Kendal: Regency Rockstars

by Sasha Cottman

  “Well, in my opinion there are only two things you need to create new melodies. One is a commitment to hard work; which I think you obviously have.”

  “And the other?” he replied.

  “A willingness to sit at the piano and bleed.”

  He was stunned. He had spent the better part of the last year praying for his muse to return, for inspiration to strike and bestow new music on him, when she thought he should have been taking command and getting on with it.

  How many of his so-called failures had ended up on the floor because he had become frustrated and decided not to continue with them? If it had been Mercy, she would have kept going and not given up.

  “So basically, what you are saying is that I am a fraud? If the music doesn’t flow easily for me, I am not prepared to knuckle down and work. I expect you also disapprove of me taking to my work with a pair of scissors, which is what I shall do once that pile of discarded papers gets big enough?” he said.

  Her eyes grew wide. “All I was trying to do was to make a point—that composition is hard, and anything worth creating takes time and effort. I would never seek to undermine your creative process. But yes, I disagree with your wanton destruction of perfectly good music. To my mind, that is obscene.”

  Kendal frowned. He wasn’t used to having people question the way he dealt with his own music, let alone rebuke him for it. “What you might consider to be good, I may view in a different light. For me, if the music doesn’t immediately shine, I discard it. I won’t fritter away my time on trying to make mediocre into magnificent.” He had no interest in making silk purses out of sows’ ears.

  Mercy shook her head and opened her bag of tools. She lifted the hammer and pointed it toward Kendal. “And you have the affront to say that Mozart wasted his talents.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Mercy had made some mistakes in her life. Spending time alone with Kendal was something she was beginning to secretly worry would transpire to be the biggest of them all. The kiss they had shared a few days earlier continued to remain at the forefront of her mind. She wanted him, but at what cost?

  Sex was not something that was an easy choice for a young woman. Especially an unmarried one. She was not some innocent miss from London society; she knew the real world. The world where men wanted to love her, where they wanted to claim her body. Anthony had been direct in sending her those signals when he’d offered for them to become lovers, when he had asked her to marry him.

  Those very same sexual indicators were now radiating loud and sharp from Kendal in response to her own. But with Kendal, the situation was different. Anthony ran an Italian grocery emporium; she and he were on the same level in the eyes of society. She and Kendal would never be equals.

  Dare she risk it? Risk losing her heart to a man who could never be hers? Embarking on an ultimately doomed love affair was foolhardy and reckless. Yet, every time she looked at him, her heart went all aflutter. Mercy craved his touch.

  These thoughts and worries were foremost in her mind as she walked into the ballroom at Follett House a few days after their first kiss. Kendal was nowhere in sight.

  “Lord Grant is finishing his breakfast upstairs and will be down shortly to oversee your work,” said Mister Green.

  “Thank you. I shall get started and then wait for him,” she replied.

  After the butler had left her alone, Mercy wandered over to the piano and took a seat. She tinkered with the keys, swinging her feet in time with the music as she played. When she finally finished playing, she resisted the temptation to attempt a second tune. She was here to do a job, not entertain herself.

  “I had better get to work,” she muttered.

  Opening her leather tool bag, she took out a tin of furniture wax and a clean cloth. With small circular motions, she rubbed the wax into the surface of the piano, humming softly to herself as she worked. Toward the far end of the piano, her foot scuffed on one of the piles of Kendal’s discarded sheets of manuscript paper, sending the papers toppling.

  “Oh bugger,” she murmured.

  Bending, she began to pick up the sheets of paper and set them back into an orderly bundle. When one sheet, which had several lines of music written on it, caught her eye, she turned and quickly glanced at the door.

  Just a peek. It can’t hurt. He has done a lot of work on this piece.

  She set the tin of wax and cloth down on the top of the piano while she studied the piece of music.

  “This is brilliant. How could you possibly say this was rubbish?”

  How he could stand to throw away this sort of wonderful composition was beyond her. Kendal didn’t need a muse; he was the music.

  It was wicked of her, of course it was, but in the face of Kendal’s determination to destroy his work, Mercy felt justified in her actions. She set aside two sheets of music, then, taking half the rest of the pile of manuscript papers, she folded them and stuffed them into her tool bag before quickly snapping it shut.

  Mercy placed the first sheet of music on top of the keyboard and resumed her seat at the piano. The second sheet she set beside her on the piano stool. With her fingers poised about the keys, she took a breath and began to play.

  The music was a simple melody at first and she mastered it easy enough, but then things got tricky. She found herself having to cross and uncross her hands in order to keep up with the tempo Kendal had set.

  A bead of sweat soon pricked under her hair, then slid down the back of her neck.

  “No!”

  The shout startled her, and she immediately ceased playing. A red faced Kendal raced across the floor.

  “You cannot play my failures. They must die.”

  With the manuscript sheet in hand, Mercy got to her feet and walked over to meet Kendal before he could reach the piano. She held the paper up. “This is a wonderful composition. It’s a bloody hard piece to play, but still . . . how can you think to destroy it?”

