Prelude for a Lord (6 page)

It took Alethea a moment after opening her bedroom door to understand what she saw. Then she gasped, the air scraping against her throat. Her chest tightened until the ache blossomed down to her stomach.

Bedclothes were strewn across the rug. Dresses had been pulled from the wardrobe. Stockings and petticoats tumbled from drawers. Furniture had been shoved askew, leaving deep scores in the wood floor.

Someone had torn through her bedroom.

Possibly while she’d been inside the house.

Alethea found herself at the bottom of the staircase, her breath coming in heaving gulps and her body trembling. Her knees wobbled and she dropped to the bottom step.

She had to tell Aunt Ebena. Was the intruder still in the house? She grasped the bannister and hauled herself to her feet. She staggered to the sitting room and flung open the door.

“What is it?” Aunt Ebena’s voice was more irritated than alarmed.

“My room . . .” Alethea stopped, took a breath. She had to be rational or her aunt would never understand what had happened. “We have had an intruder in the house. May still be here.”

“Impossible.” Aunt Ebena rose to her feet.

“My room . . .” The vision of her things tossed about by unknown hands made her shudder.

Aunt Ebena exited the sitting room. Alethea followed her to her bedroom, and so was directly behind to catch her aunt when she cried out and stumbled backward at the sight of such disarray.

After a moment, Aunt Ebena shook Alethea’s hands off her and straightened. “Dodd!” She hurried back downstairs.

“Madam?” The butler appeared at the base of the stairs.

“Someone has been in Lady Alethea’s room. Make sure the intruder is no longer in my house.”

The butler broke his professional facade and stiffened for a heartbeat, but then quickly snapped his fingers at a footman who had found his way into the foyer at the commotion. “Come with me.”

Alethea wanted to go with them, as if facing the intruder would somehow help her face the violation of her room and give her a sense of control. She did not like feeling helpless and weak—she did not like feeling like a victim, as her brother had made her feel.

And was her violin still in its hiding place? Had the intruder searched beyond the more obvious places? Her panic grew from a simmering to a boiling. She could not lose Calandra’s violin. Its value, both emotional and professional, was undeniable.

“Alethea!”

Her aunt’s voice brought her attention back. Alethea followed her into the kitchen.

Soon all the servants except the butler and the footman had gathered in the kitchen, and Alethea stood against the back wall with Margaret by her side. Aunt Ebena spoke with precision. “An intruder has been through Lady Alethea’s room. Dodd is checking the house to ensure they are gone.” Aunt Ebena had to raise her voice as several people gasped. “Who was last in Lady Alethea’s room?”

The upper housemaid, Sally, began to tremble violently. “I was, to straighten up. Just before church, ma’am.”

“Did no one hear anything?” Aunt Ebena said.

“Most of the servants went to church,” Mrs. Hill said. “Mrs. Dodd and I were here in the kitchen with Miss Margaret.”

“I made a poultice for Mrs. Hill’s knees.” Mrs. Dodd swiftly inhaled. “I went to the herb garden and noticed some broken branches on the bushes against the back wall, but didn’t think much of it.”

“I cannot believe it,” Mrs. Hill said, her hand at her chest. “In broad daylight, with us in the house.”

Aunt Ebena questioned each servant in turn, noticing if anyone hesitated or seemed to recall something.

“Will we be safe?” Margaret whispered to Alethea.

Alethea feigned a confidence she was far from feeling. “We shall be quite safe.”

“Do you have a secret treasure?”

“What?”

“You must or someone would not break into the house to search for it.” Margaret’s eyes gleamed. “Is it gold? Jewels? Maybe a cursed pirate’s treasure?”

“If I had a pirate’s treasure, cursed or not, I would be on my ship, sailing the high seas, rather than taking you for dress fittings at the seamstress.”

“I would too. And I wouldn’t need dresses because I’d be in man’s breeches and wielding my deadly sword.”

Dodd and the footman returned now, confirming the intruder was no longer in the house. The room exhaled as one, and Alethea squeezed Margaret’s shoulders.

Aunt Ebena went to Alethea. “Go and see what has been taken,” she said.

“May I come?” Margaret asked.

“I am going to clean my room, not go to Astley’s Circus,” Alethea said dryly.

At the word
clean
, Margaret’s enthusiasm dimmed a trifle, but she quickly said, “I still want to come.”

Since it would keep her out of Aunt Ebena’s way, Alethea nodded and headed upstairs.

The sight of the room caused nausea to rise up in Alethea’s stomach, but she stood in the doorway and took quick, shallow breaths.

“A biscuit helps,” Margaret said.

“What?”

“I would steal a biscuit from the kitchen before I had to clean my room.”

“I have no need for you to steal a biscuit for me,” Alethea said. “And for your information, asking Mrs. Dodd politely will usually accomplish the trick as opposed to raiding her larder.”

“Oh,” Margaret said. “Our cook was not so nice.”

Alethea took a deeper breath and plunged into the fray. She first went to her trunk to ascertain her violin was still in its hiding place and breathed a sigh of relief.

It was not so terrible a mess once Alethea picked up her clothes from the floor. She shared Aunt Ebena’s lady’s maid, so she set aside the clothing she would give to the maid to be washed, pressed, or mended. Gradually she realized Margaret was depositing various items into the wardrobe willy-nilly.

“What are you doing?” Alethea said.

Margaret froze. “Helping?”

“Why did you put my hairbrush into the wardrobe?”

