The Beguilement of Lady Eustacia Cavanagh: The Cavanaughs Volume 3

by Stephanie Laurens

The welcoming applause was loud, avid, and eager.

  Frederick entered the music room and, without glancing at the audience, walked to Stacie’s side. He turned and bowed to the assembled horde, then straightened, circled the piano, sat, and set his fingers to the keys.

  By then, an expectant, almost-quivering silence had fallen. He didn’t hesitate, and the first series of trills, the building first sequence, fell into and claimed that silence.

  It was easy to surrender to the music, to lose himself in it, to let it roll and fall and spill out of the piano, forming a wall of constantly shifting sound between him and those listening.

  He’d forgotten how easy that was, forgotten how completely the music shielded him from his audience—from the world. As his hands confidently swept and skipped over the keys, he gloried in that forgotten freedom and allowed his ability full rein.

  As the notes built and sang and the chords compounded, he might as well have been alone…except for the presence standing closest to the piano, a little way to his right.

  Curiously, he could sense her; in the swirl that was his music, his imagination saw her as a bright soul, a burning beacon his music sought to draw to him…

  He was almost at the end of the piece before he realized he was playing to her. For her.

  That it was she whom he sought to impress—no one else.

  Then the concluding passage commanded his full attention, yet even then, he didn’t lose mental sight of her. Under his fingers, the final lilting chords built cleanly, tripping quickly upward, only to slow, to fall quiet, to musically sigh and, finally, close.

  The silence when he raised his hands from the keyboard was profound. From its quality—from the absolute stillness that gripped the audience—he cynically surmised he hadn’t lost his touch.

  That spellbound pause stretched for a long, protracted moment, then applause erupted, thunderous and ecstatic; unmoving, he let the wave roll over him, then he glanced at Stacie—and read her verdict in her shining eyes. She was clapping furiously and smiling giddily, and he had to fight to hold back his answering smile.

  But he couldn’t forget where they were. Now the music had ended, the audience was back.

  However much elation and satisfaction he felt, he wasn’t going to show it; he needed to hold this audience at a rigid distance.

  Keeping his features locked in the impenetrable and uninformative expression he’d long ago perfected for moments such as this, he rose and walked around the piano to Stacie’s side, turned, and without actually focusing on the audience’s faces, bowed—not as deeply as generally prescribed, but then, he was a marquess.

  He straightened, and the audience continued clapping and calling bravos, then someone thought to stand, and in a surging wave, the entire seated company came to their feet, still clapping and calling. He glanced at Stacie.

  She stepped nearer, still clapping herself, and eyes bright with appreciation, said, “That was a tour de force.”

  A deeper satisfaction gripped him; for one instant, he stared into her periwinkle-blue eyes, then he returned his attention to the audience, swept them with his gaze, and held up a hand.

  They quieted somewhat eagerly; he suspected they hoped he would play another piece. Instead, he announced, “Like most of you, I had no idea of the supremely talented musicians this city has spawned and continues to produce. As a group, in our search for performers of musical excellence, we’ve been guilty of falling into unquestioning habit and assuming that all those worthy of our attention must, necessarily, come from the great music schools of the Continent. Given what you’ve heard tonight, given the thousands of venues that put on musical performances every night these days, our decades-old assumption is patently absurd. When next you think to host an event with musicians, I urge you to consider the graduates of local music schools, whether the one attached to St Martin-in-the-Fields or the other known music schools in the city. Those schools exist for a reason, namely to foster and train musicians worthy of our notice. I commend their graduates to your attention.”

  When he dipped his head and ceased speaking, applause once again broke out, but ladies and gentlemen both also turned to their companions and commented, many falling into eager conversations; Frederick hoped those conversations were more about Miller, Carpenter, Goodes, and their ilk than him.

  Stacie touched his arm. “That was very well done.”

  Frederick turned to her as Protheroe came up.

