“Of course not,” Dylan murmured at that sly line, thinking that nuns must be starting to cultivate a sense of humor, a twisted one at that.
He continued to read. Miss Moreau had also assured the Reverend Mother that Moore was a wealthy man who would take full responsibility for his child’s upbringing and care. She had also provided enough money for passage to England so that Sister Agnes could deliver Isabel directly into his hands. That was all. There was no offered proof or connection to him whatsoever.
Dylan folded the letter and shoved it into his pocket, then turned away from Osgoode and began to pace, repeating the woman’s name in his mind.
Vivienne Moreau. The name sparked no sense of recognition. He tried to think back nine years. Two years after Cambridge, and he’d been on the Continent, touring the European capitals to perform his piano pieces and conduct his symphonies. He’d been twenty-three then, cocky with the phenomenal success of his third symphony, randy as hell, and swimming in women. These days, he always provided himself with a supply of French letters, but back then, he had been too young and careless to bother with the protection such sheaths afforded. He could have fathered a child and never known about it. He had probably fathered several.
On the other hand, he might never have known this Vivienne at all. If he had, why would the woman wait so long to claim his paternity for her daughter? It could all be the fabrication of a woman desperate to ensure her child’s future. He was famous throughout Britain and Europe. Knowing his wealth and his success—and his reputation, he was forced to admit—any woman could decide to claim him as the father of her child and demand his support.
The Reverend Mother had made no reference to a place, date, or meeting. Nor had she mentioned any objects or letters that would establish a connection. In fact, with the exception of her coloring, there was nothing to prove this child was his. Without proof and with no memory of the woman, he had no intention of taking on this obligation. He would arrange for the adoption of the girl to some family in the country, but that was all.
His decision made, Dylan started out of the drawing room. The moment Osgoode opened the door for him, Dylan discovered that the child was no longer peering around the door across the foyer. Instead, both doors to the music room were wide open, and she was seated at his immense piano, playing an unusual piece he had never heard before. The music flowed from the instrument beneath her fingers with an ease and ability far beyond her years.
Dylan walked to the music room and paused in the doorway, listening until she had played the final note. When she turned and looked at him as if waiting for his judgement on her ability, he gave it. “You play exceedingly well for a little girl.”
“I play exceedingly well for an adult,” Isabel answered, not one for false modesty. He almost wanted to smile. Impudent, this child.
“You speak excellent English,” he told her.
“You are English. Mama thought I should learn to speak it well, since you are my father.”
She fell silent, and the pause was awkward. She spoke of his paternity with absolute conviction. Unlike her, he was not so certain. Could a man ever be certain?
He glanced at the woolen bundle she had opened on the carpet and its contents—a pile of sheet music. “I do not recognize that piece you just played,” he said, “but it is unique and quite beautiful. Who composed it?”
The child looked up at him, her big, black eyes unblinking. “I did.”
For the wealthy and privileged, making a morning call meant arriving after three o’clock in the afternoon. Dylan, however, had never been a man thwarted in his objectives by something as trivial as convention, and there was a call he needed to make as soon as possible.
Leaving the pint-sized version of his own musical gifts to Osgoode because he didn’t know what else to do with her, Dylan bathed, shaved, changed into fresh linen and a morning suit of clothes—black, as his perverse fashion sense always dictated—and departed the house, leaving instructions with the butler to put the child in the suite of rooms on the third floor that had once been a nursery, and to have the cook get her something to eat.
Just past eleven, he arrived at Enderby, the estate of Lord and Lady Hammond just outside London. The viscountess was at home, he was told, though she might not be receiving just now. This last bit of information was imparted with a tactful, but pointed, glance at the grandfather clock in the foyer and a gesture toward the calling card tray, but Dylan had no intention of simply leaving his card. He said he would wait to see if she would receive him.
The servant knew the composer was a friend of Lady Hammond and her brother, the Duke of Tremore, and that they considered Dylan to be almost a member of their family. He accepted Dylan’s cloak, hat, and gloves, which he handed off to a maid before leading the other man up an immense staircase and into the drawing room.
The drawing room at Enderby was a wholly feminine affair. Its upholstery and draperies in delicate pastels of pink and celadon, its intricate white plasterwork and floral trompe l’oeil, proclaimed more loudly than any words printed in the scandal sheets that Lord Hammond was seldom in residence here, or anywhere else his wife happened to be. Viola’s estrangement from her husband was in its eighth year now, and no one even discussed it anymore. Her brother had often commented that if he had his way, Hammond’s head would be on a spike on London Bridge. Dylan had never admitted either to Anthony or Viola that he was well acquainted with the renegade viscount. Birds of a feather, and all that. They’d shared tables and consumed a great deal of brandy at many gaming hells over the past few years. Viola was a topic they had never discussed.
