Passion's Song

by Carolyn Jewel

  “It’s customary to do so when one bathes, Mr. Boxham.” He began unbuttoning his waistcoat. “Help me off with my clothes, will you?”

  “My lord, I—”

  “Is there something the matter?” He put his hands on his hips and stared at her. “Something you feel you ought to tell me?”

  “This is all just a dreadful mistake!”

  “How so, Mr. Boxham?”

  “I thought I was going to write letters for you. I didn’t know you meant to undress! I came here to see Julia ... I mean, Lady Julia, and then Mrs. Peaslea…well she saw me and—”

  “Do you know,” he interrupted calmly, “I am positively convinced I’ve seen you somewhere before.”

  “Yes, perhaps you have, but as I was saying, I came here to speak with Lady Julia, and your housekeeper somehow thought…well…it is entirely impossible for me to help you…I’m afraid it’s simply been a mistake, and I do apologize for any inconvenience to you, my lord.”

  “Spare me your excuses, Miss St. James, I quite agree with you.” He strode across the room to snatch his coat from the hook upon which Isobel had hung it.

  She stared at him. “You knew who I was?” Anger quickly replaced her horror at her predicament.

  “Of course.” He thrust his arms into his coat.

  “And you let me think you didn’t know, that you were actually going to undress?” He shrugged and gave his attention to the buttons. “For what possible purpose? Just what did you mean to accomplish? Was it some sort of test?”

  “I admit I was curious to see how far you might let matters go.”

  “Is your curiosity satisfied, my lord?” she snapped. “Tell me, what would you have done if I had not refused?”

  “I should have concluded that your character was…base.” He prevented what was obviously going to be a heated retort by raising his voice. “Surely, Miss St. James, I am entitled to wonder about the character of a woman who goes about dressed as a man.” He waved a disdainful hand at her.

  “Why do you give a fig about what I do?”

  “You Americans are a frighteningly—”

  They were both startled when someone knocked loudly on the door. “Hartforde! Is Mr. Boxham in there?” Julia’s worried voice came through the door. “Send him out here this minute!”

  “Mr. Boxham and I are just coming to the conclusion of a most interesting conversation, Julia. I’ll send him out in a moment.” He turned back to Isobel. “What possible reason could you have for wanting to masquerade as a man, Miss St. James?”

  “It wasn’t my idea. I write music—no, Lord Hartforde, I am a composer, and John Faircourt believes I have talent enough that he agreed to work with me. He’s helped me immensely! It was his idea. He said if I performed dressed as a man, people would hear only my music, and he was right.” She returned his intent gaze.

  “I presume Julia knows all about this.”

  “She gave me the introduction to Mr. Faircourt. And she completely agreed with the idea that I change my clothes here. Father would be livid if he found out. He would never allow me to continue. All he wants is to see that I get married. Lord Hartforde, you’re not going to tell him, are you?” She grasped his arm. “You can’t tell him!”

  He looked at her for a moment before answering. “It means a great deal to you, doesn’t it?”

  “It means everything to me.”

  “You needn’t worry. I don’t intend to tell anyone about your little masquerade.”

  “Ian Frederick Boxham is considered to be John Faircourt’s brightest pupil.” She bristled at his tone.

  “Miss St. James, you are a very unusual woman, I’ll give you that. But I’m not at all certain I understand this peculiarity of yours.”

  She shook her head and smiled ruefully. “How odd. I thought if anyone would understand, it would be you.”

  “I think you had better go before Julia decides you are in need of rescue.” He laughed at Isobel’s wry expression. “Perhaps, my sweet little Euterpe,” he said as she walked toward the door, “you might write a symphony in my honor.”

  She turned to face him before leaving. “I would if I thought you cared,” she said.

  “And what if I did?” he whispered as she shut the door after her.

  II

  “Isobel!” Julia ran to Isobel when she opened the door to Julia’s room. “What happened? He didn’t find out, did he?”

