pleased with the flattery, and with her success in diverting his attention back to her.
“The repeal is a moral necessity. It is unconscionable to prohibit free men free assembly,” St. John was saying to the men standing nearby.
“If they are so dissatisfied, let them leave,” Mrs. Gaston said, joining the conversation. “Free passage to New South Wales for malcontents. I do not understand why no one proposes such a bill. It makes perfect sense to me.”
“Give all men the vote so they can affect their futures, and there will be less discontent,” St. John said.
“Should the rabble of Manchester be making laws?” Lord Calne asked. “The Commons is disrupted enough, what with radicals and Irishmen.”
Pen gave St. John a beseeching, quelling smile. The shipper bit back whatever disruptive retort he contemplated.
“The people of Manchester are not rabble,” Vergil said. “They are helping England become the wealthiest nation in the world. Industrial cities like Manchester cannot remain disenfranchised because of borough rights drawn up centuries ago. Reform of Parliament is inevitable.”
Pen rolled her eyes at her brother, reproving him for encouraging this argument.
Lord Calne looked like he would suffer apoplexy. “I’ll be damned first. Support that, Laclere, and you betray your blood. Those northern cities are terrible places. Filthy with mills and machines and base men made rich by stinking trade. Worse than London, I hear. No, give me clean country air and a good hunt. We will never let them take that from us.”
Pen saw her chance. “And how is the game at your estate this year? Can everyone expect the usual magnificent shoots?”
“Looks good, looks good. A continuous battle with the poachers, though. Had to bring five men up at the Quarter sessions. . . .”
The shift in topic gave Bianca an opportunity for escape from Vergil’s close proximity. She excused herself.
The less politically minded men had fanned out in the room. Nigel spoke with Catalani and Mrs. Monley near a window. Her cousin favored her with a warm, inviting smile as she passed.
She joined Diane St. John, Charlotte, and Dante instead.
They were discussing the St. Johns’ two children. Dante displayed more interest in the little boys’ antics than Bianca would have expected, but he moved to sit beside her and allowed the ladies to carry the conversation soon after she arrived.
“You have been very quiet today,” he said softly. “I hope that you are not distraught by my bad behavior.”
She had all but forgotten that kiss in the library. “I am overwhelmed by so many new faces. I have little to talk to them about.”
“Well, here comes St. John. He is in shipping, as your grandfather was, so you have a bit in common with him.”
Daniel St. John had removed himself from Lord Calne’s company and now approached theirs.
“St. John, you knew Adam Kenwood, didn’t you?” Dante asked, to make things easy for her.
“I first met him when I was very young. In fact, my first voyage as a boy was on one of his ships. That was long before he moved into finance, of course.”
“When did that happen?” Bianca felt obliged to continue the conversation since Dante had started it for her sake.
“Years ago. He sold out his ships, what, ten years back or so.”
“Did you sail with him long?”
“No, only that once. I jumped ship in the West Indies and found a berth with another master.”
“My grandfather’s rule did not appeal to you, I gather.”
“Your grandfather was not the master himself. He only owned the ships and arranged for their cargo. I merely decided to sail elsewhere.”
He was lying. Bianca just knew that from the overly polite way he spoke.
“Odd that he sold out the whole lot all at once,” Dante said. “To own a fleet of ships one day, and then none the next.”
“Since I bought two of them, I was glad that he did,” St. John said.
“What did his ships carry?” Bianca asked.
“All sorts of things, I imagine, as mine do.”
She got the sense that Mr. St. John was humoring them, and not being very forthright. Dante was right, it was odd that her grandfather had sold out all those ships at once, no matter what this other shipper said.
She did not have time to press him for a clearer explanation, because Penelope walked to the center of the room and called for attention. “We are fortunate to have several accomplished musicians among us tonight, and I have imposed upon two of them, Sir Nigel Kenwood and Miss Bianca Kenwood, to perform. Let us regather in the music room and give them our grateful attention.”
She led the way out. Dante moved to escort Bianca, but Mr. St. John claimed her attention first. “It appears that Catalani knows when to give way to youth.”
“It is kind of you to say that, but I doubt she fears competition from me.”
“She has given up performing for a reason. She knows that the instrument is not what it was.” He tucked her hand into his arm while they strolled down the corridor. “Nervous?”
“Horribly. I was looking forward to this, and now . . .”