Dylan flung himself into a striped brocade chair and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. The whine was loud this morning, so loud that it was like a white-hot pain through his skull. Headaches were a malady to which he had long ago become accustomed. He lowered his hand and reached into the inner pocket of his jacket for the small, blue vial that he always kept with him. Pulling out the cork, he took a swallow of laudanum, then recorked the bottle and put it back in his pocket. That would help until he could get some sleep.
One day, even the opiate would no longer work, nor would the women, the brandy, the hashish, or the gaming hells. A day would come when all the reckless things he did just for the hell of it would no longer divert his attention from the unwavering noise. That was when he would go insane.
Unless the music could save him. He had not written a single new piece in five long years. To keep down the gossip, he published an old composition every once in awhile, but that was all.
If he could only compose, his life would once again have purpose. That woman, Grace, held the key, though he did not know why. He had never believed in muses before. He had never needed one before. All Dylan knew was that he had to find her. More than that, he had to keep her with him until he could write the composition she had inspired. Always ambitious, he hoped for a symphony, although a sonata or concerto was a more likely possibility. At this point, anything he could manage to write would be a miracle.
Thoughts of music brought to mind the piece played by the child, Isabel. Quick and tricky, it would have been quite difficult for most people to play. If indeed the girl had composed it, then perhaps his blood did flow in her veins.
With that thought, Dylan raked back his hair with a sigh. There was no perhaps about it. He might not remember the mother, but the child was his. Though everything in him wanted to deny it, he knew the truth. He had known it from the moment he had heard her play, from the moment he had looked into her proud, imperious black eyes as she had claimed the piece her own. He felt a wave of pity for her. With him for a father, God help her. He was no sort of man for such a role. He could barely take care of himself.
He’d send her to relatives in the country until she was old enough for school. She certainly could not live with him.
“Dylan!”
The exclamation of greeting had him rising to his feet as Lady Hammond e
ntered the room. Viola was as feminine as her surroundings, with her small, shapely figure, creamy complexion, honey-colored hair, and delicate features. Looking as lovely as sunrise in an apricot-colored morning gown, she held out her hands to greet him as he crossed the room to her.
“It is barely eleven o’clock,” she said with a smile, followed at once by a pretty yawn. “Only from you, darling, would I accept a call at this ungodly hour.”
She accepted the kisses he pressed to each of her cheeks with all the ease of their long acquaintance, then seated herself on the white chintz settee opposite the striped chair in which Dylan had been sitting when she’d entered the room. “What brings you here?” she asked.
“My apologies for the timing of my call,” he answered, resuming his seat, “but I assure you that this is a matter of vital importance. You were one of the lady patronesses for that charity ball last evening, I believe.”
“The one for London hospitals? I did not feel very well and was unable to be there, but yes, I was one of the patronesses. Did you attend?”
The question held a hint of surprise, for charity balls were not really in keeping with Dylan’s idea of amusement. Though he did not often go to such events, he knew Viola always put him on the invitation lists because his famous name impelled any music lover or scandal-sheet reader to attend in the faint hope of meeting him, and thereby raised more money for whatever charity was involved.
“I did,” he confirmed. “A whim, I suppose. If I do not occasionally appear at one of these things, rumors start to circulate that I’ve finally come a cropper. I came to see you because I want to know who that violinist was last evening.”
“Violinist?” She laughed. “Only you, Dylan, would call at this hour to inquire about the musicians at a ball and call that important.”
“I am interested in one musician in particular. She was one of four violins, costumed as a highwayman with a mask across her eyes.”
“A woman?”
“Her name is Grace. How can I find her?”
“Heavens, I don’t know,” Viola cried in lively amusement. “What is this all about? A female violinist costumed as a highwayman. How intriguing! Did she play so beautifully that you want her for your next concert, or do you simply want her?”
An appealing idea, but he pushed it aside for the moment. “Neither,” he lied and met Viola’s laughing hazel eyes with a serious gaze of his own. “My dear friend, this is more important to me than you could possibly imagine.”
Viola knew nothing of his affliction, but something of the desperation he felt must have shown in his countenance, for her amusement faded. “I could ask Miss Tate. She would know, I daresay.”
Rising to her feet, the viscountess walked to the bellpull against the wall and gave the rope a tug. Within moments, a footman came running. “Stephens, please have Tate found at once, and send her to me.”
It was about five minutes later that Viola’s personal secretary entered the room.
The viscountess asked her to find out about the musicians from the ball the night before, and the secretary departed, returning moments later with a sheet of paper in her hand. “The octet was hired from the Musicians’ Company of the City Livery, my lady,” she said, handing the paper to Viola. “These are the names.”
Viola dismissed Miss Tate and scanned the list. “Are you certain you went to my charity ball? All the musicians there last evening were men. The four violinists were Cecil Howard, Edward Finnes, William Fraser, and James Broderick.”
“Viola, I met her. I spoke to her.” Kissed her, he added to himself, for the memory of his muse was still vivid in his mind, the soft warmth of her skin, the feel of her body in his arms, the passion that had revealed itself the moment he had touched her. “She was dressed as a man, but she was very much a woman, believe me. I must find her.”
