Alethea would not have picked such a day for a walk in the park, but the house seemed too close and Margaret was restless, so she bundled them both in long, wool cloaks and sturdy half boots, commandeered one of the footmen to accompany them, and headed out into the fitful drizzle.
Aunt Ebena was positively gleeful they were both leaving. “Do not hurry back. I have no use for your brooding and her screeching,” she said, referring to Margaret’s fledgling efforts on the violin.
The rain did not bother Margaret, who skipped through puddles and caught drops on her tongue, but Alethea pulled her cloak around her more tightly as occasional gusts dampened her pelisse. Aunt Ebena had been correct, Alethea had been brooding. She had been trying to think of other ways she could find clues about her violin. So far, her efforts seemed pathetic and trite.
She wanted to stop reacting to things. She wanted to lash out at her enemy.
Perhaps not lash out. Perhaps . . . lure him in. With the one thing he desired, her violin. Like a rat in a trap. But what kind of trap?
The park was more occupied than Alethea would have expected, but perhaps other children had been annoying their nursery maids and governesses. As they crossed the street, Alethea happened to see a familiar figure walking toward the shopping district of town.
“Hello, John,” Alethea greeted the farmer from whom she had bought vegetables at the market.
“Why, miss, how nice to see you somewhere b’sides the marketplace.” John tipped his hat to her, then cast a curious eye on the bored footman tailing her. “Haven’t seen you lately.”
“My aunt’s cook has been sending one of the maids to do her shopping instead.” In reality, Alethea hadn’t felt safe going by herself. Aunt Ebena had preferred sending a maid or a footman to market while Alethea supervised Margaret’s schooling. “How is your family? Did your youngest daughter recover from her cough?”
“Oh, aye, and shouting to bring down the rafters.”
“You are doing your own shopping today?” It was not market day, but in addition, John was dressed in a finer coat than he normally wore at the marketplace.
“Going to the jeweler’s. It’s my wife’s birthday tomorrow and I had a ring made for her.”
“How lovely. I pray you will give her my compliments.”
Margaret, bored with the conversation, tugged at Alethea’s cloak, and the footman, slightly scandalized to witness his mistress fraternizing with a farmer, had sidled a little ways away from them.
“Good day, John.”
“To you too, miss.” John continued on his way, whistling and heedless of the spitting rain.
They followed a path in the park. Margaret pointed to a small girl with flyaway strawberry curls. “Look, it’s Elizabeth.” She ran over the wet grass toward her friend.
Mrs. Isherton, Elizabeth’s mother, was with her daughter along with her maid. Mrs. Isherton’s aunt was Lady Rollingwood, Aunt Ebena’s friend, but Alethea had not known her well until Margaret had joined the household. Mrs. Isherton heard of it and suggested her daughter as a suitable playmate, as they were of an age.
“I see the rain has not kept you indoors either,” Mrs. Isherton said.
“The scamp was driving Aunt Ebena to distraction with her scraping on my violin.”
“She will either grow bored with the instrument and lay it down, or she will master it. Your eardrums will be spared.”
“But not quite yet.”
It was awkward to Alethea to speak of raising children. She hadn’t thought to ever have the duty since she had her own plans for her inheritance, and she’d always felt ashamed that she cared not for the normal things other women wanted, a husband and family. Her own examples of family love had been defective, so she couldn’t imagine wanting one of her own. She had wondered if there was something wrong with her. She had avoided mothers and neighborly relationships in the country surrounding Trittonstone Park so that people would not realize how different she was.
But caring for Margaret was nothing like she had expected. Perhaps Alethea’s plans for her inheritance were not because she did not want a family, but because none of the men she had met had induced her to want to change her goals.
Lord Dommick’s face flashed in her mind as she had seen him yesterday after escorting her home from her visit with Clare, his dark eyes intent on hers as he bowed over her hand at the door to her home. It had been odd to her how a man’s gaze had somehow given her value, like turning a stone into gold.
No, she needed no one but herself.
Mrs. Isherton nodded to where Margaret and Elizabeth chattered like magpies. “She is outgrowing her dress. She may grow as tall as yourself or Mrs. Garen.”
