The Theory of Earls (The Beautiful Barringtons Book 1)

by Kathleen Ayers

  “Is there really some unknown distant relation of your family moldering about in America?”

  “It’s your family as well.” Tony waved his hand. “Our father’s elder half-sister caused quite a scandal when she married into a prominent New York family. Jilted a marquess to do so. She has sons. An entire army of them. Pity one of my cousins isn’t free to inherit.”

  Leo snorted and poured them both another finger of the scotch. They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, both lost in their own thoughts, before Leo said, “The girls and Amanda are in London.”

  Tony already knew of his stepmother’s arrival for the season, as well as that of his younger sisters. No matter his hatred of his father, Tony loved the girls and adored his flighty stepmother, even though Amanda certainly had poor taste in men as evidenced by her affection for his father.

  “She sent a note asking me to stop by and visit,” Tony said. “I told her I would come only if she promises not to discuss the duke. I’ve no desire to hear how our father’s declining health would improve if only he could reconcile with his sons.”

  Leo snorted. “How long does a duke linger on his deathbed until he finally succumbs?”

  “Apparently such a thing can go on for years.” Tony knew it was a ploy on his father’s part. The man was capable of all sorts of deceit. “I’ll pay the duchess a call today. I’m certain she’ll extend an invitation for me to dine at some point this week. Your presence will be requested as well.”

  Her Grace, the Duchess of Averell had brought the girls to London without her husband, who was deemed far too ill to travel with his family. The oldest of the girls, Andromeda, or Romy as she was called, had been eager to make her debut so she could enjoy the season. Not because Romy wished to marry, but rather for the fashion opportunity presented by the round of balls, recitals, fetes, evenings at the opera, and visits to the theater. Romy adored gowns, hats, gloves, and the assortment of fripperies which constituted London’s season. But it wasn’t just wearing them; Romy’s true passion lay in the design of the gowns and accessories, an admirable talent and something she was quite good at. She often created lavish costumes and gowns for her mother and sisters.

  Unfortunately, the daughter of the Duke of Averell would have little opportunity to practice such a trade.

  “Do you want to review last night’s receipts while you’re here?”

  Tony nodded.

  Leo stood and brought over a stack of markers, placing the sheaf of papers on the table between them. Taking a ledger, he took notes on each patron’s marker as Tony shuffled through the stack. Leo wrote down whose membership should be terminated, which gentlemen Elysium would continue to extend credit to or what assets the establishment would accept as payment. Horses, houses, carriages. Cufflinks were popular. Hatpins. Brooches. Once Leo had accepted the services of a mistress as payment.

  “Winthrop.” His brother snorted.

  “Winthrop?” Tony recalled the waddling lord who had hunted the delicious Miss Lainscott with such determination at Lady Dobson’s ball. It had been a fluke that Tony had even attended and reacquainted himself with Miss Lainscott, though he’d never forgotten meeting her at Gray Covington. The delicate pianist had made an indelible impression on him. He shifted in his seat as a sharp throb of arousal shot between his thighs at the mere thought of Miss Margaret Lainscott.

  “He wants an extension on his account.”

  Tony shook his head. “Has he any way to secure such credit?”

  “Winthrop claims he’ll be marrying soon, and his future bride is an heiress.”

  Miss Lainscott was an heiress. Tin. “Did he mention the girl’s name?”

  “Refused to give it to me. Claims I won’t know her, but he said she’s rich as Croesus. Bragged about bagging her and then shipping her off to one of his estates so he wouldn’t have to deal with her.” Leo shook his head. “Poor girl.”

  Tony’s fingers tightened around his glass of scotch. It appeared Miss Lainscott’s instincts had been spot on. “But he failed to give you a name? Sounds as if the marriage is not assured.”

  “No. I suppose after disparaging her in such a way he became fearful I’d inform the unlucky heiress of his intentions.” Leo gave a soft chuckle. “He’s a buffoon and a poor gambler. I’m sure he’ll run through any fortune she has in a fortnight.”

