The Last Serenade (Sybil Ingram Victorian Mysteries Book 2)

by Amanda DeWees

  Julia had been accurate, if unkind, in calling him tubby and balding. His fine silk waistcoat strained at his protruding belly, and his round pate was entirely bare, set about with graying brown hair. He was on the short side, and perhaps to compensate for this he stood with his chest puffed out and his legs planted wide, like portraits of Henry VIII, as if determined to take up as much space as he could.

  For all of that, though, he looked little different from many another prosperous middle-aged man. A bit of a dandy, perhaps, showing off his wealth in his silken waistcoat and lavender kid gloves, but he did not look the part of the villain I had expected.

  As he watched Julia, his pale eyes seemed to show surprise.

  “I confess I expected a warmer reception than this,” he said. “Ivey, I fear your leading lady’s manners are no match for her beauty.”

  Julia gave a disdainful sniff but did not turn away from the mirror, and Mr. Ivey hastened into the breach.

  “Julia is naturally much preoccupied with the new role she must learn. Allow me to introduce you to the rest of the cast. Monsieur Fournier, for those who don’t already know of his philanthropy, is one of our backers.”

  “The primary one,” said the other, with one of his booming laughs. I saw Gustave, who was nearest him, wince at the volume of noise. “I don’t think that’s an exaggeration, is it, Ivey? You might say that I’m the man who is making all of this possible.”

  From across the room, Roderick caught my eye in surprise, and I felt a flicker of uneasiness. If Fournier was so involved with the play, how could I possibly fool him with my masquerade as Julia? And, what was more, since he was so great a part of the production, that gave him considerably more power over Julia... and, indeed, all of us.

  Unless, of course, he was exaggerating—and he seemed precisely the sort of man who was prone to empty boasting.

  Mr. Ivey beckoned Roderick over. “Allow me to present Mr. Roderick Brooke, the celebrated violinist.”

  “A moment, Ivey. You’ve not yet introduced me to this pretty little piece here.” He reached for my hand, and I was not quick enough to prevent him from taking it.

  Mr. Ivey was maintaining his composed expression, but I wondered what thoughts were passing behind his mild countenance. “Miss Sybil Ingram is a visitor from England,” he said. “She is engaged to Mr. Brooke, who is composing new arrangements for the music.” He beckoned Roderick forward, but his attempt to divert Fournier’s notice from me was futile.

  At this close proximity, I could see how sly the man’s gaze was and note the lascivious twist to his lips. Despite my furtive attempt to draw my hand out of his grasp, he held on tightly and brought it to his lips. Had I not been reluctant to cause a disruption and embarrass Mr. Ivey in his own home, I would have exerted any force necessary to wrench my hand free. The thought of being subjected to this man’s caresses, as Julia was under threat of being, made my stomach turn.

  “Sybil Ingram,” he repeated. “But you are an actress yourself, yes? What is that fool Ivey about, not to cast you in his little play?”

  “I am retired,” I explained, hoping he would turn his interest to someone else. If I could only divert his focus to Marianne—but that was a cowardly thought.

  Unfortunately my words only sharpened his interest. “Ah, yes, I think I remember now.” He dropped his voice into a more confiding tone. “There was some nasty business, as I recall, about that sudden retirement of yours. It was hushed up, but you didn’t exactly come out smelling of roses, did you?” He chuckled in a revoltingly conspiratorial way. “Miss Ingram, you are a naughty little girl.”

  I wanted to put space between us, but backing away would look like retreat. Instead I drew myself up, drew breath into my lungs, and said loudly and clearly, “If you’re referring to the embezzlement story, that is a complete fiction. Speak to Gerhardt Atherton, my former manager, if you want the truth. He will tell you I am blameless.”

  It was a gamble, to be sure. But instinct told me that it would be better to brazen it out and take control of the story rather than keeping quiet and hoping that it would never come to the ears of my new colleagues.

  The effect on Fournier was to momentarily stun him. But then a smile spread once more across his face.

  “You may be certain I will investigate the matter further,” he said, in a softer voice than I had believed he possessed. “I suspect there are some details that would shock your new friends if anyone carelessly let them slip. I wonder, now, how you could tempt me to keep silent about them.”

  Before I could form a reply, Roderick’s hand shot out. He pushed Fournier away from me with a force that made the short man stagger and release my hand at last.

  “Get away from Miss Ingram,” Roderick ordered. “How dare you sully her with your foul insinuations.”

  Though I was grateful to be freed from Fournier’s grip and his innuendos, the vehemence of Roderick’s response alarmed me. As he advanced with doom in his eyes, Fournier retreated, holding his arms up before him.

  “Careful,” he snapped. “If you hurt me, one word in the right ear will have you clapped in irons before nightfall.”

  Roderick loomed over him. “An idle threat—just what I would expect from a puffed-up buffoon like you.”

