by Wilma Counts
As she neared the library she heard the piano in the nearby music room. So, Aunt Georgiana had not accompanied Madame Laurent after all. She started toward the door, but stood outside just listening a few moments. It was a beautiful piece, one totally unfamiliar to Retta, but at first it conjured up feelings of nostalgia and longing, then the strains changed to surging waves of pain or anger, then changed again to quieter tones—of acceptance perhaps. When there was a pause, she pushed the door open.
It was not Aunt Georgiana at the piano, but Jake Bolton! He had tossed his coat onto a nearby chair and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt to allow freer movement in his wrists.
She gasped. “Oh, my goodness! I—I thought Aunt Georgiana—”
He quickly stood. “I . . . uh . . . I did not think anyone would mind. I thought to—that is, I thought everyone was out. I do apologize.”
“Do not apologize for that music. It was simply beautiful. But where in the world did you learn to play like that? Since when do merchant ships have pianos aboard?” She was recovering from her surprise and now suspicion and confusion assailed her.
“Well, I . . . uh . . . that is—our vicar’s wife was the organist in our church. And they had a piano in the vicarage, you see.”
She looked at him skeptically. “A country vicar’s wife taught you? She must have been a very talented lady.”
“I . . . I guess maybe she were—uh—was.”
“But to play as you just did—surely that took years of practice.”
“The captain had a small harpsichord on the ship. When he found out I knew how to play it, he used to have me do it quite often. I played better than he did.” There was no sense of arrogance in this statement.
She raised an eyebrow. “So you are telling me you play the organ, the harpsichord, and the piano?”
“Well, I ain’t—that is—I am not very good on an organ.” He started toward the chair on which he had tossed his coat. “I’ll just be going now, milady.”
“Come,” she said imperiously. “Play some more of that for me.” She moved toward the piano. “What did you do with the music?”
He followed her, reluctantly, it seemed to her, and his next words almost seemed to be uttered against his will. “I . . . uh . . . I—I was just sort of making it up as I went along.”
“You—what?”
“I plays—play—mostly by ear. I hear it in my head, an’ it—it just sort of comes outta my fingers.”
“Can you actually read music?” she asked.
Again, he seemed reluctant as he answered. “Aye. Yes.”
“Let’s see,” she demanded. From several pieces of music lying on a small table near the piano, she grabbed a sheet at random and set it on the piano. “Come. Play this for me.”
She sat on the piano bench; he slowly sat down beside her and muttered something that sounded to her like “In for a penny, in for a pound.” He glanced at the piece she had chosen. “Mozart. Aye. I can do that.” He grinned at her and for the first time since she had entered the room, she felt that he relaxed.
Then he began to play and, as he had put it earlier, the music just seemed to flow from his fingers. She watched him intently, but it seemed to her that he scarcely glanced at the music sheet. Even as the music consumed her, she was conscious of the man next to her, of their thighs touching despite several layers of cloth between them. An aura of masculinity and sensitivity seemed to exude from him. She watched, fascinated, as his hands skimmed over the keys, his fingers caressing, coaxing the music from them. She sat mesmerized by the soft hair on his forearms, intrigued by a burn scar on the one nearest her. She was wholly caught up in the sensuality of the moment.
He finished and turned toward her, his gaze locked with hers. “How was that?” he asked softly.
“Beautiful,” she murmured just as he put an arm around her shoulders and settled his lips on hers. At first it was a gentle, exploring kind of kiss, but when he felt her respond, he deepened it and her response surged as well. He brought his other hand up to stroke her bare neck as his lips moved on hers; his tongue seeking permission to enter and she was on the verge of welcoming its intrusion.
They came to their senses simultaneously. She pulled away and they both stood, staring into each other’s eyes. She was sure he was as surprised—and moved—as she was.
“I’m sorry, milady.”
“Don’t be. Frankly, that was beautiful as well.” Without thinking, she had responded with the first words that popped into her mind. Embarrassed, she felt herself blushing. “What I meant was I—we—should not have done that.”
