On the fourth floor of number 25 Craven Street, City of Westminster, he knocked on the door of an apartment then stood back. A frown came to his brow as he noticed the poor condition of the door. From the remaining patches of the topcoat, he discerned that it had once been painted an off-white color. The brass knocker, which was missing a screw and hung at an odd angle, had also seen better days.
He prayed the state of the door was not an indication of the standard of his prospective new singing teacher’s skills. It didn’t fill him with any great sense of confidence.
When the door was not answered, he knocked a second time. The sound of hurried footsteps was heard before the door opened. He went to step forward and introduce himself, but the door remained only partially ajar.
“If it is about the rent, I told you it wasn’t due until the end of the week. You will have your money on time, as usual. Now go away,” said a female voice. The owner of the voice remained hidden from view.
This was not an encouraging start. Had he come to the wrong place? He checked the newspaper which he held in his hand. Unfortunately, it was the right address.
He leaned in toward the gap in the door. “I am not here about the rent. I have come to see L. Jones regarding some singing tuition,” he replied, then stepped back.
The door immediately swung fully open.
Standing on the other side of the threshold was a young woman, perhaps no more than five and twenty. Soft curls of dark coffee-colored hair sat on her shoulders. He frowned. He was not used to seeing a woman with what he would consider to be short hair. Her husband must be a strange man to permit his wife to cut her beautiful locks.
“Mama?” came a small voice. At the woman’s hip stood a small boy. From the height of him, Reid guessed he would have been about six years old. He was whispering into the woman’s skirts as he clung to them.
She brushed a hand gently on the top of the boy’s head. “Hush, Jonathan, Mama is busy,” she said.
“Is your husband home?” Reid asked.
The woman looked him up and down. “No,” she replied.
Reid held his copy of The Times up, with the advertisement circled, and showed it to her. “I wish to secure the services of a singing teacher. I require lessons urgently.”
Her gaze roamed slowly over him, taking in his well-turned-out attire. He knew that look only too well. It was the same one he used for measuring and assessing other people. Whoever she was, she was as mistrustful of others as he was himself.
“Can you sing?” she asked.
Reid wasn’t used to being made to stand at people’s doors and be questioned. Nor was he particularly comfortable with having women look him up and down in such a way. He was the one who decided whether a woman was worthy of his time and attention.
He cleared his throat and met her gaze. “When will your husband be home?”
They stared at one another, while a silent battle of wills took place.
You have not met my sister. Believe me, I could do this all day.
When the woman finally blinked, he let his breath out slowly.
Stubborn female.
“You had better come in,” she said, motioning for him to cross the threshold.
Once Reid was inside the apartment, she closed the door. To his relief, the small boy scampered off and went to play with some wooden blocks in the corner.
“May I take your hat and coat?” she asked.
Reid caught the intonation of her speech. She was well-spoken for someone who lived in such poor lodgings. He wondered if she had been blessed with an education at some point in her life. Perhaps she’d even been exposed to a family of quality. Meeting her husband would no doubt shed light on the situation. Hopefully he was not too far away, and Reid would not have to wait.
While the woman took Reid’s things and hung them on a hook near the door, he conducted a sly check of the room.
The room was tidy; there was not a thing out of place. But it was the other small things that were missing which began to make questions form in his mind.
No papers or inkwells were to be seen. No signs of a man’s pipe or fireside slippers in evidence. It was obvious Mister L. Jones was the tidiest man in London.
Reid’s gaze then settled on something which had him frowning. On the nearby dresser were two teacups and ill-matched saucers. Two small hand plates were stacked next to them. It was as if only two people lived in the apartment.
The woman returned and stood in front of him. He gave up on his study of her home and looked at her. To his surprise, she lifted a hand to his face and taking him by the chin, made him move his head from side to side.
“How is your hearing?” she asked.
“Go . . . good,” he stammered. What the devil was she doing? When he lifted a hand, intending to push hers away, she slapped his wrist hard.
“And do you have all your own teeth?”
Reid opened his mouth to protest but was unable to voice his displeasure at the way he was being treated, because at that very moment the woman took a firmer hold of his chin and pulled down. Stepping closer, she then looked into his mouth. She made odd humming noises as she undertook her inspection.
“Hmm. Yes. Hmmm . . . Oh.”
Oh? That didn’t sound good.
“What?” he asked.
It was a blessed relief when she had finally let go of his face.
“You have either tried to hit some notes which are out of your range, or you tied a large one on last night and your throat is as raw as the sewers in Fleet Street. I hope for your sake it is the latter,” she replied.
She was rude and impertinent, but she could read him only too well. “I had a late night with a friend, and we may have overdone the brandy a tad. I assure you I never attempt high notes.”
A disapproving ‘tsk’ came from her at his explanation. Knowing the current way his luck was running, he would find himself saddled with a puritan for his singing teacher. The apartment was far too clean and tidy for his liking.
