Prelude for a Lord (10 page)

The butler’s discreet cough brought him back to his senses. He shook off the spell of the music with difficulty and hurried up the stairs to the drawing room, Ian hot on his heels.

The music stopped like an indrawn breath as soon as the butler opened the door. “Lord Dommick and Lord Ian Wynnman, my lady.”

Lady Alethea stood in front of the window, the fitful afternoon light glowing cool and white behind her. Her violin was propped under her chin, her bow poised above the strings. It made Bayard uncomfortable to see her elbow extended so high and the fabric underarm of her sleeve exposed, although she wore a high-necked, long-sleeved blue dress that covered her modestly.

She dropped her arms and set the violin on the table within a moment of their entering the drawing room. Bayard then noticed that a young girl sat in a chair at the round table, her light brown curls a wild riot down her back.

Lady Alethea curtseyed, then gestured to the girl, who promptly stood. “Lord Dommick, Lord Ian, this is my aunt’s niece, Miss Garen.”

Ian bowed to her. “Miss Garen,” he said in a mock-solemn tone that made the girl giggle.

Bayard also bowed, and a smile spread across his lips at the girl’s stately curtsey.

“Margaret, go to Aunt Ebena and tell her the gentlemen are here. She’ll need to join us.”

Bayard usually sighed at the necessity of unmarried women needing a chaperone when receiving gentlemen callers, but in this case, he realized it might be better not to be alone with Lady Alethea, considering their arguing last night.

Ian murmured for Bayard’s ears alone, “Shall I make sure you and Lady Alethea don’t come to blows?”

Bayard glared at him, and Ian gave him an innocent smile.

Luckily, Lady Alethea didn’t notice their interaction because Margaret said to her, “Could I take the violin to practice on?”

So, the child had been the cause of the dying cat sounds. Bayard should have known Lady Whittlesby wouldn’t have overstated a person’s musical skill quite that much.

“No, Lord Dommick is here to see my violin. You can practice more afterward.”

Margaret ran out of the drawing room in a swirl of skirts and brown curls flying behind her. The sound of her feet pounding up the stairs made the walls vibrate, but Lady Alethea didn’t seem to notice as she gestured to the sofa. “Will you be seated, gentlemen?”

“So, you are teaching Margaret to play violin?” Ian flashed his dimples at Lady Alethea.

Dommick frowned. Could the man ever not flirt with a woman?

“Yes, she prefers it to the pianoforte or the harp.”

Clare had also, once. When she was twelve and Bayard had been home briefly on leave, she had begged him to teach her to play the violin, so he’d taught her a few light airs that she picked up with ease. But then she had played the violin after a dinner party when their father was not there. The local women had reduced Clare to tears with their shock and scorn that she played so unfeminine an instrument, and when her father returned home, he forbade her to play again.

“You should teach her the pianoforte or the harp instead,” Bayard said in a voice harsher than he had intended.

Lady Alethea’s dark brows, so delicately arched, rose in a look of such challenge that it made her seem even taller.

He really should have kept his mouth shut.

“There have been professional female violin players in the last century,” she said in a voice that could have frozen the Thames.

“On the continent. In England, women who play the violin would fall under social disdain . . .” He wanted to explain about Clare’s painful experience but didn’t know how without mentioning specifics that he could not relate in public. In fact, he had never spoken of the incident again with Clare.

And Mrs. Garen chose that moment to enter the drawing room, so he lost the opportunity to soothe Lady Alethea’s ruffled feathers.

“Gentlemen.” Mrs. Garen greeted them as they rose to their feet. “Pray, be seated. Would you care for tea?”

“No, thank you,” Bayard said. “I am anxious to see the violin.”

Lady Alethea brought the violin to him and laid it in his hands, although she seemed reluctant to let it out of her possession. The look she shot him clearly said, “Take care, because if you somehow damage this instrument, I shall cause you extreme pain,” although she spoke not a word to him.

He studied the shape a moment. “Is this a Stradivarius?”

“Since she bought it from a peddler, Lady Arkright was not certain, but she thought it might be. The shape of the outline, the F-holes and the bridge . . .”

“Yes, and the varnish has this reddish tinge that is very characteristic of his work.” Bayard ran his hand over the wood. “What type of wood is this?”