He turned away slightly as though allowing her to collect herself. “They do say ‘music is the food of love.’”
“Well,” she said tartly, “we need to avoid an excess of it then.” Without thinking, she had responded to his quotation, but now she turned abruptly and asked, “Who says— Where did you hear that said?”
He looked at the floor and mumbled, “I dunno—just a sayin’. Mebbe from a play I saw once. Travelin’ players do get up to Yorkshire sometimes.”
She gave him a long look to which he returned a bland expression. Then he said again, “I’m sorry, milady. I—I overstepped.”
“The fault was not yours alone, but we both know it must not happen again.” Her tone was brusque, but she softened it as she added, “You are a man of many surprises, Mr. Jake Bolton.” She stepped toward the door, then turned back. “Oh. And do feel free to play the piano whenever you wish.”
“Thank you.”
With that, she escaped to the confines of her own room, her search for that novel forgotten. Shaken to her very core, she relived that kiss again and again. She wondered if she had somehow willed it. She had thought about it, had she not? The urgency, the sheer need of her response, though, had astonished her. Lady Henrietta Georgiana Parker, sophisticated and experienced woman of that world of the London ton, had been kissed before. But never like this. Never with such sweetness and urgency combined. This one she could not soon dismiss as she had others. Yet she must.
* * * *
Jake cursed himself for that lapse in judgment. Those lapses. He had thought himself totally alone in the house, except for the servants, and none of them were about on the ground floor when he had entered the music room. He had appreciated the tones of that instrument at his “dancing lesson” the other day and had longed to give it a try himself. It had lived up to his expectations and then he had allowed the music to simply flow out of him—releasing some of his loneliness and frustrations with a mission that kept him from seeking out his family and friends even as it every day set the tantalizing Lady Henrietta in his path.
Then he had succumbed to temptation and kissed her. He had expected it to be the sort of flirtatious “first kiss” of many another relationship. But it had stirred him far deeper than he had thought it might when he had occasionally allowed himself to dream of tasting the lips of the delectable Lady Henrietta, though he had long since given up his ideas of a dalliance. And he had quoted that line from Shakespeare. Shakespeare! What dockworker ever went around quoting Shakespeare? She was right. This must not happen again, for it would not only make a mess of his spy mission, but it would also play havoc with the emotions of Major Lord Jacob Bodwyn!
As to his spy mission, only yesterday he had managed to inspect the contents of that second desk in the library, the one used by Henry Morrow. In the bottom drawers he had found any number of papers obviously left by the Earl of Blakemoor before his departure for the continent, for they were largely inventories relating to this or that property of the earldom. But in the top drawer, Jake found a copy of the paper he had seen in Lord Alfred’s desk. This puzzled him, for had he not heard his lordship tell the secretary to take those documents to the Duke of York, Commander-in-Chief of the Army? Jake lifted that sheet and studied the one beneath it. This one made no sense.
Nonsense or not, it seemed somewhat familiar. Then it hit him: it resembled that fragment Fenton had had from Richter. Finding some blank stationery in another drawer, Jake quickly made copies of both sheets. He returned the originals to the drawer from which he had lifted them and relocked the desk. He congratulated himself on achieving his goal with no interference from Lord Alfred or the secretary. Nevertheless, he hastily left the room.
He spent the rest of that evening and the next studying the three bits of information he now had in his possession. He felt he was onto something. But what?
* * * *
Retta thought she had come off rather easily from that little chat with her aunt. Then two days after she discovered Jake’s musical talent—and that incredible kiss which had since preoccupied her waking and sleeping moments—Uncle Alfred sent a footman after dinner to invite her and Gerald into the library. She met Gerald on the stairs and paused, her hand on the polished mahogany bannister.
“Have you any idea of what Uncle may want of us?” she asked.
“None whatsoever.”
“What if he knows about the bet?”
“Guess we just own up to it if he does. But I do not see how he could know.”