He would be in serious trouble if this woman’s husband asked him to give up the drink for the rest of the summer. If sex and alcohol were not going to be readily at hand, he may as well go and take on that position in a monastery. This was beginning to look like a bad idea.
She now stood with her hands on her hips and continued to examine him like he was a waxwork at the annual Bartholomew Fair.
“Sing for me. Then I shall decide,” she said with a click of her fingers, startling him in the process.
He looked at the newspaper and read the name in the advertisement once more. L. Jones. He met her gaze as a growing suspicion settled in his mind. “You . . . are the singing teacher?”
She stilled, but the slow inhale and exhale of her breath gave away her tight hold on her temper. He was impressed that she managed not to roll her eyes.
“I get that a lot. If you don’t want a woman teaching you how to sing, then please take your hat and coat and stop wasting my time. If you do, however, wish to do something special with your voice, then you will sing for me.”
She was feisty. Reid liked feisty women; they were grand sport in bed. He bowed low.
“I am Viscount Follett. Lord Reid Follett at your service, Mrs. Jones,” he said.
She didn’t flinch. Odd. Most ordinary people tended to come over rather foolish when they first encountered a nobleman. He was accustomed to having people fawn over him. He expected groveling at the least.
Mrs. Jones didn’t react at all.
Very odd.
A bemused Reid followed Mrs. Jones over to a nearby music stand. He took the opportunity to enjoy a gentleman’s study of her nicely rounded hips, quickly looking away when she turned to face him.
She gave him one last quick up and down before turning the pages of the music book which sat open on the stand. She ushered him forward. At this close distance, he found himself staring down at the front of her gown. Firm, rounded breasts filled the bodice to a pleasing level. Reid loved a
woman with an ample set of tits.
“I am going to go with you fancying yourself as a baritone. You hold yourself too stiffly to be a tenor. Sing this piece for me please,” she said.
Reid roused from his thoughts of what he hoped her naked breasts would feel like in his hands and looked at the sheet music, sighing with relief.
Thank god.
He knew the song.
In the five minutes since he had stepped through her front door, he had gone from being cocksure of himself, to feeling the prickle of sweat under his hairline. Mrs. Jones was quite intimidating. She was also rather beautiful, notwithstanding the length of her hair. Her husband was a brave man to leave his wife alone with strange men.
He straightened his back and began to sing.
She stood to one side of him, nodding along with the song. Then, just as he was getting warmed up to give it his all for the grand finale, she clapped her hands loudly together.
“That will do,” she said.
He waited for her to gush and show her appreciation of his fine singing skills. Any moment now she would recall him having mentioned that he was Viscount Follett and she would show him the respect he was due. Women usually did. Instead, he received nothing.
A glance out the corner of his eye gave his pride a nudge. With a hand held to her lips and her gaze fixed on the floor, she looked to be searching for words. The frown on her face had him worried.
She stepped forward and placed a hand in the small of his back. A shiver raced down Reid’s spine.
“Relax,” she whispered.
The sultry tone of her voice had the complete opposite effect on Reid. He felt a familiar twinge in his loins. The heat of lust sparked in his brain.
He sucked in a deep breath, trying to maintain his composure. He really needed to get a naked woman under him and soon.
“So how was my singing?” he asked, trying to think of the matter at hand and not his unsated sexual needs.
He wished she would remove her hand, but then again, he didn’t. When she began to rub her hand up and down his back, he closed his eyes.
This was the closest he had been to sex in a number of days, and if she kept this up, he would struggle to walk out of her apartment with any sort of dignity still intact.
“Your singing is passable.”
Passable. He had hoped for more. Passable had such negative connotations. Especially when it came from a professional singing teacher.
“But you are not a baritone. What you are, Lord Follett, is a frustrated tenor,” she said.
Tenor? But he was a baritone, always had been from the day his voice finally broke. All through school he had been the baritone. Bah! The chit had absolutely no idea what she was talking about.
She rose on her toes and whispered in his ear, “You take yourself far too seriously. You could be great if you could find the end of that stiff rod you have up your arse and pulled it out.”
She removed her hand and stepped back, her face showing no evidence of being embarrassed over the insulting remark she had just made to him.
Reid stared at her. He was certain he had introduced himself as Lord Follett, peer of the realm. He sat in the House of Lords and was on parliamentary committees. He hadn’t mentioned his war service, but he would throw that in at some point.
He was gob smacked. Women didn’t speak to him in such a manner. Reid Follett was the one who whispered wicked thoughts in women’s ears, and then followed them up with even more wicked deeds.
Rod up his arse? A bloody tenor? Who the devil was this woman?
She softly chuckled and patted him on the arm. “That was fun, but I have work to do before my next student arrives. So, thank you for coming to see me; don’t forget your hat and coat. Close the door after you.”
“What?”
With a huff of frustration, she went and collected his things. When she returned, she held out her arms and waved his hat and coat in front of him. “I expect you wish to have lessons in order to be able to brag to your family and friends that you are a trained singer,” she said.
