The card party was an insipid affair, although Alethea admitted her foul mood made it especially less enjoyable for herself. Seated at the hostess’s pianoforte, Alethea pounded out a Bach sinfonia in F minor at a funereal pace. It suited her frustrations, which had plagued her since speaking to Dommick earlier today.
“I believe you are playing that too fast,” Lord Ian said as he came up behind her.
She ignored him and embellished a note into a particularly dismal chord.
“I take it you did not agree with Bayard’s decision?” Lord Ravenhurst appeared on the other side of her.
“Why is it his decision?” she snapped. “It was my idea.”
“You fired it at him rather suddenly,” Lord Ian said. “You must give him time to think it over.”
“He doesn’t want to go through with it because he won’t perform with a woman.” She finished the sinfonia and switched to the fugue in a Bach Toccata in the key of C minor so she could pound out a smashing minor chord.
Lord Ian rattled his finger in his ear. “I believe that piece is supposed to be melancholy, not angry.”
“He didn’t wish to pursue your idea because he felt it would be too dangerous,” Lord Ravenhurst said over the thunderous chords she was producing. “Only consider, we had called upon you bare hours after our trap in Sydney Gardens had failed and Ord had lost Mr. Golding, only to be met with your aunt’s niece sporting a purple eye. And then you suggested playing in our concert in order to display yourself and your violin as bait. You must excuse him for being alarmed.”
“If he truly wishes to protect me and my family, our best course of action is to be on the attack. And after your trap had failed, all the better reason to attempt my trap.”
“I do not understand why you two are working separately rather than together,” Lord Ravenhurst muttered.
“My point exactly. Which is why I should play in your concert in a few weeks with my violin to lure the villain out.”
“Bayard might be more amenable to the suggestion if he were to play the violin instead of yourself.”
“Many men would hesitate to attack another man who might overpower him, whereas the villain would be overly confident in attacking a woman, who is physically inferior. And all of you will be there to protect me.”
“There will also be dozens of people and servants, any one of whom may be hired to kidnap you or harm you.”
“The point is that it is a trap. We shall be tricking him into doing precisely what we want.”
Lord Ian sighed. “You are quite as stubborn as Bayard.”
Alethea thought it prudent to change the topic of conversation. “Have you heard any news about Count Escalari? Someone mentioned he may attend tonight.” Alethea peeked up to glance around the room before she had to look back down at her hands on the keyboard.
“Is he expected in Bath?” Lord Ravenhurst asked.
Alethea finished the fugue on a mistaken chord, quickly corrected. She winced. “I attended tonight specifically because the rumour was that he would be here.”
“From whom did you hear that?” Lord Ravenhurst asked.
“One of the maids, who had heard it from a maid from Lady Eaglen’s house, who had got it from—”
“Never mind,” Lord Ian said with a groan.
“Why do you wish to see him?” Lord Ravenhurst asked.
“To ask about the initials on the violin, of course. Assuming he is Italian,” she said, remembering Signora D’Angelo.
“He is,” Lord Ravenhurst said. “He is acquainted with my mother.”
“How fortuitous. Would you be so kind as to introduce me?”
“Lord Ravenhurst, Lord Ian.” The hostess, Mrs. Penning, approached the pianoforte with Mr. Kinnier in tow. “I insist you two accompany me. There are two young ladies I wish you to meet.”
Lord Ravenhurst bowed with his usual politeness, although there were tight lines around his mouth. Lord Ian, however, gave Mr. Kinnier an icy stare.
Mrs. Penning continued, “I have brought Mr. Kinnier to turn Lady Alethea’s pages for her.”
Lord Ian glanced at Alethea. She gave him a subtle nod. What in the world about Mr. Kinnier so offended Lord Ian?
As Mrs. Penning led the two men away, Mr. Kinnier turned to her with a very correct bow. “What shall you play next, Lady Alethea? I am at your service.”
“I have been playing from memory, sir.” She nodded toward the card tables. “I wouldn’t wish to deprive you of tonight’s entertainment.”
