Prelude for a Lord (7 page)

Perhaps Bayard was being unfair. Sir Hermes was not as wealthy as Bayard’s father had been, but he had a very respectable estate. And while he was attached to his nephew, it seemed he was not malicious in his scheming.

But Bayard did not see Sir Hermes’s affability in his nephew. Mr. Morrish seemed more mercenary and deceptive.

Bayard happened to be looking when Mr. Morrish deliberately stepped on his sister’s dress, tearing the flounce at the hem. Mr. Morrish had been dancing superbly, which made his gaffe more suspicious. The man appeared contrite in his apologies as he led Clare off the dance floor.

“Whatever is the matter?” Lady Morrish followed his gaze.

“Clare’s dress has torn. Perhaps you should help her to the ladies’ withdrawing room to repair it.”

“No, Mr. Morrish is escorting her. She shall be fine.”

Every muscle in Bayard tightened, making his dancing stiff as he watched Mr. Morrish lead Clare out of the room. She looked around, seeking out Bayard, with a look of entreaty on her face, just before she moved out of sight.

“Clare should not be alone with him.” Bayard would have led his mother off the dance floor directly, but that would embarrass her and draw attention to his concern.

“She shall be fine. What could anyone do to her in these crowded rooms?”

It was true the Assembly Rooms were especially filled tonight, but that also meant there were more witnesses if Mr. Morrish did anything scandalous. Clare’s letter about the boy who had tried to compromise her this past summer still alarmed him.
Lord God, what more can I do to protect my sister?

When the dance was finally over, Bayard first had to escort his
mother to a seat next to her friend, Lady Woolton. Sitting next to her was Lady Whittlesby.

Bayard bowed to the ladies and would have hastened after his sister, but Lady Whittlesby rose and commanded him, “Dommick, it did not occur to me you would be here.”

“I did not realize you would be here either, Lady Whittlesby.” Normally the dowager avoided the dances at the assembly rooms.

Lady Whittlesby sighed and nodded toward a lively young girl, no more than seventeen, who was dancing. “My youngest granddaughter arrived in Bath yesterday.”

At any other time, Bayard would have been pleased to speak to the dowager, who was a celebrated hostess in London. He had hoped to find favour with Lady Whittlesby for her famed annual concert this upcoming season. But he glanced at the open doors to the ballroom, wondering what was keeping Clare so long.

“Come, walk with me,” Lady Whittlesby said.

He had no choice, without being rude. He gave the older woman his arm, and she tugged him toward a far corner of the ballroom.

“I intended to call upon you tomorrow morning to ask for your help,” Lady Whittlesby said.

“I am at your service, my lady,” Bayard said automatically, sneaking a glance at the ballroom doors again.

“I am in need of your expertise in the violin. My friend, Mrs. Garen, approached me today with a curious predicament. Apparently someone has tried to steal her niece’s violin. I would like you to assist the gel to discover what is so particular about this instrument.”

Why would a genteel woman own a violin? Surely she did not play it? Perhaps, like Lady Whittlesby’s violin, it belonged to a male family member.

“I will sweeten the deal,” Lady Whittlesby continued. “If you succeed in discovering the provenance of this violin, I will offer to
you—and to your three friends in your Quartet—the foremost place in my annual concert this spring.”

Bayard’s step faltered for an instant, but he recovered quickly. To be featured in Lady Whittlesby’s concert would guarantee his social success and the destruction of those damaging rumours spread earlier this year. He desired it not for himself but for his mother and sister—he could not allow his reputation to harm them when they went to London.

Lady Whittlesby smiled. “I assure you I am most sincere. Your sister is a musician as well, is she not? If her performance meets with my approval, she will be featured in my concert. I flatter myself that her presence on my concert bill will bring her to the favourable notice of all the best hostesses in town.”

Clare’s performance in Lady Whittlesby’s concert would ensure his sister’s season would be brilliant—she and his mother would be courted and feted by everyone of most importance in the town.

“I thank you with all my heart,” he said to her. “May I ask what prompts your generosity?”