Margaret looked into the wardrobe at the pile of random items, then back at Alethea. “It was on the floor.”

“So why not place it on the dressing table?”

Margaret looked at the dressing table. “I’ll put all that in the wardrobe too.”

“What? No. Why?” Alethea was beginning to feel as if she were in a farcical play.

“Aren’t we cleaning?” Margaret asked.

Understanding dawned. “Is this what you did when you cleaned your room? Throw things into the wardrobe?”

Margaret nodded. “It’s fastest.”

So she could go out to play as quickly as possible, Alethea would guess. “I have a thought. What if we put things back in their proper places?”

“That’ll take
forever
.”

“Things will be much easier to find than rooting through the wardrobe.”

Margaret looked at the wardrobe again. “I suppose so.” She picked up the hairbrush from the pile and placed it on the dressing table.

Alethea folded a petticoat. “Surely your mother did not allow you to fling all your things into the wardrobe that way?”

Margaret’s movements stilled for a long moment. Her back was to Alethea, so she couldn’t see her face. “No, she didn’t like it.” Margaret’s voice was softer than normal.

Alethea bit her lip. Margaret was so cheerful a child that she often forgot the girl was still in half-mourning for her parents.

Although Alethea still missed Calandra, she remembered that in the months after Lady Arkright’s death, it made her feel better to speak of her to others. There hadn’t been many in the neighborhood who were close to the widow because she was Italian, but when Sir William Arkright’s heir dismissed all of Lady Arkright’s servants, Alethea had visited them and helped them find new positions. Speaking to them of their mistress had given Alethea great comfort.

But how to get Margaret to speak to her? Alethea again felt that pang of awkwardness because of her lack of experience with children.

“So, um . . . tell me nice stories about your mother.” Alethea winced as soon as the words came out of her mouth. She half expected Margaret to burst into tears or run from the room.

There was a long silence. Then the girl half turned toward her. “Mama never let the maids clean for me. She wanted me to learn to be neat. She didn’t like it when I threw my things into the wardrobe.” Her voice was soft, but grew in strength as she continued. “So, one day she sent the maid to tell me to clean my room. When I went to the wardrobe and opened the door, she burst out at me.” Margaret giggled.

Alethea laughed. “That is a good trick. I think I would have liked your mother.”

“I think so too.” Margaret picked up a shoe, then put it back in the wardrobe. “Papa was like Aunt Ebena, but Mama could always make him smile.”

And now she was here with Alethea and Aunt Ebena, with no mama to make any of them smile and an intruder alarming the household. What if Alethea or a maid had interrupted the intruder? Would he have hurt her before escaping?

Alethea needed to uncover the truth about her violin quickly. She prayed that Aunt Ebena’s friend Lady Whittlesby would be able to help her.

Pray? No, she had given up praying a year ago, the night she had been locked in her bedroom, still shaking from the pain of her broken fingers and from the fear that she may never be able to play again. God had not helped her then and would not help her now against this trouble. She could only depend upon herself.

She could not lose her violin. It was the key to all her hopes and dreams.

CHAPTER THREE

B
ayard danced with his mother in the Upper Assembly Rooms while keeping watch over his sister, dancing with Mr. Morrish.

“Bayard, I don’t understand your prejudice against Mr. Morrish,” his mother said as they danced.

He pulled his gaze back to his mother, looking particularly fine tonight in a cheerful gold dress he hadn’t seen before. His mother seemed to dress in brighter colours since his father had died over a year ago. They suited her.

“I don’t know Mr. Morrish well,” Bayard said. “I am simply exercising the rights of an overprotective brother.”

“Take care you do not stray into
overbearing
.”

“Clare would scold me if I did.” Clare did not look particularly happy with her partner, although Mr. Morrish danced well. He was light on his feet with far more graceful movements than Bayard could ever produce.

“Bayard, do stop staring at them.” There was a note of hurt
in his mother’s voice. “You will offend your stepfather with your suspicions.”

“You know I would never deliberately do anything to upset you.” Especially now, after the pain he had caused her this past spring in London. The ton’s barbs and slurs had produced tears she had tried to hide, but he had seen how they had wounded her.

“Then do try to be friends with Sir Hermes’s nephew. If you accept him, then perhaps Clare will warm to him.”

The movements of the dance separated them, which rescued Bayard from trying to hide his surprise. When they came together again, he said, “Do you wish Clare to become more intimately acquainted with him?”

“I should like them to be friends, and if they discover a deeper connection, I shall not object. His disposition is so cheerful, much like Sir Hermes’s. He would bring light and laughter to Clare, who has a tendency toward too much seriousness.”

“But what of his fortune?” Bayard disliked being so blunt with her, but her fancies sometimes overlooked practical matters.

“Sir Hermes believes Clare would be very good for Mr. Morrish. He is not a wastrel, and with Clare’s good sense, he could become even more respectably established. Maybe even an M.P.”

His mother had avoided directly answering his question. He made a mental note to have his man of business privately look into Mr. Morrish’s prospects.

“Bayard, do stop frowning at Mr. Morrish.”

Bayard tried to smooth the tightness in his forehead. “I am not frowning.”

“You are staring fiercely. Sir Hermes will think you are attempting to scare away his dearest nephew.”

Bayard suspected Sir Hermes, in his usual careless way, would laugh and then give his nephew more tips on how to court Clare, as if it were a huge joke. Sir Hermes did not care about Clare at
all—he no doubt craved the further connection with the Terralton family and their money.