Dylan looked at Viola, noticing the hint of concern in her expression at the vehemence of his last words. Given his deepening moodiness and increasingly volatile behavior during the past five years, he knew Viola had a tendency to worry about him far more than was necessary. “I am quite well,” he told her. “I can assure you I have no need to conjure women in my imagination.”
“Of course not!” Viola came to stand beside his chair and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. “But I cannot help being concerned about you, about your—” She paused, trying to define what she meant.
“Eccentricities,” he supplied, “might be a tactful way of putting it.”
Her hand squeezed his shoulder. “Anthony and Daphne are worried about you as well. And Ian—”
“Ian?” Dylan laughed at the mention of his older brother as he rose to his feet. “Ian is far too busy gadding about the Continent to worry about me. He’s at some congress in Venice at the moment, a diplomatic crisis of gargantuan proportions. Good thing he was the good boy and became an ambassador. The family doesn’t need two black sheep.”
He took the list of names from Viola’s hand and put it in his pocket, then he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. “Thank you, Viscountess. I owe you a debt of gratitude.”
“But I have done so little.”
“On the contrary.” He let go of her hand and bowed, then started for the door. Though he could never explain it to her, Viola had just done more for him than she would ever know.
Chapter 3
The rain was pouring down as Grace lugged her orange basket across the new London Bridge. She spent her days selling oranges on the corner of Ludgate Hill and the Old Bailey for a penny apiece, and on cold, wet days like this, it was a hard job indeed. She was glad to be headed home.
The basket was nearly full, and that meant she still didn’t have enough money this week to pay Mrs. Abbott. Because of last night’s ball, she had been able to give her landlady half the three weeks’ back rent she owed, and she had promised to pay the remainder on Friday, along with the full rent for next week. An empty promise at the moment, since she had no more than sixpence in her pocket.
Sixpence would cut no ice with Mrs. Abbott. The landlady had only let her remain this long because, during the previous six months, she had paid every penny owed every week. She was also quiet, didn’t entertain gentlemen in her room, and didn’t complain. Mrs. Abbott’s beneficence would not last beyond Friday, only two days away.
Grace had felt fear seeping into her mind all day, fear that had grown with each person who had passed her by today, for on a day like this people were more concerned with getting out of the wet than buying her oranges. Grace’s dark mood was not helped by her lack of sleep the night before, since the ball had prevented her from getting more than two hours of that precious commodity.
As Grace turned onto St. Thomas Street toward her lodgings in Crucifix Lane, she wrapped her cloak more tightly around herself against the rain. Her room wasn’t a very good one, for it was only a tiny garret on the edge of a rookery slum, but at least it was clean, respectable, and had good, strong locks. Most important, it was hers, at least for two more precious days.
She shuddered to think what would happen to her if she could not pay what she owed. Mrs. Abbott would turn her out, and she’d have no choice but to move to one of those horrid boardinghouses again, where women were crowded together like sardines in tins. She could pawn her violin, the only thing of value she had left, but that would not save her in the long run, since music was her most profitable form of income when she could get the work. That wasn’t often, since she was not a member of the Musician’s Livery.
She had none of the money her brother had given her when she had gone home last autumn. Her mother and father were dead, and James had been the only surviving member of her family who had even agreed to see her. The visit had not been a success. He had told her to leave Stillmouth and never return. She suspected he had given her the money only to get quit of her as quickly as possible.
Grace tightened her grip on her basket and quickened her steps against the wet weather and the deepening darkness. She did
not want to sell her violin or move back into a sardine tin. The idea of prostitution made her sick with fear. Her only other option was to write to James and beg.
Or she could pose.
Grace had never had any modest illusions about her looks, nor any conceit. She was beautiful, and she accepted it, just as she accepted other irrefutable facts of life. Her beauty was what had first caused the great Cheval to fall in love with her, beauty that had impelled Etienne’s friends and pupils to constantly ask if they could paint her. There must be artists in England who would be willing to do the same. She would have to pose nude, of course, since she required more than the usual payment of a free meal and indecent suggestions. To pay Mrs. Abbott, she needed cold, hard sterling.
She had never posed without her clothes for anyone but Etienne, and the idea of doing so made her uneasy, especially since she would have to deal with forceful male expectations that had nothing to do with art, but it was a far better choice than prostitution.
Her stomach rumbled with hunger. A few bits of tongue and ham from the ball last night and an orange from her basket this morning hadn’t been enough to sustain her through an entire working day. She pressed her free hand to her midsection. As she traced the hard, unmistakable lines of her ribs beneath her wool cloak and gown, Grace realized that not many artists would want to paint nudes of her now. They liked their models with lush, generous curves, and she was so thin.
Grace resumed walking. Tomorrow, she would write to James, but it would take longer than two days for her to receive the money, even if he sent it. In the meantime, she would try to earn money posing. If that did not work, she would have to pawn her violin. If James refused to send her money, prostitution would be the only choice she had left.
Guilty Series Page 31