That ugly prickle began along the back of her shoulders just as Alethea turned onto Milsom Street.
She took a deep breath, then continued on her way, head erect and eyes forward. She stopped at a print shop with large windows and peered at the reflection in the glass.
The sun was fitful today, peeking out only occasionally from behind heavy grey clouds, so she could not see as clearly as she would have liked. Many people paraded up and down the street, winding in and out of the small shops that lined the road, oblivious to Alethea’s unease. She searched the crowds in the reflection of the glass, but no one looked at her, no one loitered nearby.
What had she expected to see in the reflection? A dark hooded figure staring at her from across the street? She continued down Milsom Street.
She didn’t know what made her look slightly behind her and across the street. It wasn’t a sound, for a carriage was rumbling by and a group of old women chattered in front of her. But she turned and in the brief gap between the horses and the carriage, she saw the same cadaverous man she’d seen in the marketplace, and he was looking directly at her.
This time the prickle was a shiver that shot straight through her spine.
Then the carriage’s movement blocked her view for a few seconds, and when it had passed, the man had disappeared. There were two shop doors nearby where he’d been standing, so perhaps he had ducked inside one of them.
And was watching her, unobserved, from behind the shop windows.
She would not give him the satisfaction. She hurried down the street, out of sight of the two shops, and when she had turned the corner, she immediately entered the shop there, which was a bookshop and stationers.
The cool space smelled of paper and leather and ink. Alethea’s heartbeat slowed at the familiar scents and the soothing ruffling of pages. She made her way to a bookcase near the large bay window and picked a book at random, pretending to read while studying each person who passed the shop outside.
“Alethea, what a happy meeting.”
She started, then turned with real warmth for her sister. After the tension of the last few minutes, her cheeks felt tight as she smiled. “Lucy, happy meeting, indeed.” Lucy tried to back away, but Alethea stepped forward to kiss her cheek.
“You shouldn’t be seen kissing a maid, Alethea.”
“I don’t care what people think, and you certainly don’t dress like a maid.” In fact, she was wearing an amber-coloured dress Alethea had given to her at Christmas that brought out flecks of gold in her dark brown eyes, a slightly lighter shade than Alethea’s. “What are you doing here?”
“Running an errand for Mrs. Ramsland.” Lucy made a small gesture with her arms, full of paper and ink. Then her eyes narrowed as she studied Alethea’s face. “What has upset you?”
“Nothing.”
Lucy glared at her.
Alethea sighed. “It’s silly. I thought I saw that man from the marketplace. The thin one whom I thought was watching me but probably wasn’t,” she added emphatically.
“You saw him on Milsom Street?”
“It was only for a second. He disappeared so perhaps he wasn’t even there.” Alethea glanced outside the shop windows, but the people passing by were few. The tension across her shoulders began to ease.
Lucy’s brows crinkled. “Alethea, this is becoming frightful.”
“Bath isn’t London. It’s entirely possible I could have seen the same man from the marketplace if he lives in Bath. I’m simply nervous after what happened with my room.”
“What happened to your room?” Lucy asked.
Alethea had forgotten that the incident had been after Lucy’s last Sunday visit and before her next one. “Er . . .” Alethea pulled at her earlobe as she frantically thought about how she could tell Lucy the events without causing her to have a fit.
Her sister knew her too well. “Oh, simply tell me, Alethea.”
“Someone went through my room Sunday morning when we were at church.”
Lucy’s mouth opened for several seconds before she remembered to close it. “And after that man at the marketplace and that offensive Mr. Golding . . .”
“I don’t know that they’re connected, but it is a possibility.”
“Did he steal anything?”
“Nothing. Not even jewelry.”
“But Margaret and Mrs. Dodd were in the kitchen.” Lucy shuddered.
“They heard nothing, but it worries me that someone entered the house during the day, no less, while they were there.”
Lucy suddenly looked around. “Alethea, where is your maid?”
“Most of the fashionable set isn’t awake yet to see me maidless.”
“You are too used to country ways. You cannot go unaccompanied, and after the intruder, it would be safer if you had someone with you.”
Alethea had not thought of that. “You are right. I shall take a maid next time.”