“Oh, no. I had not noticed.” Now Alethea could see that Margaret’s sleeves were short for her long, wiry arms. “I just had that gown made for her.”
“It is that way with them until they are grown. When you next take her to the seamstress, have the woman make the sleeves a trifle longer, and put a deeper hem in the gown so that you can let it down.”
“I had not thought of that.” Alethea felt woefully inadequate. “I am certainly much obliged to you for your help.”
Mrs. Isherton lowered her voice. “I have learned much from the governesses and maids I have spoken with here in the park. Most mothers leave the raising of their children to servants, but I have never desired that. I want to mould my child myself and have a hand in all that concerns her.”
Certainly, Alethea’s own father had left her to governesses and maids, but in that case, perhaps it was just as well. Her father had been incapable of loving anyone but himself. He had had some small amusement in the companionship of his son, but no tenderness for him.
Alethea had relied on Calandra for motherly love and Lucy for sibling affection, but against her logic and reason, a part of her had insisted upon longing for some sort of approval from her father. She had scolded herself into gratitude for what she possessed. God had not been kind enough to give her a loving family, so she would accept it and rely on herself.
They continued to chat until Elizabeth, running after Margaret, fell upon the slick grass with a sound of fabric renting.
“Good gracious.” Mrs. Isherton brushed at the mud on Elizabeth’s dress and examined the gaping hole where a section of the skirt had come detached from her bodice. “We must return home, my dear.”
“But we just arrived,” Elizabeth cried.
“And there are many people here to whom I do not wish you to reveal your petticoat. Come. I bid you good day, Lady Alethea.” Mrs. Isherton nodded to her, then carted her daughter and maid away.
“Must we leave?” Margaret pleaded. “I promise not to tear my dress.”
Alethea eyed Margaret’s dress askance. “It matters not, for you have dirtied it beyond belief. And how did you get mud in your hair?”
“Lady Alethea, if I may have a word?”
The oily voice had the power to freeze her to the spot. Heedless of the mud, she pulled Margaret close to her and turned to face Mr. Golding.
He wore a bright blue cloak today, which kept the rain from the purple ensemble peeking through its folds. He smiled that odd V-shaped smile, but his eyes were colder than the gusts of wind. He made a pretense of civility as he doffed his hat at her.
Where was the footman who had accompanied them? She turned to look but could not see him. He had wandered off while she spoke with Mrs. Isherton. She considered sending Margaret to find him, in order to get her away from Mr. Golding, but decided against allowing her to wander alone in the park.
“Mayhap you have changed your mind about selling your violin?” His pudgy hands smoothed over his wide, round belly. “Some instruments can be quite . . . dangerous to own.”
The rain grew icy. Alethea’s hands dug into Margaret’s shoulders. The girl was silent and stiff, picking up on Alethea’s tension.
She remembered the horrible sense of violation as she stared at her disheveled room. She remembered the horror of seeing Clare’s limp body on the floor of the hallway.
“Money is no object,” he said.
If she took his offer, she would not have to wait for her inheritance. She could find a small house in which to live with Lucy. Once the war ended, they would go to Italy. She would seek out the music masters and be accepted into the circles of people who understood how music drew emotions from the listeners, fed emotions into warm hearts.
But it was Calandra’s violin she was bargaining with. Taking it to Italy would be like bringing Calandra with her. When Alethea’s life had been darkness, Calandra had been light. Only when Calandra had died had Alethea’s brother been able to hurt her. The last two knuckles of her left hand throbbed once, painfully.
And as she stared into Mr. Golding’s brown eyes, she saw the malice lurking there like a dragon. She thought of what Calandra would want her to do.
The passionate Italian woman would have told her, Fight! Fight for what is important to you. When you give in to evil, you give up a piece of yourself to them.
“I do not surrender to bullies,” Alethea spat.
His eyes narrowed and his smile disappeared. “This is a simple business transaction, milady. You must be reasonable.”
“It is a business transaction if both parties are willing to negotiate. I am not. The violin is not for sale.”
