The Beguilement of Lady Eustacia Cavanagh: The Cavanaughs Volume 3

by Stephanie Laurens

  Gracefully, she half bowed.

  Instinctively, he returned the gesture with elegant flair. And said nothing at all.

  With a subtle smile, she turned away and set her mare trotting.

  Frederick watched as she rode toward the Stanhope Gate, with her groom falling in behind her.

  Until next we meet had been the words that had sprung to the tip of his tongue, but he hadn’t uttered them.

  He remained inclined to refuse her request, yet some impulse argued increasingly stridently against that tack. Whether that impulse was fueled by his suspicion that her proposal almost certainly had merit and he should, therefore, seriously consider it or merely by a wish to see what her next tactic might be, he couldn’t have said, yet he doubted this morning would be the last he saw of her.

  Theoretically, she might change her mind and pursue some other less-reticent principal performer. Against that, she patently knew what a drawcard he would be—an arrogant assessment, perhaps, yet entirely justified. Given he’d sequestered himself from the ton for more than a decade, refusing to play at even his mother’s or sisters’ events, his earlier performances had attained a near-legendary status.

  If he deigned to sit before a piano at a ton event, the hordes would gather.

  Despite his entrenched resistance to her scheme to use him and his talent to draw attention to that of other musicians, he couldn’t fault her reasoning. Or her consequent plotting.

  He stirred, shook his reins, and set the black walking homeward.

  And inwardly admitted that, in viewing the upcoming days, the most intriguing prospect exercising his mind was what Stacie would do next.

  The following afternoon, Frederick opened the door to his favorite bookshop and strolled inside.

  A bell jangled loudly. After closing the door, Frederick paused to breathe in the aroma of parchments and glue and the musty scent that spoke of aged, even ancient, tomes.

  The poky little shop off Leicester Square was the domain of Mr. Griggs, musical bibliophile extraordinaire. Shelves covered both side walls, reaching up into the shadows, and four freestanding rows of shelves ran parallel to the walls down the length of the shop, creating alleys so narrow that Frederick had to turn slightly sideways to negotiate passage to the counter at the rear of the room.

  Daylight barely penetrated that far; when he reached the counter, Frederick saw that, as usual, Griggs had a shielded lamp burning.

  Frederick hadn’t muted his steps, yet only when he leaned on the counter did Griggs, a curmudgeonly sort, place a thick finger on the page he was reading and look up.

  Recognition flowed over Griggs’s heavy features, and he grunted. “It’s you.”

  Unperturbed by the reception, Frederick smiled. “Good afternoon, Griggs. How’s business?” That was Frederick’s customary invitation for Griggs to bend his ear about whatever books on musical history had recently fallen into the old man’s hands.

  Frederick had been haunting Griggs’s shop ever since he’d discovered it in his teens. Many of the volumes that now graced his library had passed through Griggs’s hands.

  “Well enough.” Griggs pushed off the stool on which he’d been perched and bent to reach beneath the counter. “I ’spect you’ll want to take a look at these books I got in from a contact in Switzerland.” Griggs rose, bearing a foot-high stack of unusual-sized volumes covered in old leather. “In German, they are, but you can read that, can’t you?”

  “I can, indeed,” Frederick said as Griggs placed the stack on the counter and handed over the first volume. Frederick took it, opened the cover, then arched his brows and shot Griggs a look. “A thesis?”

  Griggs nodded and hiked himself back onto his stool. “Seems some university library was wanting to thin their shelves. My contact couldn’t believe his luck.”

  “Hmm.” Frederick turned the pages with care. The discards of learned institutions had supplied a goodly number of the most valuable volumes in his collection. The thesis in his hands concerned Hellenic composers of the fifth century and focused on musical forms created for stringed instruments. Closing the book, he nodded. “I’ll take this one.” He reached for the next book on the pile.