He leaned closer. “In truth, you have rescued me. I am an indifferent card player, and I easily frustrate my partners. If you would allow me to keep you company here at this fine instrument, I should be most grateful.”
She could hardly refuse him. She distrusted his smooth speeches, and yet she had only one overheard conversation to base her opinions upon. Was she being too harsh upon him?
Continuing in her Bach mood, she started a partita in the key of E minor. “How have you enjoyed Bath so far, Mr. Kinnier?”
“It is quite lively. I have heard that you have had some excitement.”
Her fingers twitched, causing her to miss a note, but she picked up immediately and it was hardly noticeable. “Excitement? I assure you, my life is hardly exciting.” Could he have somehow found out about Mr. Golding and Margaret in the park?
“Why, the mystery about your violin is quite intriguing.”
“How so? It is a fine instrument, and I would naturally wish to know more of its history.”
“Many instruments have quite treacherous histories, full of theft, extortion, and violence.”
Her fingers crashed into a chord that Bach had never intended to be played in his piano piece. What did Mr. Kinnier know? What was he insinuating? What did he want?
“Oh, forgive me, Lady Alethea, I did not mean to alarm you. I was not serious. I am sure Lord Dommick will discover that your violin has a quite innocuous history.”
She was overreacting, surely. And yet, why would he use those particular words to describe her violin? She could not read his mood or his thoughts, for his face was as pleasant as ever. She continued with the partita.
Mr. Kinnier added, “And Lord Dommick is . . . creative in his ideas.”
“What do you mean, sir?”
“His unorthodox methods certainly give the impression of competence.”
She flared with resentment at his implication. “It is my understanding that Lord Dommick is quite knowledgeable about the violin.”
“That is indeed what was said about him. But he has yet to discover anything about your violin, is that not so?”
“This case is quite difficult.”
“Is it?” He gave her a significant look.
What was he saying? She wished the annoying man would speak plainly. “Mr. Kinnier, are you suggesting I find another investigator for my violin?”
“I assure you, I am not suggesting myself.”
His words confused her, but they also made the tightness in her chest ease slightly.
“But are you certain Lord Dommick is capable enough to find the answers to your questions?”
His tone was reasonable, although Alethea did not care for his words. She could hardly accuse him of being self-serving since he did not volunteer his own services to her. She strove for a polite tone, but was afraid she only sounded petulant as she said, “My affairs are my own, sir.”
“You are right. Forgive me.” He looked sincerely contrite. “You must allow me a concern for you and your investigation, which prompted my rash words.”
Alethea added an extra embellishment to the Bach piece. Not exactly a humble apology. She also did not feel the need to accept it. “You are always ever a model of polite behaviour, Mr. Kinnier. You could never say anything rude or insulting.”
He appeared to take it as the forgiveness it was not. He smiled that perfect, glassy smile that made him seem less trustworthy than Dommick’s stern frowns.
She rushed the Bach piece to end it quickly, then stood. “If you will excuse me, Mr. Kinnier?”
He bowed to her, and she walked away, feeling as if she had been attempting to breathe through a piece of wool and only now pulled it from her face.
Alethea hid in the cloak room for a few moments, then headed to the dining parlour where a buffet had been set out. She didn’t care to return to the card room and risk enduring more of Mr. Kinnier’s innuendoes, whether innocent or deliberate, but she hoped to find guests who might know when Count Escalari would arrive in Bath.
She was in luck. There were two groups of women in the room, one with Mrs. Isherton and Mrs. Layston, an older lady who was a friend of Aunt Ebena, and also Miss Oakridge and Miss Nanstone standing in front of the buffet, picking at the lobster patties and cold tongue. The girls stopped chattering as soon as they saw Alethea, then burst into a fit of giggles.
Alethea approached Mrs. Isherton and Mrs. Layston with a smile. “Good evening.”
“We heard your lovely playing,” Mrs. Isherton said.
“I was just telling Mrs. Isherton about my granddaughters’ love for the pianoforte,” Mrs. Layston said and went into a monologue about each granddaughter’s proficiency in the instrument.