  “Far from idle, sir!” With a nasty smile, Fournier produced his next words with the triumphant flourish of a magician producing doves from a hat. “There are bound to have been witnesses to the shooting.”

  That stopped Roderick in his tracks. But I feared that it was only a momentary pause and that he was angry enough to dare the odious man to do his worst, so I opened my mouth to stop him.

  He drew back his fist, and Julia and I cried at the same moment, “Roderick!”

  Mr. Ivey stepped forward in the silence that followed our cry. “Mr. Brooke, Monsieur Fournier. I beg you, be friends. This is nothing but a misunderstanding.”

  The look Roderick gave Fournier should have set him ablaze, but he turned to Mr. Ivey with the greatest courtesy and said, “Please forgive my lapse, sir. As my host, you are entitled to expect better behavior from me.”

  Fournier had recovered his assurance. “Lapse!” he said, and guffawed. “You’ll have to learn to be less violent in protecting the honor of the woman you love—whichever one she is.”

  And with that startling volley, he bowed mockingly and took his leave.

  Chapter Seven

  “You’re very quiet this evening,” Roderick said.

  We had taken a late supper in the sitting room of my suite, and now we sat sipping liqueurs. The evening was warm, so the French doors to the balcony were open, and the sounds of gaiety and music drifted up to us from the Café de la Paix below. All was tranquil—save my thoughts.

  “You must admit that the day has given us much food for thought,” I said.

  “True,” he conceded. We had turned the gaslight down low to be more restful, and in the soft illumination his eyes were hooded and intense. “Is there any particular morsel that you are contemplating? The charming Monsieur Fournier, for example?”

  I shuddered. “The man is many things, but a morsel is not foremost among them,” I said. Even though Fournier had departed from Mr. Ivey’s apartment after that final jab at Roderick, his influence had lingered over the rest of the day like a miasma, even when Roderick and I hired a sailboat for a brief trip down the river. “Do you think he was bluffing about having you arrested for the duel?”

  “Oh, assuredly,” Roderick said without hesitation. “Men like that derive their power from threats, not from actions. Besides, he’ll be hard pressed to find any witnesses, despite his claims.”

  “I hope you’re right.” The thought of Roderick being arrested, jailed, and tried for dueling filled me with anxiety. Granted, the French courts were said to be quite lenient where crimes of passion were concerned, but that was no guarantee. And there was the ordeal itself—how long might he have to be imprisoned before the trial even took place? What were the cond
itions of French jails?

  “Sybil.” Roderick’s voice was soft, and his hand came to rest over mine. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I promise you, neither of us has anything to fear from Fournier.”

  Spoken in his velvet voice, the words reassured me. I smiled in relief and was just leaning over to kiss him when—

  “Will you be needing anything else, madam?”

  Mrs. Vise stood close by, her hands folded in front of her. She eyed Roderick with disapproval. He had shed his suit coat, and to judge by her demeanor she seemed to feel that this state of semi-undress was a sign of disrespect to me. Personally, I enjoyed the sight of Roderick in shirt sleeves, and knowing how confined he felt by coats, hats, and other conventional attire, I did not mind that he wished to be freed from such constraints in our private life.

  “That will be all for this evening, Mrs. Vise,” I said. “Thank you.”

  I tried to sound casual but may not have succeeded entirely, for she gave me a sharp look before accepting my dismissal. She disapproved of our spending time together without a chaperone, and I could hardly fault her for this. I had known her views when I hired her, and sometimes it was convenient to have a watchful eye to keep me on the strait and narrow.

  Not always, however.

  When I did not relent, she retreated, closing the double doors behind her. I knew that now she would retire to her room upstairs in the servants’ attic quarters. I had offered to have part of my suite fitted up for her use, but I think she found it a bit overwhelming and seemed happy to have her own modest domain tucked away beneath the roof.

  Roderick picked up his glass and rose, offering me his hand, and led me to a little overstuffed divan nearer the French doors. The currents of night air ruffled the sheer lace curtains and lifted the curls at his forehead. Roderick and I were alone, truly alone, and I found my thoughts returning to the disquieting questions Julia had raised in my mind. I wondered if she had intended just this—to find a way of coming between Roderick and me even when we were alone. Or was that my imagination inventing reasons to distrust her?

  “Is something else troubling you?” Roderick asked, resting his arm along the back of the divan and regarding me with the full force of his magnetic eyes. “Are you concerned about the play? I shall be more than happy to run lines with you if you wish to work on your French.”

  I owed it to my future husband, and myself, to be frank about our bond to each other, about my expectations and hopes, so that there would be no misunderstandings that might later cause either of us pain. I could feel the blood mounting to my cheeks as I forced myself to start a conversation that nothing in my upbringing had prepared me for.

