The Beguilement of Lady Eustacia Cavanagh: The Cavanaughs Volume 3

by Stephanie Laurens

  Hellier shook his head. “As always, it is a joy to hear you play. Would I was blessed more often. But you are right—there is nothing more for me to do here. The piano is in perfect tune and, now, worthy of the player.”

  Frederick smiled. “Thank you. As usual, send your account to me.”

  Hellier bent to pack his various tools back into his canvas bag. “Aye—I will do that. And”—he glanced curiously at Stacie—“next time this fine instrument needs tuning, do not wait so long.”

  Stacie smiled. “Rest assured, Mr. Hellier, I won’t.” She tugged the bellpull, and all but instantly, Hettie appeared.

  With a bow to them both, Hellier hefted his bag and left with the maid.

  Frederick rose from the piano stool and finally turned to Stacie, noting as he did the door to the drawing room silently closing; Stacie’s cousin, no doubt.

  As for Stacie, she met his eyes with her usual candor, with pleasure, delight, and a certain eager excitement investing her expression, but no sign that he could see of the overwhelming, idolizing veneration that his playing all too often inspired in ladies of the ton.

  Thank Heaven for that.

  A weight he hadn’t known he was carrying slid from his shoulders.

  “Well, my lord”—she smiled in the way of one sharing an adventure—“now we know we have an instrument sufficient to our task, might I suggest we pay another visit to the music school and consult with Mr. Protheroe as to which of his graduates we should invite to play at our first musical evening?”

  He arched his brows. “An excellent idea.” As he waved her to the door, he accepted that, somehow, he’d grown to be as committed to her scheme as she.

  Stacie led the way into the music school, her heels clicking purposefully on the worn wooden floor.

  Mrs. Withers looked up from her station behind the counter and smiled welcomingly.

  Aware of Frederick at her back and sharing the impatience she sensed in him, Stacie blithely said, “Good morning, Mrs. Withers. Would you please inquire of Mr. Protheroe if he has time to discuss which particular graduates would be most suitable to play at my upcoming event?”

  Mrs. Withers brightened. “It would be a pleasure, my lady.”

  Less than a minute later, Stacie and Frederick were seated in the master’s room, and Protheroe was flicking through a stack of papers on his desk. “I know I have a list of them here somewhere… Ah!” He drew out a sheet, scanned it, then set it triumphantly on his blotter. “Now we have a place to start.” He looked inquiringly at Stacie, then Frederick. “What particular music or instruments did you have in mind?”

  Frederick looked at Stacie. She responded by outlining what she felt were their options—any and all types of soloists plus ensembles ranging from two to five or even six in number.

  Protheroe confirmed he could recommend ex-graduates suitable to provide any of her suggestions.

  Both Stacie and Protheroe looked at Frederick.

  Stacie watched Frederick’s gaze turn inward. He spent several moments in internal debate, then refocused on her. A second later, he glanced at Protheroe. “Brandon Miller—is he on your list?”

  “He is,” Protheroe confirmed. “He’s one of our most talented ex-students.”

  “We stumbled on him practicing the other day,” Frederick said. “Unless you have another pianist of higher caliber…?” When Protheroe shook his head, Frederick nodded. “Miller, then, to open proceedings.”

  He met Stacie’s eyes. “I suggest we have him play first—we can discuss which pieces with him and select something he’s confident with that will run for ten to fifteen minutes. That’s long enough for the ton—if he holds their attention that long, he’ll have done well.”

  She nodded. “And then?”

  Frederick looked at Protheroe. “For her ladyship’s first evening, I’d suggest a smaller group—perhaps just two. And as I’ll be playing the piano to end the evening, then stringed instruments would be preferable.”

  Protheroe nodded and consulted his list. After a moment, he said, “We have Phillip Carpenter, an accomplished violinist, and George Goodes, who’s an excellent cellist. They’re friends and often play and practice together.” Protheroe glanced up, his gaze shifting from Frederick to Stacie. “They work not far away in Goodes’s father’s printing shop. I could send a boy to ask them to come in for an audition—I would feel happier if you both heard them before you made a decision.”