However, Alethea could not help overhearing Miss Nanstone’s nasal voice. “People have claimed that her violin is nothing more than a cheap instrument with a dark stain and a painted symbol upon it to give it a more interesting appearance.”
Alethea kept her smile in place as she strained to hear more. Dommick had bought a cheap violin and stained it to fool the extortioner in Sydney Gardens. How had those facts been spread abroad?
“But would not Lord Dommick have recognized the inferior instrument immediately?” Miss Oakridge asked.
“That is what is most astounding. People are speculating that Lord Dommick’s supposed expertise in the violin is all a sham. Otherwise he would have recognized that it was a forgery and would not be continuing his investigation.”
So, it was not the story of the forged violin that had reached their ears, but aspersions were being cast upon her own instrument. Alethea wondered if people would be speaking of Dommick in such a manner were he in attendance tonight.
“People have said that since she may have embellished the mystery of her violin, there may be other things she has not been entirely truthful about,” Miss Nanstone said.
The prickle of thousands of needles poked her neck and back. It was the same feeling from eleven years ago during her season, when she had first heard the outrageous stories that she was a wild woman with no table manners. A part of her wanted to lash out, to defend herself, and another part of her wanted to laugh. That she, a pitied spinster, was accused of lying about her violin in order to trap Lord Dommick was nearly as ridiculous as the stories about her eating her fish with her dessert spoon.
But she did worry about the effect the gossip would have on Lord Dommick’s reputation, and by extension, Clare’s.
She was not entirely certain why the young ladies of Bath did not like her. She knew it was partly because they despised her for being out of the normal way. They disliked independence of any sort and so would not care for hers.
However, especially at moments like these, she felt lonely. She was not married or a mother like Mrs. Isherton, yet she was not quite acceptable to the younger unmarried women. She was her own person. While that should have pleased her, it made her realize how isolated her life had been, both here in Bath and at Trittonstone Park.
No one understood her. No one cared for her and no one cared to know her. They treated her as though something were wrong with her . . .
No, she was being melancholy. She had confidence in who she was, no matter what others said about her. She shook off her dark mood and remembered her initial intention for seeking Mrs. Isherton. Mrs. Layston had finally reached her last granddaughter, and even Mrs. Isherton’s eyes looked slightly glazed.
Alethea interrupted before Mrs. Layston could launch into her grandsons as well. “Ladies, have you heard ought of Count Escalari? Will he arrive tonight?”
“Oh, not tonight,” Mrs. Layston said. “He is expected tomorrow.”
Excellent. Alethea might meet him this week. “He will be a refreshing addition to our society.”
“Indeed,” Mrs. Isherton said. “I believe he enjoys music a great deal, so you may have much to speak about with him.”
Alethea stayed to hear Mrs. Layston as she indeed spoke of each of her grandsons, then excused herself. The pianoforte was still abandoned, so she returned to her spot. She was almost immediately joined again by Lord Ravenhurst and Lord Ian.
“I had wondered where you were,” Lord Ian said. “If I am not mistaken, Raven was most desperate for you to come and tell us that Lady Morrish had need of us or something or other.”
“I was nothing of the sort.” Lord Ravenhurst jerkily adjusted his cravat and turned his back to the general direction of the two ladies they had been speaking to.
Lord Ian’s face grew hard as he said, “I congratulate you in that you managed to escape Mr. Kinnier.”
“I would think you and the gentleman have much in common,” she said carefully.
Lord Ian looked offended. “Not likely.”
She didn’t wish to pry. “I left him in order to find out more about Count Escalari. He is expected in Bath tomorrow.”
“In answer to your previous question, I would be honoured to introduce you to him,” Lord Ravenhurst said.
“Thank you, my lord.” She hesitated. “I heard gossip about Lord Dommick that concerned me.”
Lord Ravenhurst and Lord Ian looked more worried than she would have expected about an idle rumour. “What was it?”
She repeated what she had heard about the false violin and Dommick’s inability to see through the ruse. “I would not have thought much of it if Mr. Kinnier had not mentioned the same slur earlier.”