  Tony took another sip of scotch. He liked Miss Lainscott, probably more than she would wish him to, and had been toying with a way to see her again, though Tony knew he shouldn’t. But he felt oddly protective of her, in addition to wanting to bed her. Besides, he disliked Winthrop; the man was an overindulged windbag determined to fritter away what was left in the family coffers on gambling and mistresses.

  “Maybe you should give him a small extension,” Tony replied to his brother. Miss Lainscott had asked him for help in securing another, less repulsive suitor. Truthfully, he’d been a little put out she hadn’t considered Tony to be suitable, only Carstairs. Not that it mattered. Tony’s intentions toward the delectable Miss Lainscott were anything but honorable and most definitely wouldn’t result in marriage.

  He’d wanted her from the moment he’d seen her, ridiculously pretending to be a timid little mouse and fading into the tapestries at Gray Covington. When she’d practically made love to the damn piano while performing for the guests, Welles had nearly snuck into her room at the house party and ravished her.

  The dull ache between his thighs had become a persistent throbbing.

  “The color of your waistcoat is a bit much so early in the day,” Tony said to Leo, determined to distract himself from thoughts of Miss Lainscott. The cut of his trousers wasn’t very forgiving.

  “Bugger off, Tony.” Leo’s lip curled. “I like a bit of color; it’s better than dressing as if I’m about to attend a funeral.” He nodded to Tony’s perfectly tailored suit of indigo. “You look like an undertaker.”

  “There’s always a widow who needs consoling at a funeral. Though I suppose you sniff out widows whether at a funeral or not,” Tony said pointedly. His brother was easily baited.

  “Don’t,” Leo warned. “I’m fulfilling a promise to her late husband. Nothing more.”

  Tony tipped the scotch back to his lips and drained the glass. “Of course you are. You’re a paragon of virtue. Honorable to the core. It’s one of the first things one realizes about you.”

  Leo scowled. His fingers drummed against the crystal in his hand as if he was considering throwing the glass at Tony’s head. “I’ve work to do. You can see yourself out.”

  Tony chuckled. Leo had always possessed a temper. Standing, he bid his brother goodbye, carefully adjusting his coat.

  Tony meant to help Miss Lainscott, but in return, he would also make a request of her.

  4

  Margaret handed the hackney driver a handful of coins and looked up at the dark stone mansion sitting by itself at the end of the street, wondering if she’d gotten the address incorrect. A home this large couldn’t possibly belong to a fellow musician, which she assumed Mrs. Anderson’s friend was. She looked back down at the note clutched in her hand. This was the correct address. The mansion before her would dwarf her aunt’s home. She turned to ask the hackney to wait, but he was already trotting off in search of another fare.

  Taking a deep breath, she climbed up the steps to face the double doors. Lifting the heavy silver knocker, she rapped sharply, prepared to beg the occupant’s forgiveness for being given the incorrect address.

  Margaret hadn’t been sure what to expect when she received a note from Mrs. Anderson after having casually met the well-known pianist at a charitable tea. She couldn’t remember what charity, nor anyone else’s names, only that watercress sandwiches had been served with lemonade. Meeting Mrs. Anderson had made everything else fade into the background.

  Lucy Anderson was respected by men and women alike for her talent as both a performer and teacher. Not only had she played with the Royal Philharmonic, but she taug
ht lessons to the sons and daughters of London’s elite. When Aunt Agnes had slipped away to fawn over a towering woman draped in silk, Margaret had taken the opportunity to engage Mrs. Anderson in conversation.

  After chatting for some time, Margaret had been asked to join Mrs. Anderson and a group of like-minded ladies for an afternoon of tea and music.

  Margaret placed a hand over her heart. Fellow musicians. She hadn’t had the opportunity to play with another artist since she’d left Yorkshire. Aunt Agnes frowned on such a thing. She preferred all of Margaret’s thoughts to be in the direction of finding a suitable husband. It was one thing for Margaret to play the piano well, that was acceptable, but anything beyond that might interfere with a future husband’s desires. Her aunt had even prohibited any further study of music, something Margaret had discreetly shared with Mrs. Anderson.

  The door swung open. A dour-looking butler, thin mustache sitting atop a twitching upper lip, viewed her with superiority. “May I help you, miss?”