Pride held Reid back from revealing the real reason for his need to take singing lessons. If Mrs. Jones was this dismissive of his current talents, he could imagine what she would make of him attempting to take on an Italian master.
“Lord Follett, you have an adequate voice for entertaining your friends and family. You may tell them that you have seen a singing teacher who informed you that you did not require lessons. I only take on students who seek to develop their singing abilities for professional reasons,” she said.
She pushed his hat and coat firmly into his hands, then headed for the door. She held it open. “Good day to you, Lord Follett. Thank you for coming. If I may offer you one piece of advice, it would be to go easy on the brandy in future if you wish to preserve your voice.”
Reid frowned. He was being asked to leave. No one ever asked Reid Follett to leave.
“Oh,” cried the little boy. Reid turned and saw him standing over the fallen remains of what had been a tower of wooden blocks. The sight of the destruction gave voice to his faltering pride.
He couldn’t afford to fall. To fail. He had to be able to sing properly, to show the rest of his band of musical friends that he was their equal. That he had more to offer to the quartet than just his house and a near endless supply of liquor.
The peeling paint on the door caught his eye. It stopped his self-regard from going into freefall. Mrs. Jones might not think he needed singing lessons, but she certainly needed his money. What had she said about paying the rent?
“Madam. If I have a rod up my backside, then it is only matched by the stiff upper lip you continue to display. You tell me my voice is merely adequate, and that I am singing in the wrong range, yet you won’t take me on as a client. Does your husband permit you such indulgences when you have rent to pay?”
He saw the flash of pain which crossed her face before she quickly regained her composure. “My husband is dead, and I answer only to myself regarding my finances,” she replied.
Reid gritted his teeth. Last night, he may have been considering the appeal of an affair with a widow or two, but insulting one was most definitely not in his plans.
Shit. Follett, you dolt, you have overstepped the mark.
She would never take him on now. But he needed her. It was an odd realization, as he had only met her a matter of minutes ago. Yet something in the deep recesses of his brain was loudly calling to him. Telling him that this woman would be the secret to his success.
“My deepest sympathies for your loss,” he said.
Her fingers began to tap on the side of the door. She was impatient to be rid of him and he could see arguing with her would get him nowhere. He had to try a different tack. Much as it pained him, he sensed that his only chance now lay in begging.
“I am serious about taking singing lessons. This is not a lighthearted endeavor on my part, Mrs. Jones. I need your help. I implore you to take me on,” he said.
The pleading words left a bitter taste in his mouth, but he swallowed them down. The thought of Marco Calvino and his gifted voice spurred him on to succeed.
“I can come early in the day if it suits you. Or late afternoons, but nothing after five o’clock,” he offered.
She leaned against the door; arms crossed. “I cannot help you. Now please leave.”
“If I am prepared to pull the proverbial rod out of my rear end, will you take me on? I will come every day for the rest of the summer,” he offered.
He threw that last remark in as a tasty piece of enticement. A client who came every day would be money she could rely upon.
She fixed him with a hard stare. Reid held his breath.
It was only when she finally relented and gave a nod that he dared to breathe again. He was grateful at not having been made to beg on his knees. He knew full well he would have done so if she had demanded it.
“Tomorrow at nine o’clock. I’m not saying I will take you on
, but at least it gives me time to think about it. I do warn you, however, if you are one minute late, I will not see you. I do not tolerate tardiness or poor discipline in my students. And, Lord Follett, if you are serious about coming tomorrow, you should forget about the brandy this evening. I need to hear your voice properly,” she replied.
Reid stifled the smile which threatened at his lips. If she was half as good a teacher as her haughty manner promised, she could perform miracles with his voice. And after having seen Marco perform the previous night, he knew he was going to need more than one miracle.
“Thank you, Mrs. Jones. I will be here on the bell of nine. I shall see you tomorrow.”
Reid headed out the door and into Craven Street, promising himself that he would go to bed early and only drink a glass or two of wine with his supper. He couldn’t wait to come back tomorrow to show her what he could do.
To show her he was much more than just passable.
Chapter Seven
Lavinia Jones closed the door after Lord Follett had left and slowly let out the breath she had been holding. A titter of laughter came to her lips. She had been unimaginably rude to him, delighting in every word of insult she had thrown his way. Their meeting had made her day. It had made her whole week.
But to her surprise, he had not snatched up his things and stormed out of her apartment. He had actually begged her to take him on as a student. That was not something she had ever encountered before. Men above the station of clerks and managers tended to think pretty highly of themselves. The nobles, of course, were the worst.
“Fancy telling him he had a rod up his backside. Lavinia, you are a cheeky thing,” she muttered.
It wasn’t every day that a viscount came knocking on her door. Not that she ever expected to see him again. Somewhere between Craven Street and the rarified air of the Parish of St James he would rethink the whole thing. Her request to remove the rod coupled with her telling him to go easy on the alcohol would see him changing his mind about ever visiting with the widow Jones again. Lord Follett wouldn’t be back.
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