Lord Ravenhurst looked grave. “He will be distressed over the repercussions of the gossip upon Clare and his mother.”
Alethea could envision how the rumours might harm Clare’s debut. “The way to counter people’s opinions would be to quickly capture the violin thief.”
Lord Ravenhurst looked to Ian. “Perhaps these new rumours will cause Bayard to revisit his earlier objections to having Alethea play her violin at our concert.”
Lord Ian winked at Alethea. “Have you been practicing?”
“Of course.” In addition to Dommick’s concerto, Lord Ian had given her music for concertos he and Lord Ravenhurst had recently completed as well as two popular pieces the Quartet had played in London years ago. She diligently practiced second violin for all five pieces, but Dommick’s violin concerto was her favourite. Something about it made her almost uncomfortable, as though it exposed some vulnerability of the composer that she was not meant to see, but perhaps she was feeling guilty that Dommick did not know she had a copy of his music.
“Practicing what?” Lord Ravenhurst demanded.
“I sent her copies of the two concertos you and I recently finished writing.”
Lord Ravenhurst’s eyebrows rose, although he did not look unduly upset to hear this.
Lord Ian flipped his hair away from his forehead as he continued, “And I sent her a copy of Bay’s newest violin piece.”
Lord Ravenhurst did not quite roll his eyes, but he did look up at the moulding on the ceiling. “He will kill you.”
“I didn’t give the pieces to Lady Alethea with the intention of featuring her in the concert, but I’m beginning to believe it to be a good idea.”
Alethea smiled at him. “I shall wait for you both to speak to Lord Dommick. In the meantime, what will be the harm in practicing ahead of time?”
“I am sorry, milord, but Lord Ravenhurst is not in,” Raven’s valet told Bayard.
“Where did he go?” Bayard asked.
“I believe he and Lord Ian were intending to call upon Mrs. Garen.”
Bayard hurried out of the house and walked toward Queen Square. He had heard this morning that the Count of Escalari had arrived in Bath, and Bayard wanted Raven to arrange an interview with him so he could show him the initials from the violin.
It was barely ten o’clock in the morning, and it seemed odd for Raven and Ian to visit Alethea. Or perhaps they had some errand to run for his mother that involved Mrs. Garen.
He did not want to ponder the suspicion that perhaps one or both of his friends were romantically inclined toward Alethea. After all, what would it be to him? He could not become intimate with any woman, not while the nightmares still plagued him. He must first conquer his problems before he could risk letting anyone close to him.
The day was cold, so he walked quickly, but his mind returned to the two letters he had received this morning, both from his contacts in London with connections to the Italian nobility. Neither had known of any Italian nobles with those initials. His investigation was at an impasse.
He was forced to consider Alethea’s suggestion of using her and the violin as bait in their concert in two weeks. Everything within himself rejected the notion of putting her in such a dangerous situation, but he saw the wisdom of her plan, and a part of him even applauded her courage.
Was it courage or foolhardiness? He didn’t know.
He was approaching the house when he heard strains of music. The sound was faint, so at first he believed it was only a single violin, but as he drew nearer, he realized it was two. Was Ian playing with Alethea? Perhaps she had wanted more instruction in the instrument. Was she so much more comfortable with Ian that she would ask him for help and not Bayard?
It was after he had knocked on the door that he recognized the piece they were playing.
It was his.
It was untitled. He had started it the morning after meeting Alethea again in Bath. He had poured more of himself into that composition than he had felt in a long time. She was in every line, every measure. His frustrations, his attraction to her, even the nebulous intensity stirring deep inside had been written into that piece. It was a private part of him. It was a real part of him, which he hadn’t had the courage to show to anyone else. Even Ian and Raven did not quite understand him in this inner place, but he had written the piece because somehow he knew, from that first short, tense conversation, that Alethea would understand him. And it made him afraid.
And she was playing it.
The butler opened the door, but Bayard could only stare in shock. Bayard looked down at his waistcoat. He had been ripped open. He should be bleeding.
