He passed a few other servants, but no one minded him. He was the indentured servant in the household, the drudge, his place below the lowliest scullery maid, and because he was ignored, he could do almost anything he wanted—like meet with Emily.
It wasn’t long before he reached the music room. A faint tune pierced the thick walls. He grabbed the latch and pushed opened the door. Inside, Emily was seated in a chair, facing the moonlit window, playing a violin.
She sensed his presence, for she missed a note, and in that moment he fully realized she was playing one of his melodies on his instrument.
A different kind of heat came over him. He had never heard her play the violin. She had only ever played the piano, a suitable instrument for a proper young lady. Who had dared to teach her? There were no respectable women violinists. The very idea was shocking, even indecent. And yet Grey was transfixed by her performance. She lured him with the music, like the Pied Piper of fables, and without even thinking of the danger, he closed the door and crossed the large room.
Her arms moved in sharp strokes. She was draped in a woolly red wrapper, her body flexible in the loose garment. Her long auburn hair flowed over her shoulders, thick and untamed. And her eyes remained shut as she concentrated on the lullaby he had once played for her as a boy.
She was free. Unconstrained by etiquette or insecurity. And she commanded the music—his music—as if it were her own creation. With a straight wrist and agile fingers, she slipped between the octaves with ease. Her technique needed polish, but no amount of instruction could enhance the soulfulness of her performance.
She brought the piece to a close with a vibrato. Her lashes flickered, then her eyes opened as if from a sweet dream. She smiled. “You came.”
Grey had come for the violin, but it didn’t belong to him alone, not anymore. She had taken everything from him—his heart, his music, and now his instrument.
“How?” he whispered.
“How did I learn to play?” She hugged the violin. “Attitudes on the Continent are different from those in England, and one of my schoolmates, from Russia, taught me to play. She’s quite a virtuoso, unlike myself.”
“Why?”
“Does it matter?” she said evasively. “I’ve learned. And a good thing, too. Since you’ve turned away from your music, there’s only me to keep it alive.”
His chest tightened. “I haven’t abandoned it.”
“Yes, you have.” She held out the instrument and bow. “Your grandfather didn’t construct this so you could hide it under your bed.”
He snatched the violin from her. “You don’t understand.”
“You miss him. But don’t you see, you must play to keep his memory, his life’s work alive. To keep yourself alive, Rees.”
“I can’t.”
“Play for me.”
“No.”
“Play for me!”
He had a sinful urge to throw the violin across the room. It tormented him in every way. It had brought him peace and joy when he’d been alone in Wright’s house, apart from his grandfather. And then he’d befriended Emily. It had brought him peace and joy to play for her. But she had left for Switzerland, then his grandfather had died. And it brought him no peace or joy to play for himself alone. Now she was home. But soon she would leave again, to marry. And he would not play for her. He would not let himself feel that pleasure again, knowing it would end.
He placed the violin back in its case. In brisk strides, he headed for the door.
She chased after him and blockaded the exit. “Then give it to me,” she demanded.
“What?”
“Give me the violin. If you won’t play it, what good is it to you?”
He glared at her. “It’s all I have of him.”
“Is that how you want to honor your grandfather? By worshipping a dusty old relic? That’s what the violin will become one day. Is that a fitting end for the finest instrument ever made by the greatest maker?”
She echoed his own childhood words back at him, and he wished her memory wasn’t so superb—or her insight so cutting.
“What business is this of yours?”
“I’m your friend, Rees.”
“No, you’re not. You’re the mistress of this house, and I’m your servant. I know my place. You should know yours, princess.”
He pushed her aside and left the music room, feeling every bit the fool for dreaming impossible dreams. He should take his own damn advice, he thought. He should know his place.
~*~
Grey stood in the middle of the study. He had been summoned to the room a few minutes ago for an unknown reason. Wright scribbled at his desk, his attention occupied. And Grey could only speculate on what the old miser wanted from him.
Inevitably, his thoughts turned to Emily. He wondered whether her father had grown suspicious of his feelings for her. Grey hadn’t spoken to her in two weeks, not since the night in the music room, and she in turn had ignored him, concentrating instead on finding a husband. It was the way their relationship should be—should have always been—and yet he was more irritable than ever. He hoped the self-absorbed Wright hadn’t finally noticed.
The front doorbell rang again—the eighth in the last hour! Grey stiffened at the galling sound. Since Emily had returned from school, suitor after suitor had descended on the house every afternoon during visiting hours. He tried to ignore the thought of so many men calling on her, but the wretched bell toll would not let him forget it.
“I’ve called you in here to discuss our arrangement.” Wright finally looked up from his desk, his dark eyes focusing on Grey. “I am terminating your indentured servitude.”
An unseen weight crashed down on his head. “But the debt isn’t repaid.”
“I am forgiving the remainder of the debt.” He wrote in his open account book, to the right of his papers. “There. A zero balance. The debt is repaid in full.”
Silence.
“Have you nothing to say, Rees?”
The man was expecting gratitude, but Grey couldn’t offer it, his breath trapped in his throat.