“Then that explains your distraction today. My wife commented on it to me. She is very observant in her quiet way, and worried that you were distressed about something. She will be relieved to learn that it was your fear of blundering tonight’s performance. I told her that was so, and perfectly normal.”
No it wasn’t. Not for her. But this was different. She had dreaded this moment all day. To sing that aria again, in front of all of these people, with him sitting there . . . Her insides
twisted tighter with each step.
Nigel took his place at the pianoforte. The guests sat in chairs arrayed in front of her. Vergil chose to stand near the wall, next to Fleur’s place.
She looked at him, hoping for a smile of reassurance. He didn’t notice, as he bent to say something to his intended. Her heart filled. He looked so appealing in his dark green frock coat and cream trousers, with waves of hair framing his face and his blue eyes lighting with humor while he smiled at his lady.
She realized with a start that Nigel had begun the introduction. She scrambled to prepare herself.
From across the room, Vergil looked at her.
She blundered it. That first note simply wouldn’t come. She turned to Nigel with a desperate, wordless plea.
He improvised until he brought the melody around to the beginning again. She focused on the floor and pulled herself together. When she looked up again she saw a green frock coat slipping out the door.
Thank you.
She hit every note perfectly, but her soul wasn’t concerned with precision. Vergil might not be present in the room, but he was in her head, confusing her with that startling look, spiritually intruding with improper memories. This aria wasn’t like the last one at the ruins, with its thrilling exaltation. A different emotion dripped through it this time. A strange hollow existed inside her and the music deepened it and then filled it with penetrating, regretful yearning. By the time she finished she did not know if the performance had been successful or not.
“Magnificent, cousin,” Nigel whispered into the silence that followed.
The effort left her in a melancholy fog. She glanced to Catalani’s pensive expression even as she accepted the praise of the other guests.
Catalani walked over, took her hands, and pulled her aside. “I have grown jaded, and confess that I expected a pretty voice, suitable for drawing rooms and churches. I was mistaken. You possess great talent, my dear. You are not ordinary.”
On any other day Catalani’s judgment would have produced euphoria. Tonight it only added one more big knot in the tangle of emotions that confused her.
Pen led the way into the library for cards, but Bianca begged off, saying that she wanted to retire. She followed the retinue down the corridor, but turned away at the stairs.
Nigel held back from the others. “I had hoped that we would find ourselves at the same table, cousin.”
“I would have been a poor partner tonight. The excitement of singing with Catalani present . . .”
“Of course. I understand. Still, I would be grateful for some time with you. We have much in common, cousin. I would like to know you better.”
All the “cousins” in the world, all the formal, proper address and tones, did not obscure what he meant. His interest glowed in his expression. She suspected that if they were alone right now in the garden, Nigel would try to kiss her.
Three men in two days. She had no idea that becoming a loose woman was this easy.
Her experience this morning was making her cynical. Maybe Nigel’s interest was an honorable one.
“Will you be joining the others on the ride in the morning?” he asked.
Pen had arranged for everyone to tour the estate, ending with a luncheon at the ruins. Going back there so soon would be horrible. “I do not think so. I am not feeling well, and will stay here and rest.”
The study door opened down the corridor. The tall figure of the Viscount Laclere emerged, heading to the library. He saw them and paused, standing sentry. Nigel glanced to him and gave her a private smile.
“I should like to speak with you sometime when your guardian does not glare over my shoulder. We are both alone in the world, and relatives can be a source of solace for each other. If you ever need my aid, I hope that you will call on me.”
“It is very kind of you to offer. Now, you should join the others and I must seek my privacy.”
Vergil did not move, even when Nigel passed with a greeting and entered the library. He just stood there, looking at her. She wanted to flip her head and turn away with haughty indifference. Instead she couldn’t move.
“You retire?” he asked.
“Yes. The evening has been a trial.”
“I think the evening was a triumph. I listened. You outdid yourself. As for the day, I expect it has been a trial, and I apologize for it.”
She did not want to hear any more of his apologies.
“Your grandfather’s personal papers arrived this morning,” he said. “Most of the boxes are in my study so they will not crowd you, but I had the ones from the years when your father lived with him brought up to your chamber, along with the contents of his desk.”
“Thank you.” She forced herself to move and turned to the stairs.
“There is something else. I must insist that you do not go about on your own in the early morning in the future.”