“Alethea.” Lucy juggled the paper and ink she held in order to reach out to take her hand. “Is the violin really worth the possible danger to yourself and your family?”
“You want me to simply hand Mr. Golding my violin?”
“Think of Margaret and your aunt.”
Because she’d been left on her own at Trittonstone Park for most of her life, Alethea’s actions had rarely affected others’ safety. The newly realized responsibility seemed odd to her, settling upon her shoulders almost like a physical weight, forcing her to be stronger. Her life was now more than just her own.
But the image of giving her violin to Mr. Golding sent a wave of nausea up from her stomach and she tightened her throat. When she looked at her violin, she remembered the sunroom at Arkright Manor, the way the morning light would caress the wood of the violin almost reverently as Calandra played, her eyes closed in concentration and adoration of the music. The musical pieces would evoke emotions from Alethea like a bouquet of handpicked flowers—the bright joy of a child’s laughter, the cool stillness of the downs at dawn, the warmth and comfort of a crackling fire while rain pelted the windows. Alethea remembered the tenderness in Calandra’s hand on her head as she gave the violin to her, saying, “Now you try it, Alethea.”
Later, when Calandra grew too ill to play, Alethea would play for her in that sunroom, following her mentor’s verbal instructions until she made the music sound almost like tangible emotions. Alethea and Calandra would both be in tears at the end of the piece, and they’d laugh as they reached for their handkerchiefs. “What is music if it does not move you?” Calandra had told her.
Alethea realized she hadn’t played that way in a long time, not since Calandra had died. Now she was reduced to bright pieces on pianofortes at evening parties that most people would talk through rather than listen to. No shared tears, no musical pieces of powerful feeling. Her acquaintances in Bath already considered her an oddity for her intense attention during concerts. They would never understand how a concerto could make her cry. She was reminded that she had no one in her life who understood that deepest part of her, and it made her feel desolate.
She was brought out of her sad memories by the squeeze of Lucy’s fingers on her hand. “I’m sorry, I didn’t intend to cause you to miss her again.”
“It’s been years. It shouldn’t still be so painful.”
“It’s because no one else understands you as Lady Arkright did.”
“I can’t sell my violin, Lucy. It would break my heart.” Alethea took a deep breath, feeling a little better now that she had acknowledged that fact aloud. “And I will not let a stranger take this last shred of her memory from me. I will stop them.”
Lucy nodded as she withdrew her hand. “Now, where are you going? I will accompany you and then see you home before I return to Mrs. Ramsland.”
“You oughtn’t do that. You might fall into disfavour with your employer.”
“You are my sister. You’re more important.” The look in Lucy’s eyes was Alethea’s anchor, the one connection in her life that shone brighter than the sun and was stronger than steel.
“I wanted to stop at Porter’s bookshop to see if he had any new music, but that can wait for another day.”
After Lucy paid for her employer’s items, they exited the bookshop. Alethea looked around but didn’t see the cadaverous man, so she breathed deeply of the morning air as the sisters walked slowly toward Queen Square.
“Did Lady Whittlesby give you the name of someone to help you with your violin?” Lucy asked.
Lord Dommick’s lean, handsome face flashed before her eyes. “Yes,” she answered darkly. “He’s calling this afternoon, the arrogant man.”
Lucy looked thoughtful. “You may not realize this, but you only ever spoke of one man with that kind of venom.”
Oh, no.
“Let me guess. A nobleman, taller than you, for a change. Dark hair, velvety black eyes—”
“He does not have velvety black eyes. And how would you know?”
“Because that’s how you described him to me eleven years ago.” Lucy grinned at her.
Alethea threw up her hands. “I confess, yes, it’s Lord Dommick.”
“I knew he would stay in Bath, despite your speculations about it after you saw his carriage.”
“He has no reason to winter in a quiet town like Bath when he could be feted in London or attend numerous house parties or just sit and count his violins at his own estate in the country.”
“Did you give him a piece of your mind when you met again?”
“It was at the assembly last night and I properly offended him. Twice.”
“And he’s to help you with your violin?”