  “On behalf of our graduates, I cannot thank you enough, my lord,” Protheroe declared. “Your words, your support—and Miller’s, Carpenter’s, and Goodes’s experiences here today—will give all of them heart.”

  Frederick stopped himself from shrugging. “They deserve every advantage that comes their way—I merely drew this audience’s attention to the quality that your graduates have achieved through their own devotion.”

  “Nevertheless, on their behalf, I thank you.” Protheroe bowed, then was forced to give way as a surging tide of ladies and quite a few gentlemen pressed forward to laud Frederick—which he considered entirely unnecessary—and also to congratulate Stacie as well. As Stacie deserved every accolade—it had been her idea after all—Frederick reined in his instinctive dismissiveness and directed the gushing ladies and over-congratulatory men toward her as deftly and quickly as he could.

  Within a minute, he and she were besieged; in many ways, this was his worst nightmare. He didn’t possess a shy bone in his body, yet he hated—hated—the cloying effusiveness and the over-enthusiastic, sometimes even rhapsodic praise his playing incited from people who were normally as coldblooded as he.

  He’d never understood why people’s responses got under his skin and itched so horrendously, yet they always had. Inevitably, he would start to feel smothered, and his lungs would slowly seize…

  Thankfully, Stacie proved an unexpected rock, and as he’d warned her, he wasn’t above clinging to her skirts. She knew everyone and, as if she sensed him pokering up in the face of the worst of the gushing, was quick to step in with a distracting question and divert attention from him.

  With her beside him, he weathered the first rush, after which his mother, Emily, his sisters and their husbands, and various connections vied with Stacie’s brothers and their wives, and her even more varied and more scarifying connections to offer their congratulations.

  Then came a stream of his more scholarly acquaintances, including Brougham and his wife; in this instance, Frederick found Brougham’s stiff reserve a welcome breath of fresh air.

  On the Broughams’ heels came the second wave of those who didn’t know better than to overenthuse. Frederick gritted his teeth and prayed that supper would soon be announced.

  The press of those seeking his attention and Stacie’s split their focus. He was pretending to listen to Lady Morecombe, who seemed to think he needed to be made aware of her nephew’s “quite exceptional” playing, when he heard old Lady Lannigan, who was rather deaf, assure Stacie, “Your mother would have been so very proud of you, my dear.”

  He would have paid the comment no heed except, with him and Stacie standing close, hemmed in on all sides, he sensed her stiffen. He glanced at her face—making Lady Morecombe lose track of her recitation—but could see nothing in the calm set of Stacie’s features to give him a clue as to the cause of her reaction.

  An even older lady, one Frederick didn’t know, jostled Lady Lannigan on and declared, “Your mother would have killed for success such as this, my dear Stacie, and what with you being her spitting image, it does take us back, you know.”

  Although Stacie’s answering smile remained bright and relaxed, Frederick glimpsed something more like recoil or rejection in her eyes. It was such a change to the joy that had been there before—that he and his fellow musicians had put there—that he wanted to step in and chase the darkness away, but Lady Morecombe had the temerity to poke his arm and recall him to her account of her nephew’s dubious talents.

  Another surge of impatie
nt ladies made him step back; in short order, he found himself behind the piano, surrounded on all sides. He raised his head and looked for Stacie, but she’d been surrounded and pushed the other way.

  That unnerving feeling of not being able to breathe rose inexorably.

  He held against it, but the sensation of people standing too close built until he fixed the nearest ladies with a steely eye and said, “If you’ll excuse me, I must see to our other performers.”

  Without waiting for even an acknowledgment, he pushed through the circling crowd and escaped around the piano and into the morning room. It was less crowded there, but there were still ladies wanting to waylay him; he pretended not to see and strode for the door into the hall.

  Speaking of those other performers, they’d followed him when he’d left the parlor and had listened to his performance from the morning room, but at its end, had slipped away.

