Her eyes opened wide, then her features eased, and she nodded with becoming eagerness and rose. “Thank you. I accept your invitation. I had heard of the exhibition and hoped to find time to attend. We can take my carriage—it’s waiting outside.”
He inclined his head and waved her to the door, and she turned and walked beside him.
“I’ve never been to a private viewing before,” she said as they passed into the front hall. “I daresay it will be much less crowded.”
“Very much less crowded.” Frederick took the short cape Fortingale offered and draped it over Stacie’s shoulders. “That’s one of the reasons every single musical scholar worth his salt will be there.” He turned with her toward the door. “It’s our chance to pore over things in relative peace.”
She slanted him a glance as they passed through the door Fortingale held open. “Scholars and crowds don’t seem to mix.”
“Indeed.”
They descended the steps, and he handed her into her carriage and followed.
The instant he sat beside her, the reality of them being in such close confines impinged, but there was nothing for it but to rein in his senses and pretend not to notice the way her breathing had changed.
The two of them traveling together in a carriage in broad daylight would raise no eyebrows, especially given their ages and their destination; that wasn’t the problem. Frederick determinedly ignored the brush of her skirts against his thigh and calf and the entrancing perfume that rose from her skin and hair to wreathe through his brain and tried his damnedest to keep his mind from the too-fast rise and fall of her breasts, from dwelling on the faint breathiness that had afflicted her as, speaking a touch too quickly, she launched into a discussion of the style of event she considered most suitable for their purpose.
He focused and listened and, when appealed to, duly gave his opinion. As the carriage rattled through Mayfair and on toward Great Russell Street, they traded ideas and suggestions on all the topics she’d mentioned and several others besides. Somewhat to his surprise, he discovered her opinions generally had merit and often mirrored his own. More, when he opposed some point, she proved to be flexible and willing to accommodate his sometimes-eccentric wishes.
All in all, dealing with her was less of a trial than he’d anticipated, to the point where he admitted, “On reflection, your proposed campaign of four events spread through the year will be ideal not only for introducing our selected musicians but also for establishing the concept of events based on local talent rather than the imported variety in the ton’s collective mind.”
“Precisely.” The carriage turned in to Great Russell Street, and she swayed, her shoulder briefly pressing against his arm. A second later, she cleared her throat, raised her chin several degrees, and stated, “I truly believe that, incorporating all the details we’ve discussed, our campaign will make best use of our inherent strengths—combining your reputation as a reluctant maestro with my social standing and connections within the haut ton.”
He nodded and sat forward as the carriage slowed. “All in support of our local musical prodigies.”
The carriage halted, and he opened the door and stepped down, then turned and gave her his hand and helped her down the carriage steps.
The august façade of the British Museum rose before them, a flight of stone steps leading up to the porticoed porch. He steeled himself—there really was no acceptable alternative—and offered his arm, and she placed her hand on his sleeve.
Stacie tried not to focus on the steely strength of the arm beneath the fine fabrics of his sleeves; at least, now they were out of the carriage, she could breathe. As they climbed the steps, she observed, “Now we’ve established that we are, more or less, of the same mind regarding our events, we can devote ourselves to the delights of the special exhibition without distraction.”
Other than the distraction he himself posed, but she’d simply have to make the best—or perhaps the least—of that.
He tipped his head. “Indeed.” And ushered her through the heavy doors and into the ornate foyer.
The exhibition—Musical Instruments and Artifacts of Bygone Ages—was housed in the East Wing. The curator—Frederick’s friend—stood waiting to greet them at the top of the stairs, outside the main chamber.
The curator—Wiggs—was delighted to see Frederick and welcomed them both effusively. When Frederick introduced her, Stacie exchanged polite nods with Wiggs, but his attention immediately reverted to Frederick; she struggled to hide a smile at Wiggs’s near-hero-worship of the rather stiff and distinctly reluctant man at her side.