His voice grew less polished, more animallike. “I can make your life very unpleasant if you don’t comply.” His eyes drifted to Margaret. “Your life, and everyone you care about.”
Margaret tore herself from Alethea’s hands. “You don’t frighten me. I won’t let you hurt me or Cousin Alethea. Now leave us alone.”
“I’ll leave you alone when your cousin sees reason.”
“My answer is still no. I can protect my family.” Alethea feigned a firmness she did not feel.
“You foolish girl.” He stepped forward and grabbed her shoulders, his fingers digging so deep that it felt like two pokers had driven into her flesh. “How can you protect them when you cannot even protect yourself?”
“Let go of her!” Margaret grabbed his hand and hung off of it.
“Margaret, find Bill!” The footman had to be nearby.
But instead, Margaret sank her teeth into the exposed flesh of Mr. Golding’s wrist.
He gave a hoarse cry and released Alethea, jerking his hand away from Margaret.
The girl never did anything by halves. Bright blood dripped from a deep half circle of teeth marks on the back of his wrist.
With a snarl, Mr. Golding drew back a meaty paw and backhanded Margaret across the face. She twirled for a moment like a leaf, then crumpled to the muddy ground.
“Margaret!”
Mr. Golding lifted a foot as if to kick her, but Alethea launched herself at him, pulling his hair and jerking at his cravat. He twisted back and forth, shoving her away. She fell hard on the ground, the back of her head bouncing against the dirt.
“Oy!” The shout sounded like the growl of a large dog. Then John filled her vision, planting a facer upon Mr. Golding’s jaw.
The man staggered back, hands grabbing his face, leaving streaks of blood upon his skin from Margaret’s bite.
John was a head taller than Mr. Golding and with his stout physique and the fire in his eyes, he seemed quite intimidating to Alethea.
He apparently seemed that way to Mr. Golding as well, for the round man turned and ran, his blue cloak billowing behind him.
John knelt beside her. “Are you hurt, miss?”
“I don’t think so.” The back of her head ached, but that was the worst of her pains. “Is Margaret injured?”
“I wish I’d kicked him in the shins too!” Margaret’s voice was full of ire.
Alethea sat up and saw Margaret already halfway to her feet. John helped Alethea to stand while Margaret picked leaves out of her brown curls.
“Did he hurt you?” Alethea touched Margaret’s face, and the cheek he had hit was warm to the touch and swollen.
Margaret pulled her head away with a slight wince. “Stop fussing.”
“Ye’ll have a beautiful black eye come tomorrow,” John said cheerfully.
“Will I?” Margaret grinned. “I shall have to show Elizabeth.”
Alethea turned to the farmer. “Thank you, John. I do not know what we should have done without you.”
“I did what any decent man would.”
“You did more than Bill,” Margaret said darkly.
“Where is he?” Alethea’s jaw hardened as she looked around.
“The footman ’oo was with you earlier?” John jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “I passed him back there, flirting with a maidservant. ’Ere he is now.”
Bill came wandering back to them from between the trees. The sight of Alethea and Margaret covered in mud made him goggle.
“Fine job you’ve done,” John growled. “While you were dallying with that tart, your mistress was attacked.”
“Wot?” Bill’s mouth became as round as his eyes.
“I’ll escort you home, shall I?” John said to Alethea.
She shook her head. “Go home to your wife. We are not far. And thank you, John, with all my heart.”
“Only too glad to be of service to you, miss.”
“Thank you, sir.” Margaret waved to him as he strode away.
“I, uh . . . I’m sorry fer being distracted, milady,” Bill said.
She speared him with her gaze but said nothing. She turned to Margaret. “Come. We must get out of our wet things.”
She didn’t know what induced her to look back over her shoulder, but as they passed out of the park, she turned in the direction Mr. Golding had gone.
And saw the cadaverous man.
He leaned bonelessly against a tree. In his grey clothes, he almost blended into the background, his figure smudged by the falling rain. He was looking directly at her.
Then he smiled. And as before, it was not a nice smile.
He turned and sauntered away, following in the footsteps of the departed Mr. Golding.