“I am not generous,” she said with a smirk. “I know the Quartet equals any professional musicians I have heard. And I have heard many, I assure you.”

“Thank you, my lady.” It wasn’t the answer he had been hoping for.

“Mrs. Garen is also a good friend, and her niece a particular favourite of mine.”

What was Lady Whittlesby playing at? She had no “particular favourites” in anyone as far as he knew. She loved to gossip and to stir up trouble, and fear of her was the reason why so many of the ladies in town were respectful of her—in public, at least.

“And if I do not discover the provenance of this violin?”

Lady Whittlesby’s smile deepened. “Surely there is no doubt? I have utmost confidence in you.”

“Enough for you to wager among your friends?”

She laughed outright. “You have caught me out. Yes, I love a good wager, and what is the fun of doing a good deed if I cannot have a friendly wager out of it with my friends? If you do not succeed, why, I will offer my concert to Mr. Kinnier instead of the Quartet.”

Bayard had almost been expecting it. “He is a fine musician,” Bayard said in a neutral voice.

Lady Whittlesby cackled. “Do not try to convince me that you do not dislike the man heartily.”

“I do not dislike him.”

“He certainly dislikes you. Perhaps because the two of you were often compared. In fact, my friends and I have argued over which of you were more proficient at the violin.”

“That was years ago, when I was playing in London with my friends.” Time and war had made him a different man. He hoped he would not feel the same way now about Mr. Kinnier, son of the Viscount Grimslow, as he had when he had been young and foolish.

Lady Whittlesby merely hoped to fire his sense of competition by dangling Mr. Kinnier as his rival. She couldn’t know that while Mr. Kinnier was fiercely competitive, Bayard was not. He wanted to play in her concert for the healing of his reputation and the success of his sister’s season.

They had finally reached the corner, and Lady Whittlesby gestured to two women who approached. “Ladies, may I present Lord Dommick? Mrs. Garen and Lady Alethea Sutherton.”

Bayard bowed to the elderly woman, about Lady Whittlesby’s age, and then he met eyes with the dark-haired young woman next to her. She was striking in her beauty. Eyebrows arched over large, almond-shaped dark eyes. She had high cheekbones and creamy skin with a hint of olive, perhaps from some long-ago Roman
ancestor, and full red lips that he imagined would spread into a wide smile. She looked familiar to him, but he couldn’t remember where he had met her before.

He also could not fathom why she looked at him as if he had just crawled out of the mud.

Alethea stared in horror at Lord Dommick. She hadn’t expected that he would remain in Bath. She had not seen him or his friends about the town in the past week, and the arrivals in the paper had not mentioned their names.

She was being ridiculous. She had to put aside one disastrous interaction from eleven years ago. Why should she devote any more space in her brain for him? After all, he wouldn’t have remembered her.

“Lady Alethea, have we been introduced before?” Lord Dommick had a politely puzzled expression, probably wondering why she looked as though she desired to run screaming from the ballroom.

For a brief, wild moment, she considered lying to him. Their previous interaction meant nothing to him, and he couldn’t have known the effect of his words upon her temper and the direction of her musical study.

But a few people in Bath would remember her horrific London season, and it would seem odd for her to pretend that she and Lord Dommick had never been introduced.

“We met briefly many years ago,” Alethea said.

He parted his lips as if about to say something more, but then changed his mind and simply bowed instead.

Lady Whittlesby hadn’t missed Alethea’s reaction to Dommick and had a curious gleam in her eye. “Lady Alethea is a fine musician. Perhaps you met at one of Dommick’s concerts?”

A spasm ran across Alethea’s throat before she answered. “Yes. When the Quartet played in London.”

“Did we meet perhaps more recently, Lady Alethea?”

She doubted the glimpse on the street, with her dressed like a servant, hardly counted as “meeting.”

“I am never in town, my lord.” Not by choice, but London had no appeal for her.

“You shall have opportunity to become more acquainted,” Lady Whittlesby said. “Lord Dommick has agreed to help you investigate the provenance of your violin.”