She was annoyed by her brother’s stoicism in the face of a possibility that could mean the devastating loss of her mare. She sailed into the library ahead of him as he held the door for her.
Their uncle sat in a comfortable wing backed chair, an open book on his knee, and a snifter of cognac on a table beside him. A lamp on the table created an island of light in the massive darkness.
“You wanted to see us?” she asked. “Both of us?”
“Yes. Both of you. Please sit there where I have a clear view of your faces.” He indicated a couch opposite his chair.
Retta and Gerald exchanged a glance, but said nothing as they did as they were told.
“Now I want a straight answer from you two. Who is this Mr. Bolton and why is he here?”
“But we told you—”
“Papa’s letter—”
Gerald and Retta spoke simultaneously.
“Enough.” Lord Alfred waved his hand dismissively. His voice was harsh. “Do not, I pray you, repeat that taradiddle you told me some weeks ago. I have little doubt the man is capable of protecting you, Retta, if it were necessary. But I do doubt such a necessity—beyond everyday sensible precautions, that is.”
“May I ask just why you doubt us, sir?” Gerald asked sounding ever so calm to Retta’s ears.
“I have had several communications from my brother in the last few weeks, and never once has he mentioned this grand threat against his daughter’s life. Moreover, Bow Street has never heard of this fellow. Now I want to know exactly why we are hosting a virtual stranger in Blakemoor House—however amiable he may be.”
Retta exchanged a glance with Gerald who sighed and nodded.
“It is all my fault,” Retta said.
“I probably could have stopped it, if I had been more adamant,” Gerald said.
“I want to know just what ‘it’ is!” their uncle demanded in an implacable tone.
So they told him.
Retta felt like a child caught in a particularly naughty scrape as she twisted her hands in her lap and let Gerald outline the basics of the situation, adding only a detail here and there to let her uncle know of her full complicity. Finally, she said, “You see, Uncle, it is all my fault. Mine and Rebecca’s. Please do not blame Gerald or Richard.”
“A bet? You invited a total stranger into this house over a bet? A man you just picked up on the docks? As part of a bet? That was not only patently foolish, but dangerous.”
“It is not quite as bad as you make it sound,” Gerald said. “I did instruct Jeffries to keep an eye on him and post a footman to report any untoward behavior immediately to me. We interviewed him rather thoroughly too.”
Uncle Alfred snorted. “You interviewed him. A dockworker.”
“Yes, sir. Twice. On the docks and then here.” Gerald held his uncle’s disapproving gaze. “Sir, you’ve spent time with the man—does he seem a dishonorable sort to you?”
“That is entirely beside the point,” the older man said. “Honor has nothing to do with class. This has to stop. You will dismiss the man tomorrow morning.”
“Oh, please, Uncle,” Retta begged. She cursed the tears she felt welling. “It is only for a few weeks more. Please. I think Mr. Bolton will be able to win the bet for me. Please do not make me give up Moonstar. Please.” She swallowed the sob that threatened as she faced the very real and immediate prospect of losing her mare. Moonstar was far more than a mere horse for her riding pleasure; she was a favorite pet. “I—I could not bear losing her.”
“That should have entered your head before now,” her uncle said in a flat voice.
“It—it did,” she admitted, “b—but not soon enough.”
“Rebecca and Melinda sort of ganged up on her,” Gerald put in to defend her.
Uncle Alfred glared at Gerald. “And you, my Lord Heaton, you—heir to an earldom—you allowed this foolishness to go forward?”
“It was not his fault. It was mine,” Retta insisted. “I made the bet. I knew it was a mistake almost immediately, but—”
Her uncle shook his head from side to side and gave her a sad but knowing look. “And you just could not back down, could you? Impulsiveness and intransigence. Those qualities may well bring disaster upon you one day, my girl—if, indeed, this does not do it.” He was quiet for several moments, then said, “A dockworker? And you think you can make a gentleman of him?”