“Lady Whittlesby introduced us and dangled her annual concert like a carrot in front of him if he helped me. I could have called him a nincompoop, and he’d have smiled and thanked me.”
“I think you’re disgruntled because you think he wouldn’t be induced to help you without Lady Whittlesby’s interference.”
“Well, he wouldn’t.”
“Perhaps he’s changed.”
“Perhaps he hasn’t,” Alethea muttered. Louder, she said, “I don’t have a choice. I can’t investigate the provenance of the violin on my own—I don’t have the contacts or the resources, and being a woman, I’m less likely to receive answers to any inquiries I send. I need someone to help me. I need Lord Dommick to help me.”
“And you certainly look cheerful about it. Positively delighted.”
Alethea laughed. “I promise to behave when I see him today.”
At that moment, they turned the corner. Alethea happened to look across the street, slightly behind them.
The cadaverous man stood at the corner. Watching her.
She saw him more clearly this time. His skin wasn’t as dirty as it had been at the marketplace, but it still had that wrinkled, leathery texture that made him appear very old. Yet he didn’t hold his bony body like an old man—his limbs were fluid and comfortable as he slumped against the golden stone wall of a building, his clothing a motley of shades of grey. The colours matched his wiry, thinning hair that floated around his wide ears and his grey, almost colourless, eyes.
He looked directly at her, and then smiled.
It wasn’t a pleasant smile. He tilted his knobby chin up and flashed his dirty, crooked teeth—one missing from the front—like a challenge to her.
And this time she was with her sister.
She made the mistake of glancing at Lucy, who hadn’t seen him, and then back at the man.
He smiled wider, his eyes narrowing.
No. She wouldn’t let him intimidate her.
Alethea turned her back and grasped hold of Lucy’s elbow in a firm but casual grip. “Tell me, to what heights has Mrs. Ramsland attained in selfish bitterness this week?” She was surprised her voice sounded almost normal, and since a cart rolled past them, Lucy didn’t notice the slight tremor.
Lucy shook her head. “Speaking of Mrs. Ramsland would only upset me, and I must be calm when I return to her today.”
“Oh, Lucy, surely there is another position to be had in Bath.”
“The winter season is starting, so I am hopeful there will be some gentlewoman in need of a new lady’s maid. I only wonder how I shall hear of any positions available since I am with Mrs. Ramsland and catering to her complaints all day.”
Lucy had told Alethea about those complaints. Things like being quick to accuse Lucy of taking things that she herself had misplaced, and deliberately demanding hip baths late the night before she knew Lucy would need to rise early in order to do her duties before taking her half day off. “I shall keep my ears open,” Alethea said.
“And Mrs. Ramsland at least allows me a half day off a week. Some employers conveniently forget.”
As her sister rambled on about other employers she had heard about, Alethea walked beside her, her back straight as a fireplace poker and her head held high, while in her chest, her heart thundered.
For the first time, she was glad Lord Dommick was calling this afternoon. The sooner she discovered who was after her violin and why, the sooner she could stop them, and stop the threat to her family.
Bayard had a raging headache. Between the irritation of Mr. Morrish’s excessive solicitude toward Clare last night and the dread of his eminent meeting with a woman as prickly as a hedgehog, he felt as if a coach-and-four had run over him.
Lord Ian found it all vastly entertaining.
Ian leaned back against the squabs of the carriage and gave Bayard a wide grin that made his dimples stand out even through the dark gold shadow on his cheeks. “You look like you’re heading to a funeral, old man.”
Bayard scowled at him. “I look nothing of the sort.”
Ian shrugged, raised a hand to flip a lock of hair out of his eyes, and stared out the carriage. Still grinning.
Bayard cleared his throat and said, “Last night, when you went to the ladies’ withdrawing room to find Clare, Morrish was waiting for her?”
“When he saw me, Morrish looked as if he’d swallowed a fork,” Ian said gleefully. “He told me that I needn’t wait for Clare, that he’d knocked on the door and inquired of the maid, but Clare’s hem wasn’t finished yet.”
Bayard frowned. “She could have sewn an entire dress in the time I was speaking to Lady Alethea.”
“I said something along those lines—although with much more elegance and wit.”