  “Good afternoon, I—”

  “She’s joining our gathering, Pith.” A beautiful woman came forward, her voluptuous form showcased to perfection in a swathe of buttercup silk. There were daisies embroidered along the hem of the dress and actual flowers placed strategically in the coils of her reddish-gold hair. She looked as if she should be skipping through a field, picking berries, and singing with the birds. Smiling broadly, she reached out her beringed hands to Margaret in welcome.

  “Of course, Your Grace.” The butler bowed and ushered Margaret inside.

  A duchess? Mrs. Anderson had failed to mention such a thing.

  “You must be Miss Lainscott.” Her Grace clasped Margaret’s hands. “I’m delighted you could join us. Lucy was concerned you might not be able to slip away.”

  Margaret dropped to a curtsy. “Your Grace.” As she stood, she took in her surroundings, appreciating the wide foyer painted the color of pale yellow. Decorated with strategically placed objets d’art and tall vases of roses, the entire hall and foyer smelled like a summer garden. The floor beneath her feet was pale pink marble shot through with gold which Margaret assumed was Italian in origin. Everything around her spoke of powerful wealth and understated elegance.

  “I’m the Duchess of Averell.” A copper curl fell over her forehead. “Patroness of the arts and dear friend of Lucy. Though not a musician.” She gave a graceful shrug.

  Margaret wasn’t familiar with the Duchess of Averell. If she’d heard the name before, she’d forgotten it. A common occurrence. But Margaret was sure Aunt Agnes knew the duchess. Her aunt knew everyone in the ton.

  “I’m fortunate to have a conservatory.” The duchess winked in a very un-duchess like way. “The moment I arrived in London I offered its use to Lucy and her friends. I do wish I played an instrument myself, but alas, I show not an iota of musical talent.” She took Margaret’s arm and led her up a wide flight of stairs sporting an ornate, carved banister smelling of beeswax. As they reached the landing, the lilting melody of a flute followed by the plucking of violin strings floated into the hallway.

  “Oh, there you are, Miss Lainscott.” Mrs. Anderson left a plush sofa covered with pale blue damask to greet her.

  Several pairs of eyes looked up as Margaret entered the conservatory.

  A slender, dark-haired young girl stood off to one side, a flute clutched in her hand. She looked at Margaret with interest for a moment, nodded shyly, and picked up the flute again. The grandest piano Margaret had ever seen sat directly behind the girl, dominating the far corner of the room. She moved toward the piano as a moth to a flame but hesitated, stopping herself from doing something so improper.

  It’s magnificent.

  Aunt Agnes did have a piano, stuck unceremoniously in the back of an unused parlor as an afterthought. Margaret wasn’t even certain the piano had ever been tuned. She was only permitted to play when no callers were expected. Her aunt’s piano was certainly nothing like this gorgeous instrument, shining like a beacon to Margaret.

  “Mama, who is this?” A pretty girl of about fourteen with wide blue eyes interrupted Margaret’s lustful stare. A violin dangled from one slender hand.

  “Phaedra, darling, this is Miss Lainscott. A pianist. Miss Lainscott, my daughter, Lady Phaedra. And our flutist is my ward, Miss Olivia Nelson.”

  Miss Nelson nodded her head. “Greetings, Miss Lainscott.”

  “A pianist? Oh, thank goodness.” Phaedra gave a great, dramatic sigh. “We won’t have Romy pounding at the keys and torturing us. No matter how many lessons she takes from Mrs. Anderson, she rarely gets better.”

  “Phaedra,” the duchess admonished her daughter. “Behave.”

  “I heard that. At least I’m not screeching away like an annoyed cat.” A stunning young woman popped up from the other side of the piano, where she’d apparently been searching for something on the floor. “Found it,” she said, holding up a pin. Her eyes were also light blue, but with a circle of darker blue around the iris. There was something familiar about her, but Margaret didn’t think they’d ever met.

  “Andromeda, this is Miss Lainscott,” the duchess said. “My eldest daughter, Lady Andromeda.”

  “Greetings, Miss Lainscott. In case you were wondering, our other sister is named Theodosia. My mother’s adoration of Greek culture extended to the naming her children. Papa indulged her, much to our mutual dismay.”