  He found them sitting and quietly talking in the parlor. They turned to him with wide, shining eyes. He nodded and shut the door. “Now you know what awaits you if you’re of a mind to pursue musical performances for the ton.”

  “But none of us are of your caliber,” Brandon said.

  “Yet.” Frederick dropped into a vacant armchair. “All three of you have the potential to command similar respect from those who truly know music. As for the others, they are more fickle, but they will spread your name, and that’s what builds fame.”

  Frederick looked at the three faces turned his way, then frowned. “Have they fed you yet?”

  Phillip blinked, and George said, “They’re going to feed us as well?”

  Frederick snorted, rose, crossed to the bellpull, and tugged it. He’d slumped back in the armchair by the time a harassed-looking footman in the Raventhorne livery arrived.

  The footman’s demeanor abruptly changed when he saw Frederick. He snapped to attention. “Yes, my lord?”

  “They must be serving supper by now.”

  “Indeed, my lord. About to be called any minute now.”

  “In that case, please ask the cook to prepare a platter of her best selections for our three musicians here.” He waved at Brandon, Phillip, and George. “They performed superbly and should be appropriately rewarded.”

  “And for you, my lord?”

  “No—I’ll eat later.” Most likely after he’d returned home; unlike many other musicians, he was rarely hungry immediately after a performance.

  “Yes, my lord.” The footman retreated and shut the door.

  Frederick looked at his three protégés and smiled. “You did very well. And speaking of rewards…” He reached into his coat and withdrew three envelopes. He checked the names inscribed on each and handed them to the younger men. “Your fees.” He waited until they’d opened the envelopes and looked inside. “And any performance of similar duration you give for any ton hostess in the future should net you at least ten pounds more.”

  He grinned at the young men’s stunned expressions. “Welcome to the world of ton events—courtesy of Lady Eustacia, you now have a position within it, and it’s one you would be wise to maintain and build upon. If, in the future, you have any questions—about the wisdom of accepting any particular offer of an engagement, or which pieces to play at an event, or regarding the sum offered, by all means, call on me, and we’ll discuss it—you know where Albury House is, and my people will recognize you.”

  Brandon was the first to find his voice. “Th-thank you, my lord.”

  The other two gabbled their thanks as well, then Phillip wonderingly said, “It’s a little like a dream come true—I’m half thinking I’ll wake up, and it won’t be real.”

  A tap on the door heralded two maids each ferrying a platter; the cook had clearly correctly interpreted Frederick’s instruction, and the platters were piled with delicacies.

  The maids set down the platters and drew plates and napkins and forks from their apron pockets. After laying everything down—all the while casting admiring glances at the three younger men, all of whom blushed, much to Frederick’s amusement—the maids bobbed and departed.

  The three young musicians’ gazes had fixed on the succulent tidbits stacked on the platters, but none of them moved.

  Frederick grinned and waved at the food. “Have at it.”

  The trio needed no further urging.

  Frederick waited, comfortable and far more relaxed than he had been, and when the platters held nothing but crumbs, he summoned another footman and sent his three protégés, now wilting but still smiling, out to his carriage with instructions to his coachman to ferry the three to their homes, then return to pick him up; his mother and Emily had traveled separately in the larger Albury carriage.

  Once the door shut behind Goodes, Frederick lay back in the armchair, stretched his legs out before him, and looked up at the ceiling. Now his excuse for hiding in the parlor had departed, he should return to the reception rooms and circulate. He knew his mother and Emily would think so, and most likely, so would Stacie.

  He considered the melee that would surround him if he reappeared and pulled a face. “There’s should…and then there’s will.”

  He clasped his hands on his chest and remained where he was.

  Stacie had lost sight of Frederick some minutes before Pemberly found her, and she gave the order for supper to be announced. Although she kept her eyes peeled, she didn’t spot Frederick’s dark head anywhere among the crowd, and then she was too busy assisting some of the older grandes dames into the supper room or ferrying other’s choices out to where they remained in the drawing room to have time to search.