Bayard rolled his eyes.
“I knocked on the door and spoke to the maid, and Clare was out in a trice. When I escorted her back to the ballroom, I must say, Bay, you needn’t have been rushing toward us as if she’d been abducted.”
“Clare’s dowry is seventy-five thousand pounds,” Bayard said. “I dare you to walk calmly when that rackety fortune hunter had deliberately arranged to remove her from the room.”
“Well, when you put it in those terms . . .”
Bayard suddenly felt the damp coldness of the winter in his bones. He was in Bath for the sake of his mother and sister—he could not fail to protect them. Lord God, help me to protect them. He cleared his throat and studied the shine on his Hessian boots. “Thank you for going to her, Ian.”
“Wouldn’t want the brat getting lost,” Ian answered casually, “not with her debut this spring.”
At mention of Clare’s season, tension squeezed the back of Bayard’s neck and shoulders. He needed to repair his reputation after being ruined by his former betrothed, Miss Church-Pratton. While Lady Whittlesby’s concert would accomplish that, if he were to be seen associating too often with a woman who played the violin, would people think him an oddity and cast doubts on his sanity, fueled by the old rumours?
Did he have a choice? Lady Whittlesby’s concert came with the price of interacting with the brash Lady Alethea Sutherton.
“It’s a pity a woman so beautiful is so aggressive and unconventional,” Bayard said.
Ian’s eyebrows completely disappeared behind that lock of hair over his forehead. “I take it we’re no longer speaking about Clare?”
“What?”
Ian gave him a sly smile. “Lady Alethea, eh? Now that’s interesting.”
“What are you prattling on about?”
“I’m not the one babbling about beautiful women, for once.”
Bayard looked out the window. His cravat seemed a trifle tight. With relief he saw Alethea’s aunt’s home in Queen Square. “Ah, here we are. Thank you for the lift, Ian. I’ll walk home later.”
“No, we’ll both walk back.” Ian gave him a wicked grin. “I have a burning desire to further my acquaintance with the fair Lady Alethea now that you’ve described her as ‘aggressive and unconventional.’ ”
Bayard glowered at him. “What of your call to your mother’s friend today?”
“I will visit her tomorrow.” Ian exited the carriage. “You don’t intend to spend all day in there, do you, old chap?”
Bayard stepped down in front of Mrs. Garen’s house. “Lady Alethea may not appreciate your presence. This is a sensitive matter for her.”
“I have never had a woman object to my presence. Unlike you.”
Ian instructed his coachman, and Bayard rapped upon the front door.
Suddenly a sound blasted out of the house, putting Bayard in mind of a screeching cat clinging to the back of a runaway horse.
“What was that?” Ian had clapped his hands over his ears.
“Regret joining me?” Bayard said. Accomplished violin player, indeed! Lady Whittlesby was getting on in age to describe Lady Alethea’s skill in such lofty terms. The screeching seemed to make the wood of the door rattle against its hinges.
The butler opened the door, cotton stuffed in his ears. “You are expected, gentlemen,” he said in a loud voice.
“I am Lord Dommick, and this is Lord Ian Wynnman.”
“Very good. If you would follow me?” The butler led them up a carpeted staircase while yet another screech from the floor above echoed off the walls of the high-ceilinged foyer and the marble floor. The butler’s shoulders visibly twitched at the cacophony. Then the sound stopped.
However, just as they reached the landing, Bayard heard a new violin sound, a low, throbbing note that seemed to grow from the foundation of the house, soft at first and rising in volume until it hovered in the air like an autumn leaf fallen from a tree and kept aloft by a breeze. Then the note broke into a series of triplets, each sound as delicate as a flower.
Bayard stopped. The player was . . . exquisite. Even more, the instrument had an unusual tone he couldn’t quite describe, mellow and smooth like the softest leather, the downy coat of a puppy, the velvety petals of a rose.
Ian had stopped also, his mouth open.
The music transitioned up an octave, and suddenly the sound became brighter than a sunlit day, more brilliant than a jeweled necklace. The sweet, high notes reminded him of his sister’s smile, his mother’s laughter, the aching joy in his heart as he rode neck-or-nothing across the fields at Terralton Abbey.