The second note was hand delivered like the first. Bayard questioned the servants, but the maid simply said that a scruffy boy at the backdoor shoved the note into her hand and raced off.
“Was it the same boy as before?” Bayard asked. She had been the maid to accept the first note.
“No, milord. I’ve never seen him in my life.”
He also received a note from Alethea asking him to call today as she had something to discuss, but the trap Bayard and his friends had set required them to be engaged for most of the morning. And perhaps by this evening there would be an end to this business, and he could bring her the happy news.
Bayard had sent his valet, Ord, to buy a violin yesterday, and between the two of them, managed to stain it to approximate the colour of Alethea’s instrument. It had been Ian who drew the initials upon the neck. From a distance it would look like the coveted violin, although if anyone knowledgeable enough played it, the jig was over.
The note instructed Bayard to be at the Fairy Grotto near the Chinese bridge in Sydney Gardens at eleven o’clock, so Ian and Raven left at half past nine. Bayard impatiently paced his rooms while Ord sat at a table finishing the touches on the faux violin.
“Pacing won’t bring the battle sooner, milord,” Ord said as he set the violin in its case and closed the cover. He had been Bayard’s batman during his days on the Peninsula; he had a strict sense of honour and correctness.
“I don’t wish to think of this as a battle, Ord,” Bayard said softly.
His friend grew grave.
Bayard finally said, “Are you certain you do not wish me to drive you partway to the gardens?”
Ord gave him a look that clearly indicated he was aware Bayard was talking out of nervousness, for they had arranged yesterday for Ord to walk to the rendezvous point. It would be too simple for the grey man or someone else to be watching Bayard’s carriage and follow it. The follower would see him dropping his servant off at some point and suspect some scheme to interrupt the business transaction.
Ord finally glanced at the clock and stood. “I’ll be off, milord. Do pace around the room so as not to wear the carpet in one spot.”
“I had better not see you or recognize you at the gardens,” Bayard growled.
“Do not worry, milord, I shall be careful,” Ord replied, for that was what Bayard had really meant.
He spent a painful half hour waiting until it was time to leave. He conspicuously carried the violin in its case and a large sack of pound notes through the front door to his carriage, which had been pulled up before the house.
It was bitterly cold today, and while there was no snow, the air burned his nose. He instructed his coachman to drive slowly so that anyone following him would have no trouble.
He exited the coach before the Sydney Hotel and walked into the Gardens. He was not certain where the Fairy Grotto was, but he was familiar with the bridge in the Chinese style that spanned the canal. He met few people on his way because of the weather, and he worried that the lack of crowds would make Ord stand out. Would the man after the violin recognize Bayard’s valet?
He crossed the bridge and came across a bower shaded by sparse tree limbs with a seat carved with a winged fairy along the side. He sat down and looked around.
A maid strolled with a young man, who looked by his clothing to be a groom. A man on horseback who looked vaguely familiar to Bayard nodded to him as he rode down a nearby path. Two young women in warm spencers walked briskly down another gravel path, chatting with each other. There was no one else.
Then from behind him, in the foliage at the foot of the trees, a rustling and a hissed, “Ow! That was my foot.”
“Be quiet, you two,” Bayard said under his breath.
“You haven’t been crouching here in the cold for the past hour,” groused Ian.
“Nor has he had to listen to you complain the entire time,” Raven said.
“You weren’t seen?” Bayard asked.
“Not as far as we could tell. We took the punt down the canal and climbed up at the rough stairs cut in the stones at the south end of the gardens,” Raven said.
“Didn’t see Ord,” Ian said.
“Then he’s doing his job,” Bayard said.
They waited in silence for ten minutes, then a whistling broke through the cold winter air like ice being shattered. The bright peacock colour of a waistcoat flitted through the trees, coming toward him. As the person drew nearer, Bayard saw it was not a peacock-coloured waistcoat, but a peacock-coloured coat, with a claret-coloured waistcoat straining over a large, round belly. From Alethea’s description, it appeared Bayard was about to meet the infamous Mr. Golding.
