Mistress of Melody

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Mistress of Melody Page 5

by Anthea Lawson


  There. That should keep her sister from trying this particular folly again.

  “Oh.” Louisa began walking once more, her expression downcast. Then her face brightened. “We shall go tomorrow, then, in the afternoon!”

  “It is not that simple. First, I must complete the quest.”

  She must find some way to convince her sister that the Earl of Silverton was not going to miraculously save them. There was no fairytale ending.

  “What is the quest?” Louisa’s voice was full of innocent belief.

  “Well—in only a few days I will play a musicale there. If I am able to… recover a talisman from Trevethwick House, then the earl will have to grant us a boon.”

  The thought of that stern man ever being in her debt made her words seem all the more foolish, but Louisa squeezed her hand with excitement.

  “What is the talisman?” she asked.

  “Ah, that’s the difficulty. I won’t know it until I see it.” Sufficiently vague. “My quest has very little chance of succeeding.”

  “You will, though.” Louisa gave a satisfied nod. “And then we will go live in the castle.”

  Jessa let out an inaudible sigh as they approached Mr. Burke’s door.

  “Hush now,” she said. “We mustn’t wake him.”

  There was no explanation they could make that would satisfy their guardian, should he discover them creeping through the house.

  The front door opened quietly, but as they shut it the hinges creaked loudly. The bar of the lock clunked when she slid it home, and Jessa froze, listening. Everything seemed quiet. Perhaps the noise of their entering had not been so very loud, after all.

  Making their way carefully through the dimness, she and Louisa ascended the stairs. Louisa set her foot wrong, and the tread let out a groan.

  “Go, go,” Jessa whispered, giving her a little push. They were so close to safety.

  Louisa hastened down the hallway, with Jessa right behind her. As she had feared, light bloomed from beneath their guardian’s door. They had woken him.

  Panic spiking through her chest, Jessa whipped off her cloak and thrust it at Louisa. Mr. Burke’s door opened, his squinting face illuminated by the flickering light of a candle. She prayed he could not see them too clearly.

  She shoved her sister into their room, then turned to face Mr. Burke.

  “What’s this?” he demanded, lifting the candle higher.

  “Forgive us for waking you, sir,” Jessa said. “Louisa was thirsty and our pitcher was empty, so I took her down to the kitchen for a cup of water.”

  Thank heavens she was still in her nightdress. Surreptitiously, she scooted her feet back, hoping the shift concealed the damp toes of her red satin slippers.

  Mr. Burke scowled at her a long moment, then turned and scanned the hallway. Shadows danced and darted at the edges of the light, but of course there was nothing to be seen.

  “I’ll take a look in your room,” he said. “You can’t keep secrets from me.”

  “Of course.” Jessa turned into their bedroom.

  She desperately hoped that Louisa had climbed back into her bed, and pulled the covers up to conceal the fact she was dressed. But with her sister, there was no guessing what she might think the proper action would be. As the circle of light fell across the threshold, Jessa knitted her fingers anxiously together.

  The candle illuminated the lump of Louisa in her bed. The bedcovers were rather sharply pointed at the bottom, and Jessa prayed Mr. Burke would not be able to tell that Louisa was still wearing her boots. And that he would not notice the discarded cloak bundled in the corner behind the door.

  “Yes?” Louisa blinked up at the candle flame.

  Mr. Burke grunted, then turned on Jessa.

  “Back to sleep—and don’t disturb mine again, or you’ll be sorry.”

  “We shan’t. Our apologies, sir.” She bowed her head, and kept it lowered until he had withdrawn. The light faded, leaving the bedroom in darkness.

  “I wish we could have gone,” Louisa whispered.

  “Take off your shoes and dress,” Jessa said. The aftermath of fear trembled through her, making her feel slightly ill.

  They had been lucky. That time. But luck was almost never on her side.

  She removed her slippers, then shoved them into the far recesses of the wardrobe. Water-marked and soiled with street dirt, they would be damning evidence if Mr. Burke discovered them.

  Her sister rustled and grumbled, and Jessa went to help her, unknotting the tangled laces of her boots and unfastening the few buttons Louisa had managed to close on the dress. It was a wonder the thing hadn’t fallen off while she was traipsing about the streets.