Why in the world would he agree to that? She cleared her throat rather that blurt out her surprise. “My lord is too kind.”

“I have given him incentive. If he is able to solve your little mystery, I will feature the Quartet in my concert this spring.”

Ah. Lady Whittlesby’s famous concerts featured only gently born musicians, and to be chosen was a high honour. No wonder he’d agreed to help her.

“You’re too good, Honora,” Aunt Ebena said to her friend.

“Nonsense, Ebena. I hadn’t yet decided on the musicians for my concert, and young men enjoy challenges.”

Lord Dommick didn’t look as though he considered Alethea’s problem anything close to a challenge. “I am always at your service, Lady Whittlesby.” His eyes strayed to the ballroom doors, which belied his gallant words.

“I do not wish to take up my lord’s valuable time.” Alethea tried to be gracious but was afraid she sounded peevish. “Lady Whittlesby, I had expected no greater favour than the direction of a shopkeeper or an instrument tuner.”

“I had considered that, but Lord Dommick intends to spend the winter in Bath, and there is none more knowledgeable about the violin, with superior contacts in the musical world.”

Alethea had to admit her logic was sound. It was hardly Lady Whittlesby’s fault that Alethea didn’t like the solution.

Lady Whittlesby turned to Lord Dommick. “You will thank me for introducing the two of you, ah, again.” She tittered. “Lady Alethea is quite accomplished on the violin. You two have much in common.”

Alethea almost burst out laughing. She could predict his response to that.

Lord Dommick’s dark brows drew together ever so slightly. “You play the violin, Lady Alethea?”

His incredulous tone was exactly the same as when he’d said the same words to her eleven years ago. Whether because of past pain or current pride, she drew herself up and responded with the same words as she had eleven years ago. “Yes, I enjoy it very well.” This time, however, her tone was confident and challenging, not meek and eager to impress him. “Tell me, my lord, do you still consider it unfeminine for women to play violin?”

Her question took him aback. Lady Whittlesby was barely holding in her glee at their juicy interchange.

“Alethea!” Aunt Ebena hissed.

Lord Dommick recovered from his surprise and said in an even voice, “Perhaps you would take a turn about the room with me, Lady Alethea?”

She assented grudgingly. She wouldn’t embarrass her aunt no matter the low opinion she had of Lord Dommick. Or give Lady Whittlesby more to gossip about.

“I’m sure you have many musical things to discuss,” Lady Whittlesby said.

Alethea took Lord Dommick’s arm, and he led her toward the ballroom doors. To her great surprise, they approached his mother and his friend, Lord Ian Wynnman.

“Lady Alethea, may I present my mother, Lady Morrish, and Lord Ian Wynnman. Mama, Ian, this is Lady Alethea Sutherton.”

Alethea gave him a suspicious glance before she curtseyed. What could be his purpose in introducing her to his mother?

“Lady Alethea, I was acquainted with your aunt when she used to attend the season with her husband,” Lady Morrish said.

“She would be pleased to make your acquaintance again, Lady Mor—”

Alethea hadn’t quite finished her sentence when Lord Dommick addressed his mother. “Mama, where is Clare? I thought she would be back by now.”

Lady Morrish blinked in surprise. “Oh. She hasn’t yet returned from the ladies’ withdrawing room. She was with Mr. Morrish . . .”

Lord Dommick gave Lord Ian a hard look, and the young man gave a slight nod, his golden-brown hair glinting in the light from the crystal chandelier overhead.

“Lady Morrish, I’ll find her. Pleasure to meet you, Lady Alethea.” Lord Ian bowed and left the ballroom.

Alethea noticed that it was as though Lord Dommick’s insides had been twisted like a knot that suddenly unloosened. His shoulders relaxed their rigid stance, and even his jaw softened. “Mama, if you would excuse us? Lady Whittlesby asked me to help Lady Alethea with her . . . musical problem. I’ll return in a few minutes.”

“Don’t hurry on my account,” Lady Morrish said. “I’m sure Ian will bring Clare back soon.”