  “Don’t forget the barn cats,” Phaedra interjected. “Do you remember Hermes and Aphrodite?”

  “Oh, yes. I still miss Hermes.” Andromeda turned back to her mother. “Theo sends word she may appear for tea. She’s busy with her miniatures.”

  “Then I daresay we won’t see her until dinner this evening, sporting paint under her nails.” The duchess gave a frustrated sigh. “You, Andromeda, are excused from your duties at the piano today,” she announced with a wrinkle of her brow. “Most thankfully.”

  “Welcome, Miss Lainscott. It is lovely meeting you,” Andromeda said to Margaret over her shoulder as she skipped out of the conservatory, her elation at not having to play the piano evident. “I’ll return for tea. Cook made those tiny cakes with pink icing I adore.”

  The duchess placed a hand on her temple. “I pray daily for patience.”

  “Come, Miss Lainscott.” Mrs. Anderson took her hand and pointed to two women, nearly hidden in the corner by a large potted fern, arguing over a page of sheet music.

  “Ladies.” Mrs. Anderson clapped her hands with a wry smile. “I’m sure you’re both correct. May I present our pianist for today, Miss Lainscott. Miss Lainscott, I’m pleased to introduce you to Mrs. Mounsey and Mrs. Adams.”

  Both women greeted her politely then immediately went back to their discussion.

  “It’s not really an argument, you understand,” Mrs. Anderson said. “It is more a difference of opinion. Mrs. Mounsey usually wins.”

  Margaret was beside herself with joy. Not only was she in the same room as Lucy Anderson, renowned pianist, but Anne Mounsey was also here. Mrs. Mounsey was a female composer and Mrs. Adams, a soprano.

  She had never, ever, been so happy in her entire life and nearly giggled with the joy of being here. When asked to sit at the piano, Margaret sucked in her breath at the gold lettering above the keys that labeled the instrument as a Broadwood and very expensive. Margaret nearly expired on the spot.

  The next two hours passed swiftly as the women combined their efforts on several well-known pieces before attempting one of Mrs. Mounsey’s recent compositions. Mrs. Anderson played the Broadwood as Margaret watched in adoration, eagerly awaiting her turn.

  Miss Nelson turned out to be a gifted flutist, though Lady Phaedra was far from mastering the violin. While she played with enthusiasm, Margaret had to admit she needed much more practice. When Mrs. Anderson gestured for Margaret to come and sit next to her on the piano bench, she eagerly complied. As Margaret joined Miss Nelson and Phaedra on a simple piece, Mrs. Anderson gently corrected her on her form and technique
, making several suggestions. Margaret’s fingers didn’t leave the keys again until the tea cart arrived.

  Mrs. Anderson gave her a quick hug and said, “You have a gift, Margaret. Your passion for music is evident in every keystroke. Do not let anyone deter you from continuing to do what you love.”

  Margaret nodded solemnly, her eyes welling with tears. It had been so long since anyone had praised or complimented her for anything.

  Except Lord Welles. He had admired my playing.

  She ran her hands over the piano, caressing the fine wood with her fingertips. “I daresay anyone would sound like an angel on an instrument such as this.”

  Mrs. Anderson frowned. “Surely your aunt possesses a piano?”

  “She does,” Margaret assured her. “But nothing so fine. The poor thing is ancient and out of tune. But I do my best.”

  Mrs. Anderson stared at her thoughtfully for a moment before saying, “I’m sure you do.”

  The butler, Pith, presented the tea cart with a flourish. The tray was piled high with a vast assortment of sandwiches, pastries, honey, and clotted cream in addition to the tea.

  The duchess clapped her hands. “Ladies, a symphony of delights awaits you.”

  Mrs. Anderson laughed at her friend’s little joke and made her way to the sofa. Chairs had been arranged around a low table in the center of the room. Dropping the violin, Phaedra raced to the tea cart but slowed down as the duchess tilted her head. The other ladies approached in a much calmer manner.

  Margaret had been so focused on the Broadwood and the music filling the room she’d given little thought to anything else. Reluctantly, she left the piano and took a place on the sofa where her stomach proceeded to grumble in hunger at the repast laid before them.