  Setting her jaw, Jessa resolved to keep a closer eye on her sister.

  “Good night,” Louisa whispered, finally ready to crawl back beneath the sheets.

  “Dream sweetly,” Jessa said, though she knew her own dreams would be filled with darkness and fear, and a small room where the walls were steadily closing in.

  CHAPTER SIX

  While it is commendable to invite talented performers to Buckingham Palace, one must question the wisdom of Queen Victoria receiving such persons as the Gypsy Violinist into the inner sanctum of nobility. Such riffraff should not be looked upon kindly, and the young queen’s advisors would do well to remember it.

  -Parliamentary Procedural, July 1

  Morgan twitched as his valet, Johnson, tied his neckcloth. Although it was not too tight, the strip of linen still felt as though it were choking him.

  “Excellent, my lord,” Johnson said, brushing imaginary lint off the earl’s customary gray wool coat. “The young ladies will be quite impressed by your appearance this evening.”

  Morgan regarded himself in the glass. He did not think he looked impressive. No, that accolade was due to the title resting invisibly upon his shoulders. He looked… glum, perhaps. With effort, he forced a smile onto his lips, but it did not fit well, and so he dropped the charade. He would be as he had always been, these past years. Duty-bound.

  “Have you any favorites?” Johnson asked.

  “Not particularly.” Morgan frowned at the man. Usually his valet was quiet and competent.

  As if sensing his master’s disapproval, Johnson did not continue with further questions. Instead, he ran a comb through Morgan’s thick blond hair, brushing it in a somewhat sideways style that was apparently all the rage among the young bucks.

  “Enough.” Morgan turned. “My aunt is expecting me downstairs.”

  Of course, she was not expecting him for another quarter-hour, but he was done with preparing. Tonight, he would select a young lady to begin to court. The woman who would become his countess and bear his heirs. The prospect filled him with resignation.

  “Very good.” Johnson bowed, comb clasped in one hand. “Good evening, my lord.”

  Morgan gave his valet a curt nod, then strode out of his dressing room. Despite his excuses, he was not quite ready to face Aunt Agatha and her bright-eyed expectations.

  For the past five days, she’d been incessant in her desire to discuss—to death—the particulars of each of the young ladies they had invited to the musicale. One might think this was the prince’s engagement ball from that dreadful French fairytale. But the fate of the realm did not rest on the outcome.

  Just the fate of the earldom.

  “My lord.” One of the footmen hailed him as he descended the long, swooping staircase. “Mr. Burke and Miss Lovell have arrived. As per your instructions, they’ve been escorted to the yellow drawing room.”

  “Someone is with them, I presume?” He had given strict orders that the pair not be let out of sight until he had greeted them. He’d also informed all the servants, down to the scullery maid, to remain discreetly aware of Mr. Burke’s whereabouts throughout the musicale.

  “Yes, my lord. I believe Thaddeus has been attending them.”

  “Excellent.”

  Morgan nearly felt like smiling at the
thought of the trap he had laid for Mr. Burke. A particularly juicy one that he anticipated would catch his prey, though it would take time to see the proof of that success.

  Morgan lengthened his stride. His boot heels thudded over the polished parquet floor as he turned toward the drawing room.

  “Morgan!” Aunt Agatha hurried to catch up with him. A shockingly scarlet plume waved from her ornately curled gray hair, and clashed with the lavender satin evening gown she wore. “I hear Miss Lovell is here. I must meet her at once.”

  Morgan halted and dutifully offered his arm. “Then I shall introduce you.”

  “I think the evening will be a success,” she said as she hooked her arm through his. “Everyone who was invited will be here. I do miss throwing parties.”

  A pang went through Morgan. He ought to have invited his aunt up to London more frequently. Despite her uncomfortably flamboyant nature, she was family. And he was fond of her.

  “Then we shall host a few more,” he said, surprising himself.

  “Well, of course we will. A courtship requires a number of events to come to a satisfying conclusion.” She set a red-gloved finger to her cheek. “A picnic, next? Boating? Or perhaps—”

  “I prefer to navigate the evening ahead before planning anything further,” he said, holding open the drawing room door so that she might precede him.