Until that moment, she hadn’t really thought about Frederick’s standing among his scholarly peers; her focus had been on his musical talents. But judging by Wiggs’s borderline-obsequious behavior, Frederick occupied a position among musical scholars that attracted a similar degree of awe as his reputation as a pianist.
And although he hid it behind an urbane veneer, his uncomfortableness with Wiggs’s near-gushing reached her clearly.
Lord Frederick Brampton was…shy?
That seemed highly unlikely, yet…
Then others came up the stairs, and Frederick seized the moment to excuse them and move into the exhibition hall, and Stacie tucked away her unexpected insight for later examination and gave herself over to the wonders arrayed before them.
She’d seen old musical instruments before, but these were ancient, and most were in exquisite condition. She was fascinated by the delicate ornamentation on lutes and variations of the same, and on the few keyboard-like instruments present. Noting her interest, Frederick called her attention to some of the precise detailing she initially missed; she quickly realized his knowledge was broad as well as deep and bombarded him with questions, to all of which he proved to have the answer.
They circled the cases arranged in the main hall, then passed into the first of the five surrounding rooms also devoted to the exhibition’s displays. The crowd was sparse, with few ladies present; most of those invited to the special showing appeared to be scholars ranging from earnest youths to crusty ancients almost as old as some of the instruments.
Many recognized Frederick, directing polite bows and nods his way; only a few approached to exchange greetings and a comment or two before moving on.
Stacie had long since drawn her hand from Frederick’s arm and become a lone agent in her quest to see everything of note, and over the minutes, her senses had settled, her awareness diverting to all on which her eyes were feasting.
She had her palms flattened on the wooden frame of a case holding an exquisite Persian lute and was leaning over, peering through the case’s glass top, when Frederick appeared beside her—close beside her—and her senses leapt and all but somersaulted.
Before she could straighten, he leaned close, his arms and chest all but caging her, and she lost her breath and all ability to protest.
Apparently oblivious, his face nearly level with hers, he pretended to examine the lute and murmured, “We have company.”
His breath wafted across her cheek, and she set her teeth against a telltale shiver.
“My apologies,” he continued, sotto voce, “but I’ll have to introduce you.”
Their gazes supposedly trained on the lute, they both slowly straightened. Mystified, she turned toward him and searched his face. His features were set, his expression at its most haughtily aloof. His gaze was fixed past her shoulder, and she turned to see who had elicited such a cool reception.
A couple were approaching—a tallish gentleman not quite as tall as Frederick, with a more barrel-like chest and, while quietly well-dressed, lacking Frederick’s ineffable elegance, was escorting a shortish lady, neatly and conservatively gowned in dark-blue twill. Like Stacie, the lady wore no bonnet, and her dark hair was gathered in a matronly knot at her nape.
Arm in arm, the pair came forward and halted a yard away.
The gentleman nodded to Frederick. “Albury. Well met. I believe you’ll
remember my wife.”
“Brougham.” Gracefully, Frederick inclined his head, then half bowed to the lady. “Lady Brougham. Delighted.” Straightening, Frederick gestured to Stacie. “You must allow me to present Lady Eustacia Cavanaugh.”
Stacie smiled and gave Brougham her hand, then exchanged greetings with his wife.
“Tell me, Lady Eustacia,” Lady Brougham said, “do you have an interest in musical instruments?”
“I do, as it happens,” Stacie replied, “although my interest is generally focused on modern-day specimens.”
Lady Brougham smiled understandingly. “Indeed, but the instruments displayed are very pretty, are they not?”
“So I’ve discovered.” Stacie shifted to face her ladyship, leaving Frederick to interact with Brougham. “Do you have any special interest in the exhibits?”
“No.” Lady Brougham glanced at her spouse, who was now engaged in a somewhat stilted exchange with Frederick. “I come more in support than with any genuine interest, although in this case, I must admit the artistry of the ornamentation on some of the pieces is eye-catching.”