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?”
“An object’s history,” Bayard said. “Tracing the proof of an instrument’s creation and ownership.”
“We shall tell your mother, Bay,” Ian said with a grin. “And it’ll be all over Bath by nightfall. Then no one will question why you’re visiting so often.”
But they might still talk about his helping a female violin player. Unless . . . “Are many people aware that you play the violin?” he asked Lady Alethea.
Her eyes glinted and her jaw tightened. She knew why he was asking. He was suddenly ashamed of himself. He could not blame her for being upset, because his question—and his concern for his reputation—was insulting to her. She could not know his worry about how his reputation impacted his sister and mother.
“Only my sister, Lucy,” she said.
Ian stood and bowed. “Thank you for your time, ladies.”
“I will walk you to the door, gentlemen.” Lady Alethea’s smile was frosty.
In the entrance foyer, after the butler had returned their greatcoats and hats to them, Lady Alethea turned to Bayard, who immediately steeled himself. Ian was quick to move to a far corner of the foyer so he could not overhear—or, more likely, be swept up in the ire of—Lady Alethea’s conversation.
Her voice was low but calm. “I understand your hesitation to believe how anyone could want my violin, but my concern is that since you do not take my assertions seriously, I do not trust you to be as careful with my instrument as you would if you believed me.”
He saw her reasoning, although her distrust of him stung. But there was also some emotion throbbing underneath her words that he sensed had nothing to do with him, which fueled her defensiveness. Someone, or perhaps many people, had been the root of her distrust.
However, he was to bear the thrust of it.
She continued, “Your carelessness might allow it to be stolen. You would not deliberately allow that, but I cannot know that you would be as conscientious as I would like you to be.”
The hedgehog was forever pricking at him. “I understand your concern, Lady Alethea.” His voice was clipped. “I will not undertake this charge lightly.”
She hesitated, then stepped back and curtsied. “Thank you for calling.”
Bayard could not leave the house quickly enough. Since Ian had sent his carriage back, they walked to the other end of Queen Square to head back to the Crescent.
“Lady Alethea certainly does not think highly of you, my friend,” Ian said quite unnecessarily. “What did you do to provoke her?”
“Why is it my fault?” He had only stated the normal societal opinion about women and violins, for goodness’ sake.
“Because it’s often the man’s fault,” Ian said sagely.
“But it was eleven years ago.”
“Was it, now? You must have made quite an impression on the lady. And she on you, apparently.”
“I barely remembered her.”
“Indeed,” Ian said in a voice that clearly indicated he would be more likely to jump in the Avon than believe Bayard.
Bayard lengthened his stride. The sooner he was able to uncover the provenance of the violin, the better. For his sanity, at least.
“The sooner he uncovers the information about my violin, the better,” Alethea said as she returned to the drawing room after seeing the gentlemen out. “If only for my sanity.”
“And my peace,” Aunt Ebena said. “Was it necessary to argue with him?”
“I might have been a bit combative,” Alethea said grudgingly, “but he stopped short of calling me a liar about someone trying to steal the violin.”
“You are entirely too sensitive,” Aunt Ebena said.
Which was ironic since Alethea had needed to become a great deal less sensitive since living with Aunt Ebena.
“I tend to agree with him,” Aunt Ebena said. “Why your violin? Surely there are others more famous, or older, or crafted with more—”
They both stopped at the sound of a thump from directly above their heads.
“Is that . . . my bedchamber?” Alethea said.
“You have become overly suspicious,” Aunt Ebena said. “It could very well be mine. Although I don’t know why Brooks would be there at this time of day.”
“Shall I go up to see?” Alethea exited the drawing room before her aunt could object. She had been badly frightened two days ago, but the anxiety of waiting in the kitchen while the butler searched the house had made her feel as though her nerves were on fire. She would not be cowering again while someone else searched the house. “Dodd,” she called as she entered the hallway, but then was surprised to see Aunt Ebena’s dresser heading toward her. “Mrs. Brooks? But we thought . . .”