  “No, he did not.” The denial was automatic. “His valet is ill and he needed someone to polish his boots,” she said sharply. “Mrs. Peaslea saw me and decided I’d do.” She quickly began changing her clothes. “What time is it?” she asked. “Father must be wondering where I am.”

  “Nearly nine.” At her frantic look, Julia continued. “Don’t worry. I sent word that you were having supper here.”

  “Why, Miss St. James! What a pleasant surprise! I had no idea you would be supping with us tonight.” Alexander smiled his most charming smile.

  “’Twas a surprise to myself as well,” she said, feeling a little suspicious of his good humor.

  The meal was surprisingly gay. Alexander was at his most entertaining, and Isobel laughed in spite of herself. The conversation turned briefly serious when Julia mentioned the current talk of London: a pamphlet viciously attacking the King for his attempts to weaken the Prime Minister. “I’ve heard,” Julia said, “that His Majesty intends to discover the author and exile him.”

  “George lives in fear of another John Wilkes,” Alexander said, dismissing the subject. “But enough of that. After such an excellent meal, I find I am in the mood for music.” He turned to Isobel. “Tell me, Miss St. James, do you not play the fortepiano? Would you favor us?”

  “If you have your heart set on music, I cannot disappoint you, my lord.”

  “Excellent!” Alexander rose and escorted them to the music room, where he led Isobel to the fortepiano.

  She sat down. “Have you something you’d like to hear?” She played a scale. “Mozart? Handel? Boccherini? I also know all the latest tunes.”

  “Play anything you like.” He sat down and watched as she began to lose herself in the haunting strains of a piece he did not recognize. He had to admit she was possessed of no little skill. He closed his eyes, letting the music wash over him, its sensuous melody winding around him, touching his very heart as the last trembling chords echoed in the room. He opened his eyes to see her looking directly at him and for a moment he had the uncanny feeling he was seeing into her soul, before she looked down and began to play a popular tune that, until now, he had always liked. He said nothing when she finished playing, and at last Isobel colored and turned to Julia.

  “It really is quite late.” Her words were clipped. “Julia, would you be so kind as to lend me a servant to see me home?”

  Alexander stood as he spoke. “I am going out this evening and should be more than happy to see you home first.”

  “That isn’t necessary,” Isobel said quickly.

  “Nonsense. ’Tis no trouble at all.”

  “I recognize that tone,” Julia said, looking from one to the other. “It means he won’t take no for an answer. I’m afraid Hartforde is even more stubborn than you, if such a thing is possible.” She, too, stood up. “You played wonderfully, Isobel. Now, if you will excuse me, I am going out myself a little later.” She nodded at Alexander when she left, worried about what had ready happened between Isobel and her brother.

  III

  “It seems silly to take a carriage just to go down the street,” Isobel said as Alexander helped her in.

  “It is for my convenience, not yours.” He swung up into the seat across from her after telling the driver to take them first to Redruth. “I shall be continuing on after I drop you. I wanted the chance to speak with you privately. I’m afraid,” he said after a moment of silence, “I owe you an apology.”

  “I believe you do.” She drew her cloak tightly around her.

  His eyes held hers in the dim light.
“I apologize if earlier I faded to take your musical accomplishment seriously. Even I can identify genius when I hear it. That first piece was yours, was it not?”

  “Yes!” Isobel was so surprised at his praise she forgot to be nervous at being alone with him. “Did you really like it?” The carriage rolled to a stop.

  “Indeed, I did.” Alexander signaled the driver to stay where he was. “Perhaps I understand your peculiarity after all.” He was smiling at her, and she was powerless to look away, just as she was powerless to stop him when he unexpectedly moved to her side and bent his head to her mouth. Once again, she felt that dizzy sensation and she clung to him, wanting more, yet not knowing what it was she wanted. “Isobel,” he groaned in her ear. His hands circled her waist as he took her lips in a soft kiss. His touch was making her head whirl and she heard his words through a fog of passion. She leaned against him as his hands stroked her throat. Dreamily she found herself looking up into green eyes darkened with desire. “What a trusting little creature you are,” he said softly. “You are fortunate I am a man of honor, or else—”

  “Or else what?” She smiled.