“You have been here five years,” Wright went on, dismissing the silence. He folded the paper in front of him. “Here is a letter of reference. And since you’ve received no wages in all that time, here is a banknote in the amount of ten pounds. Both will help you establish yourself in a new venture.” Wright held out the letter and draft. “You’ve been a good worker, Rees, and you’ve honored your grandfather.”
Head spinning, Grey stepped forward and accepted the papers. “Thank you,” he returned, his voice strangled.
“You’re welcome,” said Wright. “You are free to leave.”
Strange how he had longed to hear those words, and now that they had been spoken, he hadn’t the strength to carry himself out the door.
“May I know the reason for your generosity?” he finally asked.
“You may.” Wright stood up from his chair and rounded the desk. “I will be obtaining a new residence.”
“I can work for you at your new residence.”
The words escaped his mouth before he had time to think about them.
“I’m sure you’ve better ambitions for yourself. You have your grandfather’s blood, and I admired his entrepreneurial spirit.”
. . . so long as he paid his rent.
It was pure business with Wright. He had no soul. Not like Emily.
“When will you and Miss Wright be leaving?”
“I alone am leaving, just as soon as she is married.”
Grey’s heart stopped. “She is engaged?”
“Soon to be, I’m sure. She is this season’s treasure. I intend to gift her and her husband this house. It’s in the most fashionable district in Town and will be the center of their social lives. She will need a new staff, her own, not one inherited from her father. And a widower, like myself, requires a more modest abode, so I will be keeping a smaller staff at my new residence.”
“I see.”
Wright offered his large hand. “I wish you good fortune, Rees.”
He returned the handshake. “Thank you.”
~ * ~
Grey didn’t have much to pack, just some clothes and toiletries. And letters. Emily’s letters. He placed the bundle of papers into his luggage and secured the leather straps. He then looked around the small room that had been his home for the last five years and felt a moment of nostalgic regret. He and Emily had become friends in this humble place. He remembered her haughty airs and rude quips and her eventual, begrudging, brave admission that she needed him—both his music and his companionship.
He picked up the suitcase and his violin. For the first time in his life he was alone without a home or purpose. Wright had said he had his grandfather’s blood and thus entrepreneurial spirit, but right then, Grey didn’t know what he was going to do or where he would go.
He turned down the lamplight and left the room, heading for the back staircase.
“You would leave without saying goodbye?”
At the sound of her soft, accusing voice, his arms weakened and his luggage felt unbearably heavy. He set both cases on the ground and turned in time to see her step out of the shadows and into a moonlit beam. Her long, braided hair was gathered around one shoulder, her arms folded across the front of her wrapper. She was ready for sleep and had clearly escaped her chaperone’s clumsy supervision. Standing under the skylight, the rest of the corridor dark as pitch, she was the only bright spot in his life—and the reason why he could never say goodbye.
“Will I ever see you again?” she asked.
“Do you want me to ring the front door or back when I come to visit?”
“You would be welcomed,” she returned evasively.
“And who would you tell your husband that I am?”
“A friend.”
“I’m not your friend, princess.”
And she was not his friend—she was everything to him.
He picked up his belongings and headed for the stairs again.
“Promise me you’ll play,” she called after him.
“I’m not your servant anymore. I don’t have to follow your orders.”
She snorted. “You never followed them when you were my servant.”
He stopped. He wanted to laugh. To cry. He wanted to feel her arms around him. He wanted to return the embrace this time. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to take her away with him and never give her up.
He wanted to die.
Grey set down the luggage and crossed the hall. She looked at him without fear, her brown eyes knowing and inviting. He stepped into the circle of light, cupped her cheeks and lowered his mouth to hers.
She tasted sweeter than he’d imagined, softer than he’d dreamed, and his heart pounded so hard in his chest, the beats echoed in his skull.
He slipped his fingers behind her neck and pulled her in for a deeper kiss. She pressed against him, wrapped her arms around his waist and cried softly, making him shake as if with fever. He thought he would lose his balance and pushed her against the wall, but that wasn’t enough support. He needed a bed.
Grey grabbed her hand and pulled her into his room. He wanted to touch her, taste her with a desire that buried all his good sense. And when he closed the door and felt her eager fingers reach for him in the dark, he groaned with pleasure and gathered her in his arms.
“Rees, I . . . I . . .”
“I want the same, Emily,” he whispered, breathless.
He kissed her. Or she kissed him. He wasn’t sure who was in control. He didn’t care. He only cared about being with her. About loving her.
The door opened.
Light pierced the room and blinded Grey to the fist barreling toward his face. Knuckles plowed into his lips and cheek, knocking him backward and onto the floor. He hit the ground hard, dazed, blood spilling from his mouth.
Emily screamed, “Papa, no!”
“You son of a bitch!” roared Wright. “I’ll kill you!”
Fists slammed down on his chest, breaking ribs. Grey rolled to the side to avoid the deadly blows and booted Wright in the shin until the man staggered back, unbalanced.
“I didn’t hurt her.” Grey sputtered, gasping for air. “I love her! And she loves me.”