  He worked steadily through the stack, selecting three volumes to add to his hoard, then settled to haggle with Griggs. After they’d reached an accommodation satisfactory to both, Griggs rehid the books Frederick had rejected and, taking his selected three, retreated through a curtained doorway into the private area of the shop to wrap and tie the books.

  Frederick picked up a recently released tome on Romanian music. He was flipping through it when the shop door opened, setting the bell raucously jangling. A second later, the door closed, then light footsteps sounded and skirts swished as someone—some lady—made her way to the counter.

  About to set aside the book, Frederick froze. It couldn’t be—could it?

  “Griggs? Are you there?”

  He recognized the voice and turned to face Stacie as she stepped out of the central row of shelves.

  She met his gaze, and although her brows rose, he saw no hint of real surprise. She dipped into a graceful curtsy. “My lord.”

  He bowed. “Lady Eustacia.” Back to formal address; they were in public, after all.

  Instead of remaining focused on him, her attention deflected toward the curtain as Griggs came lumbering out, the wrapped package of Frederick’s books in his hands.

  At the sight of Stacie, Griggs’s face lit up to such an extent that Frederick blinked and stared.

  “Ah—it’s you, my lady.” Griggs beamed. “Come to check on that order, have you?”

  “I have, indeed.” Stacie returned the old man’s smile. She’d been following Frederick, biding her time, wanting the perfect location in which to approach him yet again; she’d been delighted to see him going into Griggs’s, allowing her to use her entirely genuine connection with Griggs to conceal her determined pursuit. Or at least confuse the issue. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance the book’s arrived?”

  “Sadly, it hasn’t, my lady.” Griggs set down a package of books on the counter in front of Frederick. “But my man in Paris says he knows just where to get it. A week or so, and it should be here.”

  She sighed. “I’ll just have to possess my soul in patience.” She looked at the package of books on the counter, then raised her gaze and met Frederick’s eyes. “What did you buy?”

  He hesitated for an instant, but then replied, “A thesis on Hellenic stringed instrumentals of the fifth century, a guide to old Romany folk tunes, and a treatise on the Renaissance composers who performed at the Medici court.” Before she could comment, he asked, “What book do you have on order?” With a faint lift of his brows, he added, “Who knows? I might have a copy, either here in town or in Surrey.”

  She let her smile deepen. “It’s Courvoisier’s Arrangements for Harp—a collection of works, French, from the Languedoc region.”

  “I see. Sadly, I don’t number that volume among my collection. Do you play the harp?”

  She laughed and shook her head. “Not nearly well enough. But these particular arrangements form the accompaniments to a collection of troubadour songs, and I do occasionally sing.”

  Honest interest flared in his eyes.

  “It’s my belief,” Griggs put in, leaning on the counter, “that we don’t hear enough of those old songs. Of course, most of them are long.”

  Frederick nodded. “Troubadour songs generally tell a story—that was the reason they were sung—and that makes them significantly too long for modern audiences.”

  “There’s the language as well,” Stacie said. “Most need to be translated, and that’s rarely done well.”

  A three-way discussion ensued, one Stacie couldn’t have planned better had she tried.

  But eventually, after they’d pulled apart the topic of the modern performance of troubadour songs until there was nothing left to be said, Frederick straightened and picked up his wrapped books. He c
aught her eye. “Is your carriage nearby?” When she nodded, he said, “I’ll escort you to it.”

  Perfect. All she needed was a moment in which to gauge his direction vis-à-vis her proposition.

  Gaily, she farewelled Griggs and led the way up the central aisle. She shifted aside and allowed Frederick to open the door for her, then stepped onto the pavement and paused.

  After closing the door, he halted beside her. He studied her for an instant, then asked, “Do you always wear red?”

  Not the comment she’d expected and doubtless designed to throw her off her stride. She lightly shrugged. “I’m told the color suits me.” She arched a brow his way and waited to see if he would respond.

  After a second, he glanced around. “Your carriage?”