“I heard a noise in Mrs. Garen’s bedchamber,” Mrs. Brooks said, her hand twisting the fabric at her throat. “I was about to go upstairs to look in on her.”
“Brooks?” Aunt Ebena appeared in the drawing room doorway. “But if you’re here . . .”
Who was in Aunt Ebena’s room?
“Dodd!” Alethea called with more urgency, and the butler appeared at the stairs. “With me, please.” Alethea hurried upstairs.
“Alethea, don’t be foolish,” Aunt Ebena called after her.
The corridor was empty, all the bedchamber doors closed. If one of the maids were in a room, the door would have been cracked open. All was quiet but for soft sounds that floated up from the kitchen on the ground floor.
Alethea was no more than two steps down the corridor when she again heard a thump. It wasn’t from Aunt Ebena’s room.
It was from hers.
Dodd tensed beside her. He took a long stride to place himself between Alethea and her closed bedchamber door.
“How could a stranger have entered the house?” Alethea whispered.
“A window?” Dodd said. “I have made sure all the doors are locked, even during the day.”
A stranger in her room, searching for what he did not find the last time?
They slowly approached her door, careful to make no sound on the rug that ran the length of the wooden floor. As they passed a hall table, Dodd grabbed a heavy brass candlestick while Alethea made free with a bud vase from which she removed the flowers.
Dodd laid his hand gently on the door latch without rattling it, hesitated a moment, then swiftly opened the door.
A squeak pierced Alethea’s ears as she followed Dodd into her room. Margaret stood near Alethea’s dresser. At the sight of the two of them, she dropped the petticoats in her arms, which she had removed from the open drawer.
“Margaret!” Alethea set the vase on a nearby table. “What are you doing in my room?”
“Looking for your treasure.”
Alethea sighed. “I told you I didn’t have any treasure.”
“If you had treasure, of course you’d say you didn’t have any.”
Dodd cleared his throat. He stood correctly near the open door, the candlestick held in his hands as if he’d picked it up to polish it.
“Dodd, could you please explain to my aunt?”
He nodded and headed back downstairs.
Margaret’s eyes gleamed. “Did you think I was an intruder? What were you going to do?”
“If you were an intruder, we wouldn’t be having this conversation,” Alethea said. “And now, you will pick up everything you have messed up.”
“The maids will do it.”
“No, they will not. You created this mayhem, so you will clean up.”
Alethea was perhaps a touch more exacting in her demands as she directed Margaret to folding and replacing the petticoats she’d dropped, and straightening the bedclothes she’d rummaged around in while searching under the mattress. Margaret grumbled the entire time, and by the time they headed back to the drawing room, Alethea had decided to put the girl on bread and water until she was twenty-five. Or thereabouts.
Aunt Ebena was more sanguine. She had rung for a pot of tea. When Margaret reached for a jam tart, Aunt Ebena gave a decided, “No,” and a look that would have curdled milk.
“But I didn’t intend to upset anyone,” Margaret said.
“You violated your cousin’s privacy,” Aunt Ebena said.
Margaret sulked and slurped her tea loudly.
Alethea bit into a jam tart with exaggerated relish. “I apologize for alarming you, Aunt, but what was I to think after the frightening events of two days ago?”
“It wasn’t frightening . . . ,” Margaret began, but was stopped by her aunt’s harrumph as she cleared her throat.
“Indeed.” Aunt Ebena, who rarely ate sweets, picked up a jam tart and took a small bite.
Margaret sighed and stared longingly.
“Such a violation to have someone going through my things.” Alethea polished off her tart and took another.
“Really, what were you thinking?” Aunt Ebena sipped her tea.
“I’m-sorry-I-won’t-do-it-again-could-I-please-have-a-tart-before-Alethea-eats-them-all?” Margaret said in a rush.
Aunt Ebena tilted her head toward Alethea.
“I’m sorry for entering your room and looking for your treasure,” Margaret said.
“For the last time, I do not have a treasure.” Alethea set a tart on Margaret’s plate.
Margaret bit into the tart. “If I had known someone was in your room, I would have used one of Mrs. Dodd’s knives and stabbed him through the heart.”
“I had no idea you were so bloodthirsty,” Alethea murmured.