  He reached across her to open the door to the carriage. “Or else”—he took a deep breath—“I would not be sending you home right now.” He stepped down from the carriage to help her out and lifted her hand to his lips when she was standing beside him. “Will you permit me to call on you?”

  “Whenever you like, my lord,” she said breathlessly.

  Alexander waved off his footman as he got back inside. As he sat, looking at nothing in particular, the walls of the carriage seemed to close in on him. He pulled down the glass and stared out at the street. Had he really asked permission to call on her? The words had just come out; it wasn’t as though he actually meant them. An entanglement with Isobel St. James was the last thing he wanted.

  Chapter 17

  The night Preston Hawes lost one hundred pounds to Mr. William Fordham had turned out to be the luckiest night of his life. It was obvious Fordham was connected with someone of considerable influence, and Hawes was almost certain he knew who it was. The more he proved he could keep things to himself, the more money Fordham paid him for copying. And the more sensitive the documents got, the more he was going to ask for. Hawes sipped from his glass, smiling because at last he was able to indulge his taste for fine port.

  He had been accepted at two clubs in London, but Brook’s, more popularly known as the Savoir Vivre, in particular was a triumph over his undistinguished background. Nominally a coffeehouse, it was renowned for the high stakes and drinking that went on inside its hallowed walls. There was a steady hum of low voices coming from the men gathered around the gaining tables, punctuated now and then by moans of despair or words of encouragement, as was appropriate to the case. Winners there were never so vulgar as to shout. In its fashionable interior, the port flowed like water, and though food could be had, few bothered to leave the tables for it. They merely waited for the servingmen who scurried around to replace empty bottles with full ones. The fortunes gambled there each night were astounding. These aristocrats lost ruinous sums without so much as a blink, and it required all of Hawes’s poise to seem unconcerned when thousands of pounds were bet on a single rubber. Of course, he didn’t have enough money, not yet, anyway, to join the high-stakes games, but he enjoyed cards as much as the next man.

  Lord Hartforde, with whom he sat now at the card table, was as good a gambler as he had ever met. Hawes had played with the marquess once before and had counted himself lucky to come out only a little behind.

  “So, Mr. Hawes, any relation to the Manchester Haweses?” Hartforde asked conversationally as he dealt the cards.

  “On my mother’s side, Marquess,” he lied.

  For a time they were silent while they played. Hawes played badly. He could not help wondering what Lord Hartforde would do if he were to tell him everything he knew and everything he suspected. He wondered how much his information would be worth to a man who stood to lose everything.

  Chapter 18

  I

  By the end of March, Isobel was devoting herself almost exclusively to working with Faircourt on their upcoming subscription concert at which her first symphony was to be performed. Up to this point, even her longer compositions had not been written for a full orchestra, and although Faircourt’s opinion of the symphony was positive, when she heard the orchestra playing the work in its entirety, two of the movements sounded so dismal that she almost despaired of it. Only Faircourt’s continued encouragement prevented her from giving it up.

  Because she and Faircourt were rehearsing with the orchestra almost daily, Julia had insisted on Isobel staying at Hartforde House, and Isobel had gratefully agreed. It meant she would not be faced with having to make difficult excuses to her father regarding her whereabouts. The earl did not seem to care how often his daughter went out, or even where she went, so long as it was fashionable, but he made a point of asking about her outings so that he might offer his opinions on them.

  At Isobel’s suggestion, Julia had taken the precaution of explaining to Mrs. Godwaite that it would be necessary for Mr. Boxham to enter the house frequently because he was providing sample work for some vaguely-alluded-to project of great importance to her ladyship. If Mrs. Godwaite ever wondered exactly what the project was, it was not her place to ask questions.