  Supper was in full swing when Mary popped up at her elbow and caught her hand. “Frederick—where is he?”

  “I don’t know.” Stacie glanced around again. “He must be here somewhere.”

  “He isn’t—Felicia, Sylvia, and I have quartered the rooms. He’s vanished.” Mary caught her eye. “Would he have left the house without telling you?”

  “I doubt it. Once he agreed to perform, he’s been nothing but supportive. He might be with his three protégés.”

  “Pemberly said they left.”

  “Oh yes—Frederick was going to send them home in his carriage. That must be where he went…” Stacie looked at the door to the front hall. “I think I know where he must be.”

  “Well”—Mary prodded her—“go and winkle him back out. While I can appreciate that a gushing crowd isn’t to his liking, to gain the most from this event with respect to ensuring the success of the next and the next, he needs to be swanning around, available for those you enticed to attend with the promise of hearing him play and, subsequently, meeting him.”

  Stacie hadn’t promised anyone the latter but refrained from saying so; she understood Mary’s point well enough. The ton’s more influential ladies and the senior hostesses had come with the expectation of not only hearing the elusive marquess play but speaking with him as well. If Stacie wanted to ensure those ladies’ attendance at her next event, she had to fulfill their expectations no matter that those extended beyond what she’d offered.

  Mary went on, “If he needs you to hold his hand, do so. If you get him back out here, I’ll help, and so will the others.”

  Stacie nodded. “If you and Ernestine will hold the fort here, I’ll see what I can do.”

  She made her way into the front hall. After smiling and farewelling two of the older ladies, before anyone else appeared, she hurried down the corridor to the parlor. She didn’t knock but opened the door and whisked inside, closed the door, and turned—and was unsurprised to find Frederick slouched in an armchair and arching his brows at her.

  “Have you come to take refuge, too?”

  “No.” She marched across, halted beside his outstretched legs, and looked down at him. “I’ve come to inveigle you back out.”

  Frederick raised his brows higher. “Have they all left?”

  “Thus far, only a few have gone.”

  “In that case, I prefer to rem
ain here.”

  He heard her sigh.

  “It’s not a question of preferring but of what’s needed to ensure the major hostesses, especially, continue to support our events in the future.” When he glanced up, she trapped his gaze. “You committed to this enterprise—as Mary pointed out, having dangled the lure before the beast, we need to deliver what they expect, or the ladies will be miffed.”

  “They can remain miffed for all I care. Regardless, when I play again, they will come.”

  Her lips tightened. “You don’t know how difficult some of the major hostesses can be.” Her gaze locked with his, she drew breath and said, “I don’t know what’s behind your obvious aversion to the ton, but we need you to set it aside and show those who’ve attended tonight that if they come to future events, you will be approachable—available to speak with—at least for a little while.”

  Before he could respond, she clasped her hands before her and went on, “If you need help dealing with the grandes dames, the hostesses, and others, I’ll gladly stick by your side throughout, but we can’t risk allowing the hostesses and the grandes dames to leave feeling shortchanged.”

  He stared up at her. He wasn’t actually afraid of crowds. He disliked—intensely disliked—the cloying, smothering attention, but if he truly wished, he could endure it. Possibly cuttingly, but ignoring the aggravation and dealing with anyone who wished to speak with him…that really wasn’t all that hard.

  And if she promised to remain by his side…

  It hit him then, the real reason he’d quit the music room and the crowds. He’d put up with the guests well enough while she’d been beside him, but once they’d become separated, he’d lost interest in being guest-prey and had seized on the excuse of dealing with his protégés to retreat—and he’d stayed in the parlor because he’d known that at some point, she would come looking for him…

  He was there and had remained there precisely to engineer this moment.

  This interlude alone with her, because he preferred talking to her rather than to anyone else, even his peers.