“That would be extremely foolhardy and dangerous,” Aunt Ebena said.
“It would be brave. We have no man to protect us.”
“We have male servants and that is quite adequate,” Aunt Ebena said.
Was it adequate? “At the time Mr. Golding spoke to me, I did not know I would be putting you and Margaret in danger. If he should approach me again . . .”
“For a moment, let us consider the highly improbable notion that your violin is valuable enough for someone to acquire it by any means necessary.” Aunt Ebena sniffed. “When men covet a particular item, possessing it is not always adequate. Could you guarantee that the thief would allow us all to live with the raging injustice of having it stolen from us? Would he not imagine us to be scheming to get it back?”
“Wouldn’t he rest in the belief that he has escaped detection?”
“Not if he plays the violin in public.”
“So he would try to harm us even after getting the violin?” Margaret licked jam from the corner of her mouth. “I might still get to stab him with Mrs. Dodd’s knife.”
“You will stab no one. That is not my point. Use your napkin,” Aunt Ebena added. “My point is that bullies never stop.”
Alethea had never considered Mr. Golding in light of a bully. Her experience with bullies had been the village boys. She had promptly started a fistfight with the largest one, and they had all become fast friends.
Aunt Ebena took a sip of tea, then said to Alethea, “I had never thought you to be so weak that you would allow someone to bully you.”
Alethea’s neck and ears grew hot.
“We should never allow someone to bully us into doing something against what we know to be right, simply because it is easier to give in.” For a moment, there was a tightness around Aunt Ebena’s eyes and in her tone, but it was quickly gone, and Alethea did not feel comfortable asking about it.
“Even if my decision puts others in danger?” Alethea said.
“I am not fully convinced we are in danger,” Aunt Ebena said. “Was the thief indeed searching for your violin? Even if there were proof, I would advise you not to allow someone as vulgar as Mr. Golding to bully you into doing anything.”
Alethea could not see Aunt Ebena allowing anyone to bully her. “Lord Dommick made an observation about the violin belonging to an Italian nobleman because it was a custom order. You would not possibly be acquainted with any Italian noblemen, would you?”
Alethea had been half joking, but Aunt Ebena stared off into the far corner of the room.
“Aunt?”
“Tania, Lady Fairmont, is descended from an Italian count on her mother’s side,” Aunt Ebena said. “I would not have recalled that were she not holding her ball in a few days’ time.”
“Would Lady Fairmont be familiar with other Italian noble families and recognize the initials from the violin?”
“You will have to ask her.”
“Could we visit her?”
Aunt Ebena frowned. “Tania is planning the ball right now and probably would not be at home to visitors.”
“After the ball?”
“Unfortunately, three days after the ball she will be removing to her country estate for a few weeks. If she is preparing to move her household, she may not see me then either. You shall have to speak to her at the ball.”
Alethea chewed her lip. “A ball is not an ideal place to have a conversation.” She attended very few balls since Aunt Ebena disliked them and Alethea preferred listening to music rather than dancing to it, especially if the musicians were indifferent. However, Aunt Ebena would never miss an event by Lady Fairmont, one of her close friends and one of the most respected residents of Bath, so they were already expected.
“Your only other option would be to write,” Aunt Ebena said. “Do you want your answer or not?”
“Yes, you’re right.”
“You should copy the initials and show it to her,” Margaret suggested.
“That’s a good idea. I shall send a copy to Lord Dommick as well.”
“Tania may not know many Italian noble families or anyone with those initials,” Aunt Ebena said. “If she doesn’t, do not press her.”
“Or she may immediately know whom the initials refer to. Perhaps my problem will be solved before next week.” To not see Lord Dommick again, except for brief, cold exchanges at private parties and the assemblies, should cause her rejoicing and relief, but . . . that was before he’d played Vivaldi for her. And she had to admit that a part of her longed to see the expression on his face when she played a particularly difficult violin piece of his own composition as brilliantly as himself.
“I would not be so hopeful,” Aunt Ebena said.
Margaret sighed and swiped her finger through a drop of jam on her dress. “I still would have liked to stab the thief with Mrs. Dodd’s knife.”