  He snatched the paper out of her hand, and she thought for a second that he might be about to start another of his rants, like he had about Mozart. After a moment or so he let out a heavy sigh and his face became calm once more. “I cannot stand for anything that I consider to be musically inferior to be shared with the world. I just can’t.”

  He had told her he was highly strung when it came to his music. One or two of the other Noble Lords, Reid Follett especially, had made less-than-kind remarks in her presence about Kendal’s manic behavior. But this was the first time she had witnessed it.

  “You are a stubborn male, Kendal,” she ground out.

  He was technically her employer and she should mind her tongue. The heart and soul of music, however, demanded that she stand up to him and declare that he had no right to hide such musical magnificence. It must be shared.

  “I don’t expect you to understand how it is for a creative genius like myself. How I struggle daily with my gift. If I put this . . .” he held the piece of paper up in his hand as if it were the carcass of a dead rat “. . . monstrosity out into the world, my very essence would be damned.”

  She would have laughed if he hadn’t been so earnest. His words were solemn and intense. She was in no doubt that Kendal truly believed that by letting anything out of his hands which was not shining and brilliant, he was somehow offering a grave insult to the musical gods.

  He marched over to the fireplace and tossed the paper into the flames. Mercy stood, mouth agape, as the piece of music she had just been playing was reduced to ashes and lost forever.

  There was something she hadn’t noticed about Kendal until now.

  He was a little unhinged.

  She was stuck in an awkward place. If she left him with the rest of the manuscripts, he would likely burn them. But if she took some of them home, and played the music he had created, then there was still a chance that she could convince him of their worthiness and get him to keep them—to encourage him to look at them in a new light and rework them into something he would be happy to pre
serve.

  If she did, it would mean having to lie to him about the sheets which were already hidden in her bag. Perhaps at another time when he was less agitated, she could let him know that she was keeping those other pages safe: safe from destruction, safe from him.

  Her main concern was to get out of Follett House as soon as possible. She hadn’t tinkered with the strings this morning, but the piano had sounded fine when she played. “I have to leave. I’ve done the work on the piano for the day. You can see that the top has been polished.” Mercy pointed to the tin of wax and the cloth which still sat on the piano and her heart sank.

  How am I going to get them back into the bag without him seeing the papers?

  She hurried over to the piano and retrieved the tin and the cloth; as she made her way toward Kendal, Mercy picked up the tool bag and tucked it under her arm. He had barely got her coins out of his pocket and handed them over before she hastened her footsteps and headed for the door.

  “Aren’t you going to stay and play?” he asked.

  His intent was clear, he was not just referring to the piano. She shook her head. “No time today. Perhaps tomorrow.”

  “Mercy. I am sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you; please, can’t we practice some music?”

  She made it out the door and down the steps of the servants’ entrance in quick time, stopping only to stuff the tin and cloth back into the bag once she was clear of the house.

  It would have been lovely to have spent time with Kendal and share a kiss or two, but she had a divine mission to undertake—to preserve the music manuscripts.

  To save Kendal’s music from himself.

  Chapter Twenty

  Kendal stood staring at the door of the ballroom, silently wishing that Mercy would have a change of mind and come back. After it become clear his wish was not going to be granted, he took the remaining sheet of music and went to place it on the pile with the others.

  The second that he bent and looked under the piano, he suspected something was wrong. The neat stack of manuscript papers was a lot shorter than it had been the last time he’d checked.

  “Where the bloody hell have my papers gone?” he muttered.

  He glanced at the sheet in his hand and then at the door. The very same door that Mercy had disappeared through a few minutes ago, carrying her tool bag. Why hadn’t she stopped and put the tin of wax back into the satchel?

  “Because it was filled with my fucking papers, that’s why,” he said through gritted teeth.

  Kendal threw the paper onto the top of the piano and raced for the door. Heading upstairs to get his coat and hat, he called for Mister Green. “Have a carriage brought around to the front. I need to go out.”

  Mister Green bowed. “Very good, Lord Grant, and where shall I instruct your driver that he is to take you?”

  “Mint Street. It’s somewhere in South London,”

  Once he found Mercy Wood, he was going to get his papers back. What he would do to her after that, he was still undecided. The only thing he was certain of at that moment was that girls who played with fire tended to get burned. And Mercy Wood was a woman dancing dangerously close to the flames.

  Mercy came to a sudden halt when she turned the corner into Mint Street. Outside her home was a sleek black town carriage. Conveyances of such rich elegance were rarely seen in this part of London.

  Of course, Anthony’s Italian Emporium had quite the reputation about town, so it may have just been a foreign visitor to London who had discovered a shop where they could purchase treats from home. If it was, no doubt Anthony would be pleased, and she and her father would hear all about it before the day was over.

  As she passed by the carriage, Mercy caught sight of the fancy crest on its door.

  Someone has money. I hope they spend plenty of it in the shop.

  She glanced at the crest a second time, then came to a sudden halt. Where had she seen that marking before?

  “On the front door of Follett House,” she whispered.

  She peeked inside the carriage; it was empty. She looked up and met the gaze of the driver; he pointed toward the doorway on the other side of the shop. It was the entrance to the staircase leading up to the apartments—to her home.