  Thaddeus, the head footman, stood sentinel beside the door. Morgan met his eyes, and the man gave an imperceptible nod. Good—his guests had been watched since the moment they’d set foot inside Trevethwick House.

  At the head of the room, past the rows of chairs, Miss Lovell stood. This evening she wore a green gown, the bodice shaped to her curves before flowing into a sweeping skirt. She was bent over her violin case, running a brightly patterned scarf over the strings of her instrument.

  “Lord Silverton.” Mr. Burke rose from his seat in the front corner and made a punctual bow. His eyes flicked to Aunt Agatha.

  “Allow me to present my aunt, Lady Agatha Fielding,” Morgan said. “This is Mr. Burke, Miss Lovell’s uncle.”

  “Delighted,” Mr. Burke said, with a false-looking smile.

  Aunt Agatha raised one brow. “Of the Trenton-on-Trombley Burkes? Isn’t your elder brother Viscount Trenton?”

  Strong emotion flashed through Mr. Burke’s eyes. Morgan was aware of Miss Lovell freezing in place, her fingers tightening around the scrap of colorful fabric in her hand.

  “Yes,” Mr. Burke snapped.

  Aunt Agatha gave a sharp nod. “Still in Italy, is he?”

  “The last I heard.” Mr. Burke’s mouth pinched at the corners.

  “That would make you Miss Lovell’s cousin, then, not her uncle.” Aunt Agatha leaned forward, peering at him with interest.

  “Close enough to claim legal guardianship.” Mr. Burke pivoted and beckoned to Miss Lovell. “Come and pay your regards to our host and hostess.”

  She carefully set the scarf down and moved forward. Without meeting Morgan’s eyes, she dropped into a deep curtsy. His mouth went dry at the sight of her dark hair gently brushing her bare shoulders. Resolutely fixing his gaze on the top of her head, he waited for her to rise.

  When she rose, her full lips were pressed together, her expression set. But whatever the undercurrents of the conversation between Mr. Burke and Aunt Agatha, Miss Lovell seemed willing to let it pass without further comment.

  Morgan would have to ask his aunt about that, later. He would not have thought that Mr. Burke was so close to the title. The man evidenced a decided lack of good breeding.

  There was a story there, if Morgan did not miss his guess. And who knew better than he the tragedies that could befall a noble house?

  “We’re delighted you’ve come to perform for us,” Aunt Agatha said, her voice decidedly warmer as she addressed Miss Lovell.

  “The pleasure is mine,” the violinist said. “Please excuse me, however. I need to warm up and check the acoustics before your guests arrive.”

  “Of course.” Aunt Agatha clapped her hands together, her scarlet gloves muting the sound. “I’ve been looking forward to the chance to hear you play.”

  Morgan escorted his aunt to a chair in the front row, but declined to take a seat himself. Not while Mr. Burke still hovered like a carrion bird.

  After a moment or two more of preparation, Miss Lovell took up her violin and bow and walked to the center of the Turkish carpet. The evening light slanted in through the windows behind her, casting her in silhouette and picking fiery highlights from her dark hair. Morgan suspected she was looking at him, but it was impossible to tell.

  She swept her instrument up to her shoulder, then took a breath and set the bow to the strings.

  The piece started low, the notes at first distinct and even. Gradually, they sped, moving to a higher register. Miss Lovell’s bow flashed back and forth, weaving the sound while her fingers spun the tune out. Faster, more insistent.

  She began to sway slightly with unconscious grace, and Morgan realized he was drumming his fingers against his leg in time to the music. He did not bother stopping himself. It was his drawing room, his pounds going into Mr. Burke’s pocket for this performance, and he had every right to some small enjoyment from it.

  Aunt Agatha let out a sigh of contentment. He glanced down, to see that her eyes were bright, her lips curved in a satisfied smile. The echo of her younger self lay across her face—the girl with the joyful spirit, who had defied convention and married for love.

  The notes swirled through the room, melding with the late sunbeams and stirring an unwelcome wistfulness in Morgan’s chest. He let it settle there, burning as if he’d tossed back an entire glass of cognac.