Stacie and Lady Brougham turned to view Frederick and his lordship as Brougham said, “Have you read the treatise Jolyneaux published last week?”
“I have, indeed.” To Stacie’s surprise, there was ice in Frederick’s voice. “I can’t say I’m impressed—his conclusions seem entirely at odds with the latest discoveries.”
Brougham looked taken aback. Before he could gather his thoughts and respond, Frederick reached for Stacie’s arm, directed a nod at Lady Brougham, and a rather more curt one at Brougham. “If you’ll excuse us, we need to get on.”
Stacie smiled charmingly at the Broughams and allowed Frederick to lead her away. He remained stiff, even after he released her elbow. When he volunteered nothing, she glanced at him and arched a pointed eyebrow.
His lips tightened, then he reluctantly offered, “Brougham and I have known each other since Eton. He’s a rival of sorts.”
“Ah.” Stacie wasn’t sure how that translated into the rigid awkwardness both men had displayed, but it wasn’t her place to prod. Instead, she scanned the nearer exhibits, then waved at one and directed her steps that way. “What an odd-looking…” She halted beside the glass case, looking down at what appeared to be a strange cross between a cello and a lute, but with many more strings and a curious sounding box. She frowned at the thing. “Is it a form of lute?”
Frederick halted beside her. “Not exactly. It’s a sarangi from India. It’s said to be the instrument that produces sounds most similar to the human voice.”
She pulled a face. “It looks as if it would be extremely difficult to master—all those strings.”
“I believe experienced sarangi players are decidedly thin on the ground, at least in this country.”
She chuckled, and his stiffness dissipating, they strolled on.
They continued through the various rooms, ultimately returning to the head of the stairs. Wiggs hovered there; Stacie got the distinct impression he was waiting with bated breath for Frederick’s verdict.
Somewhat to her relief, Frederick paused and commended Wiggs on the exhibition, adding several complimentary comments, and Wiggs visibly relaxed.
“Good-oh!” Wiggs said. “So it seems I’ve got the scholars satisfied—Jordan said it was worth his time as well, as did Brougham. With any luck, the general populace will find enough of interest to chat about and keep the governors happy.”
Frederick glanced at Stacie. “Lady Eustacia has shown no sign of being bored.”
She responded to his unvoiced appeal. “No, indeed!” she assured Wiggs. “You have something sufficiently unusual or ornate in every room to engage the ladies’ interest.”
“Thank you, my lady.” Beaming, Wiggs bowed. “It’s good of you to say so.”
They left Wiggs happier and distinctly more confident than he had been when they’d arrived.
Frederick gave her his arm, and she took it and allowed him to steady her down the stairs. She was still getting used to the somewhat unnerving dance her senses indulged in whenever he loomed that close.
Hopefully, the effect would fade with time—with continued exposure.
They reached the foyer, and Frederick glanced at Stacie’s face. “Thank you for encouraging Wiggs. He gets quite nervous over these exhibitions of his, yet they are always comprehensive and well received, and not just by us scholarly types.”
“I spoke nothing but the truth,” she returned. “His displays were arranged with the right sort of eye.”
He smiled and held the main door open for her. “Perhaps, but I—and I’m sure my academic peers—would never have thought to mention that.”
She grinned, and he steered her down the front steps and across the forecourt toward where her coach stood waiting. As the gravel crunched beneath their boots, he reflected that, other than the brief and unavoidable exchange with Brougham, he’d enjoyed the exhibition far more than he’d expected—indeed, in a way he’d enjoyed few such excursions in the past.
He slanted a glance at the lady whose hand lay lightly on his arm. He was honest enough to acknowledge—at least to himself—that a large part of his unanticipated enjoyment had arisen through his interaction with her.
Seeing open enjoyment lighting her expressive face, answering her eager, intelligent questions, engaging with her in minor discussions driven purely by intellectual curiosity—until today, all such interactions had been outside his experience.