  She smiled and waved at the sleek black carriage her coachman had drawn up to the curb twenty yards away. As they started in that direction, she airily said, “I assume you’ve yet to make up your mind over anchoring the performances at my musical evenings.”

  They reached the pavement beside the carriage, and he paused and looked down at her, his golden eyes meeting hers. Several seconds ticked by, then he replied, “Just so. I’ve yet to make up my mind.”

  She bit her tongue to hold back a tart quip that she’d always heard that hers was the indecisive sex.

  Without shifting his gaze from hers, he reached out, opened the carriage door, and with a flourishing bow, gestured her inside.

  With a graceful dip by way of farewell, she moved past him and climbed the steps.

  When she turned and sat, he closed the door, then stepped back. At the last, as her coachman gave the horses the office and the carriage started to roll, Frederick raised a hand in salute—almost as if he hadn’t been able to stop himself.

  She leaned back against the squabs, replayed the exchange, then grinned.

  He might not have agreed—indeed, for reasons known only to him, he might be deliberately leading her on and have no intention of agreeing to her request—but as long as he hadn’t refused and denied her, hope remained.

  That was good enough—encouragement enough—for her; she’d been warned wearing him down would take time.

  The next day, Frederick lunched at his club, the Athenaeum, with his two closest friends, George Fitzsimmons, Lord Farleigh, and Percy Hawley, Viscount Piper. They’d been friends since Eton and met frequently whenever all three were in town.

  Yet even while, relaxed and indulgent, Frederick listened to his friends’ news and smiled at their jests, he was aware of a gnawing wish to be elsewhere, crossing verbal swords in a more stimulating—in multiple ways—encounter with a certain lady.

  He couldn’t recall ever being prey to such a distraction before and determinedly ignored the feeling.

  Eventually, however, with a meeting with his man-of-business looming, he left the others in the smoking room and quit the hallowed precincts of the club.

  After farewelling the doorman, he descended the steps to the pavement and turned toward Pall Mall—only to be brought to an immediate halt by a curvaceous lady in a stylish emerald-green carriage dress, who stood directly in his path.

  Frederick arched a brow at her. “No red today?”

  Her luscious lips curved. “No lady wishes to be predictable.”

  “I see.” He found himself smiling back, captured by the light in her eyes. “And what brings you here?” He glanced around. “This is not an area generally frequented by ladies of the ton.”

  “Business,” she replied, but didn’t elaborate, leaving him to conclude that her business was with him. “I gathered that, when in town, you eschew the ton’s balls and parties. Consequently, when I saw you exiting the club, I thought to seize the chance to inquire whether you had yet seen your way to agreeing to my request.”

  “I…” Frederick paused, surprised to discover that he didn’t know how he wanted to answer—to agree or to refuse her. “In all honesty,” he said, “I’m still considering your proposal—I haven’t yet made up my mind.”

  And he hadn’t.

  Prior to meeting her, his response to such a request would have been an immediate and immutable negative. Now… Was he truly flirting with agreeing to her scheme?

  He refocused on her face—on her dramatically vivid features—and saw them lighten, as if some inner glow had bloomed. Hope. She was hoping he would agree, and she truly wanted him to perform for her.

  His reaction to the sight, to being the cause of that softening in her face, unsettled him.

  He suddenly realized he was standing on the pavement within yards of the club’s doors, and several who knew him, including George and Percy, might exit and come upon him and her at any moment.

  Her periwinkle-blue eyes, bright and alert, were searching his face.

  Rather than meet her gaze, he glanced toward Pall Mall and Waterloo Place beyond. “I take it your carriage is nearby?”

  She waved to the west. “Just along Pall Mall.”

  He gestured in that direction. “I’ll walk you to it.”

  With a graceful inclination of her head, she turned, and side by side, they walked to the corner and crossed the street. They’d almost reached the pavement on the other side when a youth wearing a courier’s vest and carting a heavy leather satchel darted past, dodging between pedestrians as he raced to make his deliveries.