“Do you worry for my virtue?” It came out before she could stop herself.
He didn’t even have the decency to look embarrassed. “I worry for your safety.”
“I will go where I wish, and practice when I can.”
“Not in the morning, and not alone. If you want to practice in private and you worry that you will disturb others in your chamber, use my study. But do not leave the house.”
“You keep shortening the leash, Laclere. Why not just tie me to my bedpost?”
His blue eyes regarded her in a way far removed from the day’s bland acknowledgments.
“You have a talent for provoking the most astonishing images, Miss Kenwood.” He turned away. “Until tomorrow, then.”
Jane was waiting in her chamber. It felt good to be alone with someone who had known her for years.
“The guests have certainly livened this old place up, haven’t they?” Jane said. “All those handsome men in their fine clothes.”
Jane had viewed this journey from the start as a good opportunity to find Bianca a husband. She had never recognized that the lack of suitors in Baltimore was intentional, and the result of careful discouragements.
“That Mr. Witherby looked promising. A gentleman, it is said, and nice-looking enough.”
“I suspect that he has an interest in Penelope.”
Jane frowned. “A married woman? Separated or not, that is what she is. Well, the viscount is out, what with being all but engaged to Miss Monley. Just as well. Who would want such a strict, stern man? There is always Charlotte’s youngest brother, although it is said—”
“I know what is said.”
Jane helped her into a dressing gown. “All these unmarried men, and not even a flirtation? Who would expect England to be so dull.”
Anything but dull anymore, and a flirtation didn’t begin to describe just how undull it had become. “My cousin Nigel has made his interest known.”
“I’ve never liked the idea of relatives. Not good for the blood.”
“He is some ways removed.”
“True. Only it is said downstairs that he is much like Dante. Lives in debt. Can’t afford all those fine things. Your grandfather left you most of the money. It’s said your cousin only got enough money to maintain the estate, tied up proper so he can’t get it, only the income every year.”
“Where do you learn these things?”
“Servants here know the few servants remaining there. Tenants talk among themselves. It is just like one of our neighborhoods. It all comes in through the kitchen door,” Jane said. “If he has expressed that kind of interest, you should know that he may be like Dante in other ways too. Seems your cousin is not always alone in that big house. A woman secretly visited last week. Take my advice. That is one man whose interest I don’t think we want.”
Bianca didn’t want any man’s interest. Absolutely not. Nothing but distractions, that was what men were. Potentially permanent distractions, the way the world worked. And, as she was learning the hard way, sources of confusion and hurt.
She yearned for sleep, but knew it would only come wi
th total exhaustion. After Jane left, she moved the candles over to the crates and trunk stacked near the hearth, and sat on the floor to see what they might reveal.
A key poked out of the trunk’s lock. Turning it, she lifted the top and examined the contents of Adam’s desk at Woodleigh.
She fingered the quills and cheap inkwell. She poked amidst scraps of paper that bore cryptic notes. One had the name of Vergil’s brother along with some others, and she guessed it had been among the last that her grandfather made.
A stack of letters, tied together with twine, caught her interest. She was about to open them when she noticed the salutation on the top one. Written in a man’s hand, it addressed Adam as “My dearest friend.”
They could not be from her father, with a salutation like that. Probably they were from the previous viscount. She would give them to Vergil.
In a little leather case she found a miniature of a blonde woman. She guessed that it was her grandmother. She saw a resemblance to her father, which called up memories of his love and noble honesty. Her throat burned as an old sorrow joined the new ones.
A dried flower dropped from the depression onto her lap as she lifted the tiny painting from its velvet nest.
The flower did not look very old. It did not crumble when touched, as it would if it had been in this case for years.
She pictured an old man picking a flower as he walked in the garden and later opening this case to the memories of his wife. She imagined Adam leaving this tiny offering to her.
She snapped the case closed. She did not want to become sentimental about him. Probably the flower had been there forever, and put there by her grandmother herself.
The other trunk held portfolios. Adam had been an organized man, and each year’s correspondence had its own, with the year written on its front. She searched for the ones from the years before she was born, when her father had left England.
It took her some time to find the right year. She had not realized that her father had gone to America a full six years before she was born.
It was a thin portfolio with very few letters. Three were from her father. She read them, and learned the reason why Adam Kenwood and his son had become estranged.
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