  Stacie exchanged a swift glance with Frederick. “And Miller? Can we call him in as well?”

  Protheroe nodded. “Brandon is playing harpsichord at one of the smaller theaters in the evenings. He’ll be at home—if he’s not already somewhere here, practicing. He often slips in. Our graduates are free to use any of our rooms and the larger instruments when they’re not being used for lessons.” Protheroe rose. “I’ll send messengers to summon those three, and meanwhile, may I invite you to take tea with me?”

  Stacie smiled and declared that they would be delighted.

  The following half hour passed in comfortable conversation over the teacups; given their shared interests in music, engaging topics were easy to come by. By the time Mrs. Withers looked in to say the messengers had returned along with all three musicians, Frederick had gained a deeper appreciation of Protheroe’s work and the man’s devotion to the cause of fostering musical talent.

  With Stacie, Frederick followed Protheroe to the room in which they’d previously come upon Brandon Miller. Inside, the three young men stood waiting in a group beside the piano; all three were patently eager but, unsurprisingly, nervous as well.

  Protheroe smiled reassuringly at his erstwhile students, introduced Stacie and Frederick—this time as the Marquess of Albury—and outlined the reason for which they’d been summoned.

  The three men exchanged glances that plainly said they could barely believe their luck.

  “So”—Protheroe clasped his hands together and turned to Frederick and Stacie—“how would you like to proceed?”

  Frederick touched a hand to the back of Stacie’s waist. “The string duo first, I think.” The young men had brought their instruments, which lay in cases at their feet.

  She nodded and smiled at Carpenter and Goodes. “If you could play for us, gentlemen? Ultimately, we’ll be looking for a piece or pieces that will run for ten or so minutes.”

  “I would suggest,” Frederick said, “that for this exercise, you choose a piece you personally like and are confident of playing perfectly.”

  While Carpenter and Goodes unpacked their instruments and, in hushed whispers, debated which piece to play, with Miller adding his opinion when appealed to, Frederick and Protheroe fetched straight-backed chairs from one end of the room and set them in a short row at a spot Frederick indicated, several yards from where Carpenter and Goodes were setting themselves up, Goodes seated on a chair with his lovingly polished cello between his knees and Carpenter standing, thin and tall, by his side.

  Frederick sat beside Stacie, and Protheroe sat on her other side.

  Frederick noted with approval that neither Carpenter nor Goodes rushed their tuning or preparation. Finally, when they were ready, Carpenter straightened and said, “We’ve elected to perform J. S. Bach’s ‘Duet in A Minor.’”

  Frederick nodded approvingly. “An excellent choice.” He glanced at Stacie and Protheroe, then looked back at Carpenter and Goodes. “When you’re ready, gentlemen.”

  The young men exchanged a wordless look, then Goodes drew in a breath, set bow to string, and commenced.

  The sound was pure and mellow, then the violin came in, and Bach’s melody unfurled, eventually skipping into counterpoint that was expertly and crisply executed.

  Frederick sat back, folded his arms across his chest, and listened.

  When it came to musical performances, he was far more critical than the average listener, yet there was little fault to find in Carpenter’s and Goodes’s efforts. Protheroe hadn’t exaggerated their abilities; by
the time the pair lifted their bows from their strings and Frederick, along with Stacie, burst into spontaneous applause, Frederick was convinced Carpenter and Goodes, along with Miller, were more than worthy of his and Stacie’s support. Once properly introduced to the ton, with him and Stacie as patrons and mentors, the three would do well.

  Both Goodes and Carpenter flushed with pleasure.

  Frederick gave them a moment, then asked, “What other duets do you know?”

  An animated exchange followed, to which everyone, including Stacie and Miller—who plainly knew the other two well—contributed.

  Eventually, Frederick was satisfied that Carpenter and Goodes had revealed the full extent of their repertoire. When Stacie, understanding why he’d asked the original question, shot him an inquiring glance, he said, “I think the Beethoven in C Major will work best for our purposes. It has the right ambiance and duration.”

  Stacie nodded and turned to the young men, who had pricked up their ears at the mention of a purpose and looked hopefully intrigued.