  The lad bumped Stacie, knocking her off balance. Into Frederick.

  He caught her elbow and steadied her.

  Despite the flow of others all around, he was acutely aware of the tension that shot through them both—the sudden hitch in her breathing, the shockingly abrupt focusing of all his senses on her—and the impulses having his fingers clamped about her elbow sent surging through him. He wanted to draw her closer—a lot closer.

  They gained the pavement safely, and he forced his fingers to ease and let her go.

  She paused to look down and twitch her skirt straight. “Thank you.” Her tone was even, but distinctly breathless.

  He waved ahead, and they walked on, toward a black carriage that bore the Raventhorne coat of arms and stood waiting by the curb.

  Determined to appear unaffected, Stacie raised her chin and ventured, “Please know you have only to ask if you require more details of my proposal in order to make your decision.”

  They reached the carriage and halted beside it. She raised her gaze to Frederick’s face and told herself that when he’d steadied her, his touch hadn’t held anything more than the usual protectiveness men like him—like her brothers—displayed toward ladies of their class; there was no reason to read anything more into the action.

  His golden-brown eyes held hers. After several seconds, he replied, “If I need more information, I’ll let you know—when next we meet.”

  Subtle challenge glowed in his eyes.

  That seemed a propitious moment to part. Her footman had already opened the carriage door. With an easy smile and a dip of her head, she steeled herself and gave Frederick her hand and allowed him to help her up.

  She settled on the seat, and the footman closed the door. Once again, as the carriage started rolling, Frederick raised his hand in a salute—this time, the gesture appeared more natural. More intentional.

  When next we meet.

  She wondered when that would be—specifically, how long she should wait before engineering another meeting.

  Impatience urged her to track him down the next morning, but caution of a different stripe raised its head.

  She examined the lingering constriction about her lungs and the strange breathlessness it caused, considered the tightness still afflicting her nerves, and wondered if, in seeking to lure Albury from his self-imposed social seclusion, she might have bitten off more than she’d expected.

  Regardless, he was the only performer who could guarantee her scheme’s success; she was committed to her purpose and was determined to triumph.

  Chapter 2

  Two days later, Frederick strolled down Oxford Stree
t on his way to Arthur’s Music Emporium. After dwelling on the music sheets he hoped to find, it was a short step to considering what pieces he might play should he agree to be a part of Stacie’s scheme.

  He hadn’t initially imagined he would agree, yet increasingly, he couldn’t see himself disappointing her. He had a long acquaintance with importuning females; most, he found irritating in the extreme. Stacie, however, hadn’t fallen into the trap of being too pushy and overstepping his line. She’d laid her request before him and, thereafter, had done nothing more than give him opportunities to accept, rather than badger him, seeking to make up his mind for him.

  Indeed, he felt perfectly certain she’d crafted her approach deliberately to avoid provoking him into digging in his heels and categorically denying her. His mother and sisters must have warned her that was a real danger, so she’d taken steps to find her way around it. Her actions displayed a greater degree of intelligence and subtlety than ladies usually deployed in dealing with gentlemen, certainly those of his class, and that, in turn, left him more inclined to give her request genuine consideration.

  The prospect of agreeing had slid across his mind more than once in the past days. However, no matter the likely positive outcomes—namely him spending more time basking in the warmth of Stacie’s smiles and helping worthy fellow musicians—the drawbacks were significant. Him agreeing to perform at her function would open the floodgates to requests from his mother, his sisters, and every connection he possessed; they would all demand and expect him to perform for them as well, and he would have to expend considerable effort—and bear with significant aggravation along the way—to hold against them. He could and would do it, but just thinking of the battle made him weary.

  In addition to that, performing in the ton again would inevitably reignite society’s avid interest in him. Every grande dame and hostess, let alone every gossipmonger, would want to know how Stacie had lured him out of his self-imposed exile.

  When gauged against those negatives, the positives didn’t seem weighty enough to tip the scales.