Wright regained his balance and turned his murderous eyes on his daughter. “Is that true?”
Cradling his broken bones, Grey pulled himself up against the wall. He saw the look of horror on Emily’s face, the whites of her eyes red and glassy with tears. And then he saw her fuddled chaperone, spectacles askew, step nearer with the lamplight. He realized the old bird must have woken from her drunken sleep to find her charge missing and fetched Wright. And Grey dearly wished she hadn’t picked this moment to finally do her duty.
“Is it true, Emily?” demanded Wright.
Emily’s eyes flitted between the two men. She covered her mouth with her hands. Tears streaked her flushed cheeks. She said nothing. But she shook her head—violently.
Grey’s heart fell.
“Liar! Traitor!” cried Wright. “You dragged her from her bed and ravished her!”
Wright raised his fist again, but this time Grey didn’t move to avoid it. Emily had denied him. She had denied the truth about them. And that took the breath from his lungs more than any pummeling.
“No, Papa!” She jumped forward and grabbed her father’s arm. “Don’t hurt him. He didn’t ravish me, I swear.”
“What?”
“He didn’t hurt me. You . . . you stopped him.”
“He wanted to hurt you.”
“But he didn’t. You saved me. Oh, Papa. Don’t! You’ll go to prison if you kill him.”
“No judge would convict a father for defending his daughter’s honor.”
“Please, Papa! Think of me. Think of the scandal. Who would marry me?”
That stopped the man, sobered him.
“Get out,” he ordered Grey, hellfire still burning in his eyes. “Out!”
He grabbed Grey and yanked him from the room. In full view of the other servants, who’d gathered at the commotion, Wright dragged him across the hall and shoved him down the stairs. He kicked the suitcase after him.
Grey seized the banister for support, still dazed. He looked over his shoulder and watched as Emily reached for the violin case, but her father snatched it first and sent it into a wall.
The case opened and the instrument clattered to the floor before Wright smashed it with his heel.
Emily gasped and covered her mouth.
Grey stared at the splintered wood—and his heart hardened.
He looked at Emily. She shook her head again and mouthed the words “I’m sorry.” But it was too late for remorse.
How quickly love turned to hate.
CHAPTER 3
Spring
London, 1888
Grey watched his energetic fingers dance across the violin’s strings. He ended his latest masterpiece with a presto passage and yanked his right hand back, raising the bow.
He couldn’t hear his heartbeat anymore as the audience erupted with echoing applause. More than five thousand spectators offered him an ovation, and he bowed before walking off the stage of the Royal Albert Hall.
The amphitheater still resounded with acclaim as he entered his dressing room. Closing the door, he tossed the violin on the Turkish divan, then removed his dress coat. The room was filled with flowers and cards from men and women alike, begging for a private audience. He dismissed the fanfare and poured himself a glass of red wine.
Grey dropped into a chair and stared at his reflection in the oval mirror. His music was often compared to his macabre looks. He had let his hair grow unfashionably long and unruly. He never wore a cravat when he played, leaving his neck exposed. And he engaged the violin like a man making mad love to his mistress. The sexuality of his performances publically shocked—and privately tempted—his contemporaries, making him a sensation. He had earned more fame and money as a s
candalous, even immoral musician than a respectable violinist, and that epithet suited him fine.
The door burst open.
“That was a smashing performance, me old mucker!”
Harry Hickox strode into the room with the confidence of an intimate friend, one who knew he’d be tolerated under any circumstances. He was a young man of aristocratic blood with no fortune or influence, and he’d appointed himself a central part of Grey’s musical attaché, travelling with him abroad and now here in London. He was the one constant in Grey’s haphazard life.
Grey swirled the wine in his glass. “I always give a smashing performance, Harry.”
“But never at the Royal Albert Hall! You’ve made it, chum. Londoners finally love you.”
“Yes, finally. I didn’t think it would ever happen. A prophet is honored everywhere except his hometown.”
“What’s that?”
“Nothing. Grab that bottle of wine, Harry. We must celebrate.”
In truth, Grey wasn’t in a festive mood. One thought had tormented him throughout the performance. Was she in the audience? He had played as if she were. He had played for her. It was his greatest triumph because he had put all his anger, all his regret into the instrument, treated the instrument as if it were her, and he was spent. He had nothing left to give, not even a celebratory hurrah for achieving his childhood dream.
Harry swiped the bottle of wine. “It’ll be in all the broadsheets tomorrow. Soon you’ll play for Her Majesty!”
Grey snorted at that. He had toured the world over, playing for commoners and royals alike. The broadsheets at home had always reviled him for his “continental” morals, much looser than those of England. And it was often prophesized he would never play on English soil. But when morals had gotten in the way of fashion, fashion had won. Grey Rees was the height of fashion. Londoners could not snub him any longer without taking on the dreaded stigma of being behind the times.
“Where shall we go to celebrate?” asked Harry. “White’s? Brooks’s? Boodle’s?”
Having no interest in any of the aforementioned gentlemen’s clubs, Grey shook his head.
The Princess and the Pauper Page 3