“I don’t know.” Lady Alethea’s dry tone indicated that this was the reason she’d needed his help.

“Bay, I do believe you are at a loss,” Ian said. “The wonder of it.”

Bayard ignored him and said to Lady Alethea, “The wood is unusual for a Stradivarius. Most are made with spruce and maple, but this one looks like the same wood for both.”

“I’ve always thought it a very ugly wood. Other violins are much more beautiful.”

“It doesn’t have the distinct, dark vertical graining of normal spruce wood and none of the ‘flame,’ or the light and dark effect of maple wood. This graining is tight and narrow, the lines muddy and almost indiscernible.”

“Calandra nearly didn’t buy the violin. Sir William wanted to buy a more beautiful instrument for her. But Calandra said that the peddler slashed the price since he was desperate to get it off his hands, and she liked the weight and feel of it. And although it only had two intact strings, she could discern it was worth much more than the peddler valued it.”

“Since the wood is unusual, but it is clearly a Stradivarius, it must have been a custom order,” Bayard said. “Likely a nobleman commissioned it.”

“I didn’t think of that. Will that be easy to track down?”

“Much easier than a violin not custom built, and I have some contacts in Italy, but mail to and from the continent now is slow because of the war. I also will write to a few Italian noblemen in London with whom I am acquainted.”

For the first time since he had entered the room, Lady Alethea smiled at him. It transformed her, in her plain, blue gown and her straight, dark hair scraped back from her oval face, to a woman of unearthly radiance and beauty. And even though she only smiled at him because of the contacts he had, the warmth of her gaze seemed to cause a similar warmth in his chest.

Mrs. Garen’s words interrupted the look between them. “An Italian noble might know fairly quickly whose initials those are.”

“Initials?”

“On the neck,” Lady Alethea said.

Bayard was itching to play it, but forced himself to finish his observations first. He turned his attention to the neck and scroll at the end of the violin. “This symbol was on the violin when she bought it?”

“Yes. Calandra and I speculated it might be intertwined initials, but we were in disagreement as to what those initials were.”

“It looks like a large elaborate S in the middle and then C or G? And M on the left of the S, and A and G or C on the right. GMSAG?”

“May I?” Ian asked, and Bayard handed the violin to him.

“I do believe it is a C.” Ian squinted at it. “And the last one is a G. CMSAG.”

When Bayard received the violin back, he noticed a tuning peg had been replaced, a very good job.

Lady Alethea had followed his gaze. “Lady Arkright had that tuning peg replaced several years ago.”

“Where did she send it?”

“I only know she went to London.”

“There are only three shops that could replace the tuning peg as well as this was done. I have patronized all three and can write to inquire if any remember this violin.”

“How would that help you?” Mrs. Garen asked.

“If they remember this violin, likely they spoke to Lady Arkright about it, and asked questions that might have been different from what musicians would ask. As a consequence, she might have told them information she didn’t share even with Lady Alethea.”

Mrs. Garen looked suitably impressed. “Unconventional thinking. Now, when are you going to play it?”

He could make more observations later. Bayard shot to his feet as if he were an eager schoolboy, and Lady Alethea handed him her bow. Now that he held it against his shoulder, his chin atop the smoothly varnished wood, he was struck by the fine balance of the instrument. It moulded to him as if an extension of his body.

He paused, considering what to play, and chose a violin concerto in the key of G minor by Vivaldi, in honour of the composer’s
association with Lady Arkright’s former school at the Ospedale della Pietà.

The lush notes almost took him off guard. If he had not heard Lady Alethea playing it earlier, he might have been startled by the smooth, mellow tones of the lower notes, the glittering resonance of the higher ones. The thrumming vibrations of the violin seemed to shake emotions loose from his core, bringing out more fire and warmth from the piece than he had ever played before. He was almost breathless, closing his eyes and letting the music grip his heart, overshadowing his intellect in favour of pure inspiration, pure joy, pure awe.

This was how he felt when kneeling alone at the chapel at Terralton Abbey, when he could almost feel the touch of God upon his head.