  Frederick hid a smile as she explained their notion of introducing local musicians, hailing from music schools other than the Royal Academy, to the notice of the haut ton via musical evenings.

  Observing the uncertain expressions on the young men’s faces and guessing something of the questions crowding their minds, Frederick added, “Lady Eustacia is extremely well-connected within the ton—her guests will be a select group and will include all the major hostesses and those who might be encouraged to become patronesses of talented musicians of the sort who could play at their events.”

  Brandon Miller exchanged a faintly troubled glance with Carpenter and Goodes, then, transparently steeling himself, looked at Stacie and Frederick and said, “A chance such as that—to play before the hostesses, lords, and ladies—is…well, a dream to us. But others have tried something similar and got nowhere. If it’s just us playing, why would the top-of-the-trees come to listen?”

  Frederick caught the look Stacie sent his way and elected to reply himself. “Firstly, because those others weren’t Lady Eustacia Cavanaugh, daughter of a marquess and sister of another and connected to many of the haut ton’s most influential families, and secondly, because it won’t be just you three playing.”

  He paused, then decided it would be easier to allay their fears using the medium they understood best. He rose and walked to the piano; guessing his intention, Brandon raised the lid and whipped the felt away.

  Frederick sat, set his fingers to the keys, and launched into his current favorite exercise—the third part from Mendelssohn’s fourth book of “Songs Without Words.” As always, he let the music consume him; he opened himself to it, and it flowed like a river through him.

  When he played the last chord and lifted his hands, silence reigned. He raised his head and looked at the three young musicians and beheld them struck speechless, their expressions ones of utter awe. He suppressed a cynical smile. “I haven’t played before the ton, not at any event, however small, for over ten years. I’ll be appearing as the last act of the evening. With my name on the program, I believe we can be certain that not one of those invited will stay away.”

  Hope washed across the young men’s faces as belief in their good fortune—that this opportunity might be real—sank in.

  Miller shifted. “Do you want me to play for you as well?”

  Frederick nodded, rose from the piano stool, and with a wave, indicated that Miller should take his place. “The Beethoven sonata again, just the first movement, if you please.”

  Miller sat, drew breath, and played.

  His head cocked, Frederick listened; the young man had clearly worked diligently over the days since he’d advised him to feel the music and had all but perfected the piece.

  When the final chord rang out, Frederick nodded. “Excellent. That is, indeed, impressive and will do well with our particular audience.”

  Miller looked positively giddy with delight.

  Frederick glanced at Stacie and Protheroe, then continued, “You will, of course, be paid according to the usual hire agreement, with a bonus of fifty percent to be added if all goes well.” He would be paying them, no matter what Stacie thought or said.

  Returning his gaze to the three young musicians, in his mind’s eye picturing their appearance before the ton, he smoothly went on, “And given you’ll be appearing more or less as my protégés, I will arrange for the three of you to be outfitted as befits that station. I will expect you at Albury House in Upper Grosvenor Street at eleven o’clock tomorrow—don’t be late.”

  “No, my lord,” the three chorused, their eyes round.

  Frederick looked at Stacie and arched a brow. “Have I forgotten anything?”

  Stacie was immeasurably grateful that he’d thought of appropriate clothes for the young men and, even more, that he’d volunteered to arrange to acquire them; she wouldn’t have known where to start. “We should mention that we’ve yet to set a date for our first event, but I would hope to hold it shortly—within the next fortnight, if possible.”

  Frederick added, “We’ll need to consider what other entertainments the ton has scheduled in order to ensure we make the biggest splash.”

  “Indeed.” Stacie rose and smiled at Protheroe as he came to his feet alongside her. “But we’ll contact you through the office here, through Mr. Protheroe, as soon as the date is fixed.”

  Protheroe beamed. “We’ll be delighted to act as go-between.”

  Sensing hers and Frederick’s intention to leave, all three musicians broke into effusive thanks that, while disjointed, were patently heartfelt.

  Although she accepted those thanks gracefully, Stacie seconded Frederick’s observation that, in fact, the shoe was on the other foot, and the three were doing them a favor by consenting to be the first three local musicians to be featured at her musical evenings under Frederick’s aegis.