“My lord?”
Somehow she had gotten possession of it and was playing it.
He suddenly saw only a red, blazing haze before his eyes. He pushed past the startled butler, and before he knew it, he was at the drawing room door and slamming it open.
Mrs. Garen started in her seat near the fireplace. Bayard’s gaze swung around the room and came to rest on Alethea and Ian standing in front of two music stands, with Raven sitting at the table nearby.
“How dare you?” he demanded.
Ian hastily put down his violin. “Bay, listen—”
He suddenly understood how she had acquired that particular piece of music. Ian must have taken it from the music room, made a copy for her, and then replaced it before Bayard knew it had been missing. Why that music? Of all the pieces he could have taken?
“How could you take it and give it to her?” It was coming out all wrong but he couldn’t stop himself.
“Lord Dommick!” Mrs. Garen’s strident tones sliced through his pain, his shock. She had risen and stood tall and magnificent, horrified by this spectacle, ready to instill order.
He did not want order. He wanted to be rid of this feeling that Alethea had somehow seen inside him.
Dommick turned and left, pounding down the stairs and out the front door.
He didn’t remember the walk back to the Crescent. He remembered the cold wind, which at some point swept away his hat so that he arrived at the front door hatless.
That piece of music. He had wondered what he would do with it, if he would ever have the courage to show it to her. He had wondered what it would sound like if she played it, and yet a part of him had not wanted to think about it. She could never see it. No one could see it, or they would immediately know his confusion and weakness.
Oh, God, how could you let this happen?
The butler gave him a startled look when he entered the house, but quickly dissolved his curiosity into an unobservant mask. Bayard didn’t remember him removing his greatcoat. He suddenly found himself in the drawing room. He had come here out of habit, but he did not want to be here. He needed to be alone. He turned almost immediately to leave when the nearly inaudible sobs stopped him.
Mama sat alone upon the sofa, face buried in her handkerchief, trying not to cry out loud.
“Mama,” he whispered.
Her hand flew to her mouth. She turned her face away, trying to staunch the tears still falling. Her shoulders were hunched and shaking.
He was by her side in a moment, arm around her, pushing her face into his shoulder. He had held her like this earlier this year, in London, when he had come across her after the visit of some of her “friends” who had relayed the vicious rumours about the “Mad Baron.”
Last night at the dinner party he had attended, he had heard new rumours. People were disparaging his abilities, and the remembrances of the “Mad Baron” had been resurrected.
“All will be well, Mama.”
“It will not.” She sobbed even more. He caught her cries in the superfine of his coat, wiped her tears with his cravat.
She calmed enough for her breath to no longer come in gasps. “Bayard, Mr. Morrish attempted to kiss Clare, and she slapped him.”
His hand on her back clenched into a fist. In a low voice he said, “When did this happen?”
“Today, upstairs in the hallway outside her bedchamber. He should not have been there.” Her voice rose at the end of her sentence. “I ordered him out of the house. Sir Hermes is to return from the hot baths soon. I don’t know what I shall tell him.”
“I will speak to him.”
“No.” She inhaled a shaky breath. “I will speak to him. Clare is my daughter. It must come from me.” She sobbed once, then said, “I should have listened to you.”
“Don’t think that, Mama.”
“I did not like Mr. Morrish’s behaviour no matter what he said to Sir Hermes, but I did not want to displease him.” She began crying again.
He tightened his arms around her. All his life, he remembered his mother nervously wanting to please his exacting father and hurt by his cold reaction when she did not. His father never publicly humiliated his mother, but the servants knew he berated her behind closed doors. His children knew how he had insulted her.
Bayard had shown his father respect, but they never spoke of his father’s behaviour toward his mother. When he died last summer, Bayard could not say he missed him.
He wanted to always protect his mother, but he had been able to do nothing about his father’s treatment of her. He had been able to do nothing as his mother agreed with everything Sir Hermes decided about his nephew.
He could do nothing now, but he would not leave her alone.
“You are no longer welcome in my house.”