When the piece ended, he realized his hands were shaking, his heart beating a frantic tempo. It contrasted with Mrs. Garen, who held a polite expression of pleasure.

Ian, who had heard him play that piece dozens of times, sat with eyes wide and mouth open, for once with no sarcasm or mischief.

But it was Lady Alethea’s face that captured Bayard’s attention. Her eyes were shining star sapphires, dark against the golden cream of her skin and the rose blush of her parted lips. She stared at him, and the rest of the room fell away. All he saw was her. The beauty of the music didn’t compare with the beauty in her expression. She understood how he felt, how the violin had made him feel when he played. She understood perfectly.

Then she smiled at him again. “You played Vivaldi,” she said softly.

The moment broke when Mrs. Garen said, “Yes, quite nice.”

Suddenly it was as if Bayard could breathe again. He had never played an instrument like this one, and he himself owned a Stradivarius violin. He cleared his throat, taking a few seconds to
compose himself, then sat and handed the instrument back to Lady Alethea without looking at her.

“I can understand why someone wants to take it from you, my lady,” Ian said, his voice almost back to his normal drawl.

Ian had said that to goad Bayard, who wasn’t entirely convinced the thief had been after Lady Alethea’s violin. Although now he began to doubt.

“Is this instrument so valuable?” Mrs. Garen said. “It has a remarkable sound, to be sure, but is it old? Rare?”

“That is what Lord Dommick is intending to ascertain,” Lady Alethea said.

“It is a Stradivarius, but I have never heard of any made with unusual wood,” Bayard said. “The famous violins Stradivari made were of normal spruce and maple.”

“And if this is not famous, it isn’t as valuable,” Ian said.

“But that’s even less reason for anyone to want this violin,” Lady Alethea said.

“I don’t suppose there might be something hidden inside?” Mrs. Garen asked.

Bayard, Ian, and Lady Alethea all shook their heads at the same time. “Any foreign object in the violin would affect its sound. Its value must lie in its history,” Bayard said.

“How did anyone know you owned it?” Mrs. Garen said to Lady Alethea. “Did you or Lady Arkright perform with it in a drawing room or for friends?”

“Never. Lady Arkright was well-known for her pianoforte playing and I often played harp. Neither of us played her violin except with each other or for Sir William.”

“Would he have talked about his wife’s violin to any in your social circle?” Bayard asked.

“We were in the country—our social circle was very small. Sir William knew people would gossip about his wife playing the
violin, so he did not mention it. My governesses and companions never saw it, for I always played with Calandra or alone in the music room at Trittonstone Park.”

“Are you certain that the intruder was looking for your violin?” Bayard said. He would likely be bringing Lady Alethea’s wrath down upon him again. “The thief wouldn’t look in the drawing room after the family had gone to bed?”

Lady Alethea’s eyes flattened and she pressed her lips together for a moment before she answered. “No, I do not know that the intruder was looking for the violin. Whoever knows that I own this violin perhaps would also know I do not keep it in the drawing room.”

Bayard thought he ought to leave before he made the hedgehog more prickly. He rose. “I will no longer take up your valuable time, Mrs. Garen, Lady Alethea. Have you a case for the violin?”

She stood and looked him squarely in the eye. “I am afraid I cannot allow you to remove the violin from my possession, Lord Dommick.”

Irritation rose up like a rash on his skin. “I cannot help you if I cannot examine the violin, my lady,” he said in a tight voice.

“You are welcome to examine it here at any time.”

“Alethea,” Mrs. Garen said, “think of your reputation if he were to call upon you so often.”

Her reputation? Bayard was more than a little concerned for his own, and more importantly, any negative repercussions to his sister and his mother. Visiting a spinster who played the violin, already an oddity in society, would not improve people’s opinions of his sanity.

“My violin is too valuable.” Lady Alethea looked at Bayard, not her aunt, and she was tall enough that her gaze was only a few inches below his own.

“People will talk,” Mrs. Garen insisted. “If not of yourself, think of Lord Dommick’s reputation.”

“Actually,” Ian cut in, “we should want people to talk.”

“What?” Bayard said.

“We shall tell people that Bayard is helping Lady Alethea investigate the provenance of her violin.”

“Provenance?” Mrs. Garen said. “What does that mean?”