The man sat casually next to Bayard as though they were good friends. He smiled, a strange V-shaped smile that made his eyes glitter rather like a snake’s. “Good morning, Lord Dommick.” Mr. Golding’s jaw was swollen and bruised.
The smile flattened, and his gloved hand reached up to touch the swollen skin.
“Let us hope it was not a woman.” Bayard gave him a bland smile.
“You have the violin?” the man snapped.
Bayard gestured to the case on the seat beside him.
Mr. Golding pursed his full lips and studied Bayard. “Play it,” he said in a honeyed voice.
Bayard kept his face relaxed, but his stomach clenched. He should have listened to Ian, who had brought up this possibility. “The cold has affected the strings.”
“Play it, or I will send a message to my man watching your home to enter into your sister’s room this time.”
Bayard’s entire body grew taut.
Mr. Golding stiffened, but then lifted his chin against the expression in Bayard’s eyes. “Play the violin, Lord Dommick, if you please.”
The violin was a badly made practice violin, and he wasn’t certain how the staining they’d done would affect the sound. Was Mr. Golding experienced enough to notice?
Bayard stood and took his time removing the cover. At that moment, he saw the bushes behind the bench shift and Ian’s face appeared.
Bayard quickly glanced to Mr. Golding, but the man sat on the bench, facing forward, and did not notice.
Ian mouthed, Bach Adagio. Bayard knew immediately he meant Bach’s violin concerto in G minor, the first movement, adagio. They had played it often in university, and it had a slightly discordant opening that would work perfectly for the imperfect violin.
He positioned the instrument, then struck the first double-stop. The violin had a tinny sound, but the melancholy music hid some of its worst tones. He did not tempt fate for long and stopped within a few measures. As he dropped the bow away, he exhaled a low, shaky breath.
Mr. Golding gave mocking applause. “Well, at least you have not tricked me on that score. Have you the money as well?”
Bayard noticed the slight tremor of his hand as he reached for the sack of pound notes and shook it, but he did not give it to Mr. Golding.
“That is very satisfactory. You may—”
He was interrupted by rustling in the bushes behind Bayard, then a violent scuffling of earth and leaves, punctuated by grunts. Mr. Golding shot off the bench. There was the thud of a fist impacting flesh, then another. Then a man was flung through the foliage, who landed hard against the back of the seat and flipped over it.
The man was a stranger, with a face like a roughly cut stone. He had hands the size of small boulders and a solidly built torso under the dirty woolen tunic.
Ian and Raven burst out of the trees, but the man lumbered to his feet and moved away from them. Raven’s knuckles blushed red.
Bayard turned to Mr. Golding. “What is the meaning of this?”
Mr. Golding was already backing away. “I should say the same of you, Lord Dommick. You never would have known my associate was present if you had not also had compatriots hidden.”
“Did you think I would meet with you alone?” Bayard tried to sound reasonable.
“You would if you were serious about trading the violin.” Mr. Golding was now several yards away. “I will consider this a definitive answer to my inquiry and assume you have no interest in completing our transaction.” The man turned and ran.
Bayard hastened after him, but while he had the advantage of height and stride length, Mr. Golding obviously knew the gardens better and had slipped out of sight before Bayard was winded. Ian was only a few steps behind him when he stopped.
“Slippery fellow,” Ian said.
“Raven?”
“He’s after the man with the granite fists.” Ian rolled his shoulder. “He got a solid blow on me before Raven gave him a nice poke in the eye.”
“I am all astonishment,” Bayard said dryly.
“I wouldn’t have been surprised by him sneaking up on us if I hadn’t been saving your bacon.”
“I owe you for that.”
“Too right, you do.”
They returned to the grotto to find Raven there, looking grim. “A great beast such as that should not have been able to catch us unawares. We knew there was a possibility the man would have had his own associate sneaking around.”
“Can a plan be more botched than this?” Bayard muttered.
As Bayard gathered the sack of pound notes and the faux violin, Ian said, “I didn’t see Ord.”
“It will be excellent as long as we don’t see him.” Bayard headed down the gravel walk, flanked by his two friends. “It will mean he is still following Mr. Golding.”