  While the three young men pondered the rights of that, Stacie, with Frederick, took her leave of them and Protheroe.

  As she stepped into the mild sunshine and felt it touch her face, she found she was smiling in quiet triumph. She glanced at the gentleman—the nobleman—beside her; with him working hand in glove with her, her ultimate goal of launching the careers of local musicians was within reach.

  At eleven-thirty the following morning, Frederick sat in the wing chair by the window in his dressing room and watched his tailor, the highly respected Moreton of Savile Row, measure the breadth of Brandon Miller’s shoulders.

  Phillip Carpenter and George Goodes stood just inside the door from the corridor, somewhat nervously awaiting their turn. Moreton and Brandon occupied the center of the narrow room, which was lined with shelves, cupboards, two armoires, and in the middle of one wall, a gentleman’s dressing bench flanked by two long mirrors. Standing nearer to Frederick, Moreton’s elderly assistant, Thomas, jotted down the figures Moreton barked as the tailor—an intimidating figure with his precise and severe attire and his wealth of silver-gray hair—wielded his tape measure with grim zeal.

  On being summoned by Frederick and informed that he was to prepare a full complement of attire suitable for a concert appearance—coats in black superfine, ivory linen, and sober charcoal waistcoats and trousers—for the three younger men by Monday evening at the latest, Moreton had drawn in a breath and considered protesting the waste of his talents, but Frederick had glibly explained that the three were scheduled to appear before the cream of the haut ton at a private function within the next few weeks, and Moreton had swallowed his pride, pulled out his measure, and suggested repairing to the dressing room.

  Noting just how rigidly Brandon was holding himself, Frederick said, “Try to relax—it makes Moreton’s task easier.”

  The tailor grunted in agreement.

  Frederick hid a smile and went on, “That’s something you three should learn, to help with your public appearances. Create a small ritual, whether it be taking three deep breaths or twitching your sle
eves straight—an unobtrusive action that works to focus your mind—and connect that with consciously relaxing, letting all tension flow from you. Then perform that ritual just before you walk on to perform.”

  George—Frederick was starting to think of the three by their first names—frowned slightly. “Something like checking each button on your waistcoat is done up?”

  Frederick nodded. “Just so. Something that looks natural, but means something to you. Almost all experienced performers have some little ritual they use.”

  Brandon, still standing before Moreton, asked, “What do you do?”

  Frederick raised his hands and opened them wide, spreading his fingers as far as they would go, then curled them to his palms, then opened them again, repeating the cycle three times.

  “That looks like you’re limbering up your fingers,” Phillip observed.

  Frederick nodded. “Exactly. You don’t want your ritual to be anything anyone else notices—its true purpose isn’t something others need to know.”

  He watched them take that in, then George asked, “Is there anything else we should know about performing for Lady Eustacia’s guests?”

  Frederick thought, then said, “Possibly the most useful advice I can impart is to ignore the audience when you walk in. Don’t look at them, and shut your ears to their whispering, because they will whisper, and titter, and sigh, and make every other noise imaginable. They will not be a well-behaved audience. Once you’ve completed your piece and take your bow, if you wish, you may look at them then, although I will admit, I don’t. I keep my gaze just above their heads, nod politely, and walk off.”

  Brandon had been dismissed and replaced by Phillip. After joining George by the door, his expression puzzled, Brandon asked Frederick, “But isn’t the audience why we perform? Don’t we need to gauge how they respond to our performance?”

  “Oh, you’ll know,” Frederick assured him. “All you’ll need to do to assess their reaction is to use your ears. Even before they applaud, you’ll know if you’ve hit the mark—the first clue is in that instant of silence that follows the end of the last note. The more profound that silence, the longer that instant stretches, the more captive your audience was. If your playing held them and captured them, you’ll know it then. In addition to that, there’s the quality of the applause—is it enthusiastic and heartfelt or merely polite? Worse, is it stiff or reluctant? And that’s quite apart from any calls of bravo or comments that carry to your ears.”