Retta thought she heard a note of acquiescence in his voice. “Do you mean to allow me to go on? Please? Surely you have noticed the improvement in Mr. Bolton’s manners and his speech.”
He sighed. “I have rarely ever been able to deny you anything—as you well know. But I have to tell you, this does try my patience. I shall say nothing of this for now. However, your ‘project’ does not have my blessing, though to answer your question, yes, I have observed improvement in Mr. Bolton’s demeanor.” Again he was silent for a moment, then he gave her an oblique look. “Am I wrong in assuming that Georgiana is in on this?”
“No, sir. I mean, yes, sir, she does know,” Retta admitted. “But please do not blame her for not informing you. I . . . uh . . . we—” she looked at Gerald who nodded his encouragement to her. “We thought to have as few people know as possible.”
“Well, at least you had that much sense,” he said grudgingly. With that he dismissed them.
Outside the library door, Gerald said, “You’d damned well better win this idiotic bet! I do not want to endure another session like that.”
Chapter 10
In early December all activity in London assumed a sluggish pace and, in some instances came to a creeping, unwelcomed halt. The cause of this enforced lack of animation in the capital was a phenomenon Jake had almost forgot existed: a debilitating London fog. When lamps were lit in areas of the city that had them, the fog hung thick and yellow, shrouding everything in the ambience of nightmares. Nor was the effect only visual. Dampness, amounting to a soft drizzle at times, permeated everything, and the heavy cloud forced effusions from gas pipes for lighting, tanning yards, dyers, breweries, and soap makers to hover next to the earth. Soot from coal fires was not allowed to escape into the atmosphere.
The members of the Blakemoor household, like the rest of the city, found the fog enervating, not only limiting their activities, but also limiting their desire for such. And, like the rest of the city, some members of the household were hit by respiratory problems. Of these, the hardest hit was Lord Alfred.
On the first day of the onset of the fog, when everyone assumed—hoped—that this was just an ordinary, momentary event, Lady Henrietta had insisted a bit of dampness and a little fog was not to deter her from her ride. Lord Al
fred was just as determined to join her—despite his known aversion to the fog—and Jake was glad to accompany them. The temperature had dropped, but not alarmingly so. While they were still in the stable yard, Jake had noted that Lord Alfred seemed a bit pale, and mounting seemed more difficult for him than usual. That Jake had waited until his lordship was firmly seated on his horse before mounting himself, was not lost on the older man who commented ruefully.
“Rheumatism. Always attacks me in this kind of weather. Age brings a plethora of ills, my friend.”
Lady Henrietta brought her horse next to her uncle’s. “Are you sure you are up for this, Uncle? You are breathing all right, are you not?”
“I am fine. Let us proceed with the ride, and when we get to the park, you just scamper ahead as usual.”
But both Jake and her ladyship stayed by his side, even after arriving at the park, for it was apparent that Lord Alfred was not “fine.” He slowed the pace of his horse; his breathing grew steadily more labored, and he looked as though he might faint. Lady Henrietta exchanged a look of profound concern with Jake and proposed that they cut the ride short. At that moment, the old man swayed on his horse and would have fallen but for Jake’s instantly dismounting and catching him.
“I am all right, I tell you,” Lord Alfred said as he regained his footing on solid earth.
“No, sir, you are not. Allow me to loosen your neckcloth and see if that helps you get more air into your lungs.” Without waiting for permission, Jake did just that.
“If you will give me a hand up, young fellow, we can continue our ride.”
“No, Uncle Alfred, we will not continue,” Lady Henrietta said. “We are returning immediately and I shall send someone for the doctor.”
Jake aided the man in remounting, but Lord Alfred’s grip on the reins seemed unsteady, and he began to sway precariously, his breathing even more labored than before.
“You lead my horse, my lady,” Jake said, gathering up the reins he had dropped and handing them to her, “and ride ahead to send for the doctor. We may be dealing with something more than mere allergies. I shall ride with Lord Alfred.”