  It was the music. It was the dark-haired siren playing so sweetly, her eyes now closed. It was the weight of past regrets and might-have-beens.

  When the ache became too much, he cleared his throat. Jessamyn Lovell opened her eyes and looked straight at him, and for a moment he felt as though she could see right into his soul. The man he had been, the man he was now, the man he’d once wanted to be—all quantified in a single look.

  He did not enjoy the uncomfortable sensation that he’d somehow been found lacking. No half-Gypsy girl had the right to judge him, granddaughter of a viscount or no.

  Slowly, she brought the music to a close, the notes swirling to rest like a flock of evening doves coming to roost. She stilled, the last phrase resonating in the quiet air of the drawing room.

  “Oh, my.” Aunt Agatha dabbed at her eyes with a kerchief edged in violet lace. “That was splendid. Simply wonderful. Your reputation is well deserved, Miss Lovell.”

  “Thank you.” Miss Lovell cradled her violin in her arms and bowed. “I’m pleased you enjoyed the music.”

  Her gaze flickered to Morgan, and he gave her a tight nod.

  “Very good,” he said. “Miss Lovell, Mr. Burke, you are welcome to wait in the adjoining parlor until the musicale commences. The servants will bring you some refreshment.”

  “Too kind of you.” Mr. Burke sounded less than delighted.

  “Aunt?” Morgan offered his hand. “Our guests will be arriving shortly.”

  “Of course.” She tucked her now damp kerchief away, then rose and took his outstretched arm.

  They were not a moment too soon. As they stepped out of the room, the thud of the doorknocker echoed through the hallway.

  “Someone’s arrived punctually,” Morgan said, tamping down a twinge of dismay.

  Good Lord, was he really going to choose a future wife this evening? His former self would have been aghast at the cold calculation of it, as if he were simply evaluating horses for breeding.

  “I’ve a guess who it might be.” Aunt Agatha glanced up at him. “Do remember that love can be built on a foundation of mutual respect and admiration. It can grow from a tiny seed into the finest of flowers, given the right conditions.”

  “Indeed.” He did not actually agree with her, but it pleased her to think t
here was still hope of a love match for him, and he did not want to dim the happy light in her eyes.

  “My lord,” the butler said as they gained the entryway. “The Marquess of Dearborn and his family await you in the red room.”

  Aunt Agatha made a small sound of approval, and Morgan tried not to sigh. Truly, Lady Anne Percival was a lovely girl. He could do worse.

  “Very good,” he said. “Show in our other guests as they arrive.”

  At the doorway to the red room he paused, and Aunt Agatha patted his hand.

  “Courage, my dear,” she said, then towed him forward.

  “Lord Silverton!” Lady Dearborn hoisted herself off the scarlet-upholstered settee and hurried to greet him. “We are too, too delighted to attend your musicale this evening. Aren’t we, Anne?” She pushed her daughter forward. “Allow me to introduce my darling girl.”

  Lady Anne Percival curtsied low. “Charmed to make your acquaintance,” she said in a light voice.

  Her blue satin dress matched her eyes, and her blonde hair was done up in a flurry of ringlets that bobbed about her face as she straightened. The look she gave him was hopeful, and a touch wary.

  “My pleasure,” Morgan said, bowing over her hand. “May I fetch you a glass of champagne?”

  She blushed. “Certainly, my lord.”

  Goodness, she was young. At least she wasn’t one of the simperers. Or the gigglers. He was afraid he’d invited a few of those, but Aunt Agatha had been adamant that he have a wide field from which to choose his potential bride.

  Lord Dearborn was at the refreshment table. A bit of curried ham clung to his mustache as he greeted Morgan.

  “Fine choice of entertainment tonight,” Lord Dearborn said. “Miss Lovell has wide appeal. Heh. A pity my son couldn’t be here.”

  Morgan well knew the appeal Lord Dearborn was speaking of, but hearing it put so bluntly made his lip curl in distaste. Certainly, those gentlemen who didn’t care a whit about the music would sit and ogle the performer. He was just as glad Dearborn’s son was missing from the gathering, if that would have been the young man’s sole purpose in coming.

 

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