They neared her carriage, and he waved the footman back, held the carriage door, and helped her to climb inside. Drawing her fingers from his clasp, she sat and looked at him inquiringly.
“I have an appointment at my club,” he informed her. “But in light of our earlier discussions, I’ll call at your house tomorrow at two o’clock. Before we make any further decisions, I need to check the quality of your piano.”
She smiled, and for a second, he felt as if the sun had broken through the light clouds to beam down on him.
“Very well,” she said. “You’ll find us at Number Five, Green Street. I’ll expect you tomorrow at two.”
He nodded, closed the carriage door, and signaled to the coachman.
He slid his hands into his pockets and stood and watched the carriage roll away. A full minute ticked past, then he shook himself back to the present, hailed a hackney, and headed into town.
The following afternoon, Stacie found herself pacing her drawing room, waiting for Frederick to arrive.
He wasn’t late—it wanted ten minutes to the hour—but she couldn’t seem to sit still.
She’d gone over their exchanges of the previous morning, and as far as she could see, she’d managed to gain his agreement to everything she’d actually wanted. She hadn’t intended to host six events over the next year—that had been her initial position for negotiation, a negotiation she’d successfully concluded, giving her the four events per year she’d gauged as optimum for her purpose.
She knew the ton; hosting events too frequently risked ladies taking said events for granted. On the other hand, as she and Frederick had ultimately agreed, each of the musicians they selected to introduce to society would need to appear at least twice if not three times in a year to have any chance of gaining the attention of the ton’s more influential hostesses.
There was, she was discovering, many competing pressures to weigh up when making even the most mundane decisions; during their discussions, she’d found having Frederick’s views to bolster and balance her own exceedingly helpful.
She swung and paced once more across the hearth, conscious of the fluttering of anticipation inside. She told herself it was because she was looking forward to hearing Frederick play again—this time, in her own music room.
The music room had been the deciding factor in her purchasing this particular house. After she’d finally succeeded in convincing Ryder and Mary that, as she wasn’t about to marry, continuing to live at Ravent
horne House in Mount Street wasn’t a viable option in terms of establishing a life of her own, she’d searched Mayfair for the right house. Money hadn’t been an issue—she’d inherited all of her mother’s estate on top of her portion from the marquessate—but the house had had to be the right sort of house. Not too large but with a music room that would satisfy the requirements of her scheme and suitable reception rooms to host a large ton gathering.
The instant she’d walked into this house, she’d thought it might be the one, then she’d stepped into the white-and-gilt music room and known she’d found the perfect abode for her and her purpose.
From a corner of the chaise, Ernestine—a widowed cousin of some forty years of age who filled the role of companion and largely unnecessary chaperon—murmured, “You’re restless today.” Ernestine, who was quiet calm personified, looked up from her embroidery and smiled. “Although I must admit I’m quite looking forward to meeting Lord Albury myself.” Ernestine cocked her head. “Do you think he’ll play a piece on your piano? I’ve never heard him play, but I’ve heard all the rumors. Such a romantic...well, tragedy, I suppose one would say.”
“Tragedy?” Stacie stared at Ernestine; she tended to forget that Ernestine was extremely well-connected gossip-wise. With her gaze locked on Ernestine’s face, Stacie forgot about pacing and sank into the armchair opposite. “What tragedy?”
“Why, the tale of when he last played in the ton.”
Stacie gestured for Ernestine to continue. “I haven’t heard the story.”
“Ah, well…you have to understand that he was considered a prodigy from an early age—a positive virtuoso on the pianoforte. Through his teenage years, he occasionally played at his mother’s and sisters’ events—both his sisters are rather older than he. Then, when he was…not quite twenty years old, I believe, he composed a piece for the young lady he’d fallen head over heels in love with. He openly declared it was dedicated to her and played it at one of his mother’s affairs—by all reports, the piece was so very evocative, so very moving, several ladies swooned.”
The Beguilement of Lady Eustacia Cavanagh: The Cavanaughs Volume 3 Page 6