  Someone from Follett House was paying her a visit. The temptation to turn and walk away was strong. It would be easy enough for her to go and sit in the Tipsy Toad for a time and wait for whoever her visitor was to give up and leave. But that would only delay the inevitable. Tomorrow morning, she still had to make the trek over to Windmill Street.

  “Better get whatever this is over and done with,” she muttered.

  Papa is going to kill me if I get the sack from this job.

  She slowly climbed the stairs. At least her father was supposed to be out for the whole day, so she would be the only one at home.

  Two floors up, she stepped onto the landing for her apartment. Seated on the floor to one side of the door was Kendal. Mercy clutched the tool bag to her chest and took a deep breath.

  “You do know that the penalty for stealing is a nice long sea voyage to the penal colony in New South Wales.” Kendal got to his feet. He looked at the bag, then held out his hand. “Though there is the other option.”

  “And what’s that?” she replied, reluctantly handing him the satchel.

  Kendal flicked open the clasp and the bag fell open. He delved his hand in and pulled out the sheets of music. He gave a tsk of displeasure, then stuffed them back inside. “I could just wring your bloody neck.”

  She stepped past him and to the door, rummaging in her coat pocket for her key. “I wasn’t stealing them; I was taking them into safekeeping. You are outrageously arrogant if you think you have the right to destroy such wonderful music.” Opening the door, Mercy marched inside, not bothering to invite Kendal in. He followed her, anyway, closing the door behind him.

  Kendal set the bag down on the floor next to the kitchen table. Mercy stood with her hands limply by her sides, waiting for him to respond.

  His gaze settled on the neat row of coins on the table which Mercy had counted before leaving home this morning. When the line of coins eventually reached the edge, she would have enough for her new boots.

  “Is that my money?” he asked.

  Mercy fell upon the coins, scooping them up and dropping them into her pocket. “No, it’s my money! I earned it.”

  A sly grin appeared on his lips. “So, let me get this straight. I pay you every day to come and tinker with my piano. You also take my music manuscripts. How is that not my money?”

  Mercy gritted her teeth, trying not to get flustered. Why was he here? If it was to retrieve his papers, then he was welcome to take them—anything to get him to leave. Being alone with Kendal was dangerous. This was not the same as being in the ballroom at Follett House; there was no one else around.

  “I think you and I need to reset this arrangement, cast it in a different mold,” said Kendal.

  She glared at him. He had better not be thinking that because they were alone, he could somehow take liberties that she had not given him. If he did, Kendal Grant was about to discover some hard and sharp truths about how working-class girls protected themselves. She had learned early and well.

  “I think you should leave.” To add weight to her words, Mercy put her foot up on one of the kitchen chairs and slid her knife out from the inside of her boot. To her great satisfaction, Kendal’s eyes grew wide at the sight of the blade.

  Then he laughed, low and dirty. “Mercy. Mercy. If you did decide to take me on with that blade, I can assure you it would be out of your hands within seconds.”

  She stared him down, not willing to be fooled by his bravado. He could try to steal the knife, but she would draw blood if he did.

  When he laughed again, Mercy wanted nothing more than to punch him in the balls. Cocky, self-assured, bastard.

  “But enough with the foreplay. You and I have a connection, a chemistry that neither of us can deny. I am a firm b
eliever that such instinctual attraction should not be resisted. That being said, I am offering myself to you,” he said.

  Mercy blinked, stunned by his words. “Did you just offer . . . what?”

  He moved quickly to her side, slipping his hand around her waist. His hot breath heated the skin of her neck as he took the knife from her hand and dropped it onto the table. “Yes, I just offered myself to you. I am yours in whatever way you want.”

  Cheeky bastard, she should be angry with him—with his presumption of her sexual availability and experience. She might be working class, but a girl such as herself could be a virgin. She wasn’t, but it still irked her.

  Mercy placed a hand on Kendal’s chest and pushed him away. “I am not on the game. My family might be poor, but we are respectable.”

  An unexpected look of disappointment appeared on his face. She peered closer; had she just offended him? Was he seriously taken aback because a woman didn’t offer herself up to his advances?

  “I never said you were anything but a decent young woman. Let me repeat what I said. I. Am. Offering. Myself. To. You. Not the other way around. If you wish me to leave this instant, then I will. If you want to offer me a cup of tea and a dry biscuit, that would also be acceptable.”

  She stared at him. The other if remained unspoken. A light went on in her brain. Kendal was not going to say the obvious next sentence. He was leaving it all up to her. The choice as to what their relationship was or could be sat solely within her power.

  Kendal took a gentle hold of Mercy’s hand and raised it to his lips. A shiver of sexual thrill raced down her spine at his touch. The decision was hers to make, but from the way he kissed her fingers, it was clear he did not intend for it to be easy for her to say no.

  “What do you want from me, Kendal?” Her heart and mind were engaged in a furious battle with one another. Her sensible, controlled self was telling her to show him the door and lock it as soon as he was gone, while her heart whispered all sorts of fantastic dreams of a life with this man.