  Lord Chessingham was pleased enough at the arrangement; he thought Isobel was spending her time with society and in proximity to Lord Hartforde. In truth, Isobel’s only reservation about staying at Hartforde House was due to her dread of seeing its owner.

  After the night when the marquess had asked permission to call on her, Isobel had spent one entire week overcome with happiness, but as days went by without his appearance or sending so much as a note, her happiness turned to confusion, then resentment, and when she finally did happen to see him, the meeting was marred by a curious tension. His failure to call on her or explain his neglect went deliberately unacknowledged, and it had created a wall of reserve between them.

  She generally woke up at eight and had a leisurely breakfast alone by half past. Julia, of course, did not arise until much later in the day. So far she had not seen Lord Hartforde even once during her stay, until one morning when he joined her at breakfast. To her great surprise, they got on quite well, but then she knew he could be charming when he wanted to be. Her triumph came the very next day, when he joined her again. She would never forget the look on his face when their conversation concerning Virgil was interrupted by the arrival of Lord Strathemoore, who had come to take her riding in Hyde Park. She jokingly told Lord Hartforde it was only this interruption that had saved him from having to admit her point. On her way out, she wished with all her heart that he would be stricken dead with jealousy. To think she had begrudged Lord Strathemoore this morning out!

  II

  It was after ten o’clock one night at the beginning of April when Isobel finally finished the last of the changes in her symphony. Faircourt and the musicians had long since gone home and she was alone in the huge rehearsal hall. Her manuscript was full of corrections, but she was confident that when it came back from the printer’s this time the only changes necessary would be corrections of the printer’s errors. She stretched, stood to gather the papers strewn over the desk into a neat pile before putting them into her case, then walked to the door, pulling on her coat all the while. She called out to her coachman to bring around the carriage and waited impatiently for it to come, for, in spite of her overcoat and heavy clothes, she was cold. The air felt heavy with moisture and she was certain it would soon rain. “To Albemarle Street,” she instructed when the coachman finally pulled up.

  The linkboy stifled a yawn as the door shut after Mr. Boxham, and when the coachman climbed back up to his seat, he pulled his coat closer about him. The light of the linkboy’s torch made a dim yellowish halo that bounced with each trotting step he took.

  The exhaustion Isobel had been h
olding at bay all day hit her as soon as she sat down. She told herself that after a nice hot bath she would climb into bed for some much needed sleep. Or maybe, she thought, as her eyes began to droop, she would just climb into bed; a bath could wait until the morning. It had been an exhausting few weeks. She was working feverishly to have the symphony perfect in time for the performance in May, just six weeks hence. The rehearsals were tiring, but she never put down the baton without a feeling of regret or without looking forward to the next time, especially now that she was so much more comfortable in front of the orchestra.

  She was asleep when shouts and the sudden halt of the carriage jolted her to wakefulness. There was more shouting and then the carriage door was pulled open and rough hands dragged her out onto the street. It was dark and almost impossible to tell where they were, but she guessed it was somewhere around Charing Cross.

  “A bit young to be out so late, aren’t you, lad?” drawled the man who had pulled her out of the carriage.

  Her coachman was lying on his back in the street, his contorted face so still that Isobel knew he was dead. She looked away from the dark pool of blood around his head.

  “Don’t you know it’s dangerous to be out so late?” said another shorter and stouter man, laughing to himself as he spoke. There were five or six of them; all were armed.

  “I haven’t any money, if that’s what you’re after.” Isobel was surprised her voice was not trembling with the fear churning in her stomach. She clutched her packet of music to her with one hand, and with the other slid her fingers around the dagger she kept in her pocket.

  “’Tis a bloody shame if true, young fellow,” said the tallest of them, apparently the leader. In the dim light cast by the carriage lamp she could not see his features, except to tell he was dark-haired. “Surely you have something of value.” He stepped into the faint circle of light emanating from the carriage, eyeing the case she was holding. Isobel was shocked to see he was a handsome man with a pleasant, friendly look at odds with the threat in his stance.