Sir Hermes’s pronouncement was not said in a loud voice, but Bayard heard it echoing off the high ceiling of the front entrance foyer. Mr. Morrish had not yet even divested himself of his hat or coat.
Sir Hermes stood before his nephew, his round face no longer jovial. He looked like a wild boar, small but dangerous. His expression did not change as Mr. Morrish attempted to explain.
“Uncle, I assure you—”
“You can say nothing that would induce me to change my mind.”
Watching this scene from the first landing of the stairs, Bayard tightened his arms around his mother on one side and Clare on the other. His sister had buried her face in his shoulder, but his mother watched her husband with eyes wide despite the tears falling from them. Her arm around Bayard’s waist tightened.
“I wanted to believe you,” Sir Hermes said. “I thought you were like your mother, who was always misunderstood, who was lighthearted and loved a good joke. But you have caused pain to my wife and insulted my stepdaughter.”
“Uncle—”
“You made Lady Morrish cry, you cad!”
And Bayard then understood how he had misjudged his stepfather. Sir Hermes was a bit of a fool, but it sprang from his tendency to only see the good in people, even though they would deceive him. And despite his faults, Sir Hermes did truly love his mother and would do anything to keep her happy.
Sir Hermes signaled to the butler, who stood like a statue against the wall during this exchange. The servant opened the door, letting in a freezing column of air that swirled around Bayard’s legs and made his sister’s muslin dress flap around her ankles.
Mr. Morrish stood in a state of indecision, unsure if he ought to try to cajole his uncle or give in to the anger simmering behind his pale eyes. Then his gaze fell on Bayard and Clare, and a sneer settled upon his mouth.
He turned and left, and the butler shut the door with a snap.
Sir Hermes seemed to deflate. Lady Morrish rushed down the stairs and embraced him, acting as a crutch as she stumbled up the stairs with him. Bayard approached them to help, but Mama waved him away. They continued up the staircase to their bedchamber.
Clare took Bayard’s hand, just as she used to do when they were children. He drew her to the music room and sat her down in a chair. “How are you feeling?”
“I am well. He frightened me at first, but he was so shocked when I struck him that I was able to run back into my room.”
“Where was your maid?” He had hired Lucy specifically to protect his sister.
“Don’t blame her, Bay. She was in my bedchamber, putting away my clothes. I chose to go downstairs on my own. I did not know Mr. Morrish was in the house or that he would dare venture to the second floor.”
“He should have been watched more carefully.”
“You could hardly order a footman to shadow him, Bay. And he would not have heeded a servant. He tried to prevent Lucy from informing Mama, but she evaded him. When Mama ordered him from the house, he said the most horrid things about spreading rumours about me.”
Bayard paced the floor. Rumours and lies had become the invisible enemy he could not vanquish. He could not shoot a lie or run his sword through an innuendo. And the worst of it was that he could not protect his family from them either.
He felt so helpless. Of what use was he if not to protect them?
He had to bring an end to all this, to solve the mystery of the violin. It would accomplish everything—the danger to his family and to Alethea would cease, it would bring him and Clare the éclat of Lady Whittlesby’s concert in the spring, and that would counter any rumours Mr. Morrish might spread so that they wouldn’t impact Clare’s season or hurt his mother.
Alethea had been right. He would have to be more aggressive.
He paused, his throat tightening at the memory of this morning, hearing his music played by her violin. He was aware that he had hurt her, although not intentionally. He had been lashing out at Ian and the words came out wrong. He could apologize, but he didn’t know what would make her understand his hurt, his frustration, this feeling that he was raw and bleeding.
His father would mock him. Men were not to feel hurt. They were to fight through the pain. And Bayard had done so, all through the Peninsula until Corunna, where he had seen the gates of hell.
Now he was a weak shell of who he had once been, trying to hide the fact that he had returned from war with something broken in his mind.
“Bay, what should we do?” Clare’s voice brought him back to the music room, to the slight chill in the air not dispelled by the numerous fireplaces.
“Act on the offensive.”