  “Talking with Julia—last night and at the Jardin Mabille—made me realize something.” I wanted to touch his hand for reassurance, to feel connected to him, but that might somehow affect his response, and I wanted to know that he was speaking the full, unfettered truth tonight. “You and I have never talked about what we envision marriage to be,” I said awkwardly. “My view may be a more conventional one than most of our friends’, but I see marriage, and even an engagement, as being for two people only.” I took a quick swallow of my cognac for courage. “I—I have to tell you that I would feel utterly betrayed if you took a mistress, whether now or after our wedding. Not just Julia, but anyone.”

  I could almost hear the apprehensive thud of my heart in the fraction of a moment before he spoke.

  “Sybil,” he exclaimed, his brow knitting in concern. “Have I done anything to make you imagine that I take my commitment to you lightly? I’m not a true bohemian, or at least not anymore. When you asked me to marry you—”

  “I never!” Despite my urgent interest in the conversation I could not let that pass.

  That made him grin. “Very well, then, when you so strongly urged me to propose to you—”

  I aimed a swat at his shoulder, but he caught my wrist and brought my hand to his lips for a long moment. When he spoke next, his voice had softened.

  “Though I tease you about it, my darling, when I realized I loved you it changed everything for me. At that moment I gave up all other women forever, and without a moment’s regret.” Releasing my wrist, he took my face in his hands. “Our bond to each other is sacred to me, and it excludes all others.”

  How could I have doubted this man? Happiness rushed into my heart like a tide. “I am so glad to hear you say that,” I whispered. “I was afraid—”

  “Afraid?”

  “Well, Julia said—and of course she knew you before I did...”

  He drew back slightly to give me a searching look. “What did she say?”

  “Well, nothing I hadn’t heard before, I suppose. That men have stronger desires than we women do, that it’s unfair to ask you to be... to go without an outlet for your passions before marriage, and...”

  “And what else?” His voice was wary, but I forced myself onward.

  “To not have a mistress. In addition to a wife.”

  The silence that followed may have been the worst interval of my life, and it felt far longer than the handful of seconds that probably elapsed. I heard the laughter and chatter from the street below and felt far removed from that carefree existence, here alone with Roderick on this mountaintop of perilous truth, afraid that his next words would hurl me into the abyss.

  He was regarding me without indignation, which was a good sign. Wasn’t it? Or should I be worried that he could meet my gaze so dispassionately?

  “That’s a rather insulting view of men,” he said in a level voice. “It assumes that we are utterly without discipline, self-control, or maturity, plain and simple. And it also assumes that all of us are alike, that we all want the same things... and have the same weaknesses.”

  I had no answer for this. I had assumed—there was that word again—that Julia was wiser than I because she had known more men, and known them more intimately. But perhaps her view was nothing more than opinion, and furthermore an opinion formed through the prism of her own experience and biases.

  “Was she wrong?” I asked. “Is it fair to expect a man to be satisfied with only one woman?”

  “I don’t know about other men. I only know about myself. And I know that you are the only woman I want to be with.”

  “But... can you know beforehand? Perhaps I’ll turn out to be a disappointing lover.” It was painful to form the words. “I mean, compared to—”

  “Let’s not start making comparisons,” he said before I could utter her name again. “Of course it’s possible that everything won’t be perfect right away for us. It may take a little time to learn how to love each other.” His smile suggested that he was anticipating the prospect with pleasure. “But we have all our lives in which to learn—and I’m confident that practice and enthusiasm will see us through.”

  This was an entirely new idea to me. In my naïveté I had thought that two people who loved each other would find the physical expression of that love effortlessly harmonious. More and more I found that my knowledge of these matters was woefully inadequate.

  Seeing my bewilderment, Roderick took my hand reassuringly. “Look at it this way,” he said. “The first time I picked up a violin, I had no idea how to make music with it. The same was true the second time, and the third. But I am a stubborn fellow, as you well know, so I persisted.” Still holding my hand in his, he drew the fingers of his other hand lightly along my bare forearm. The lightest touch, but it seemed to awaken shivers all over my skin. “And with time and patience,” he continued softly, “I learned its intricacies—how tightly to hold it, where to place my fingers, how much vigor with which to draw the bow—and eventually I was able to draw sweet melodies from it.”

  The man was persuasive, no doubt about it. “In this analogy,” I queried, “am I you or the violin?”

  That wicked grin I loved flashed out. “Whichever you find more encouraging... or titillating. You certainly are as charmingly curved as a violin.” Then he grew serious once more.
“But I haven’t asked if you’ve had doubts about my ability to fulfill all your needs once we’re wedded. Do you think that you may want a lover on the side?”

  “Of course not!” I exclaimed. “I could never want anyone else. I only want you.”

  “Well, then.” He smiled and spread his hands, as if to say voilà! “It sounds as though we are in perfect accord.”

  More than anything I wanted to believe that. I could not leave the matter, though, until he had destroyed every one of my worries. “But women are different from men. Our desire isn’t as strong—at least, that’s what I’ve always heard.”

  “Hmm. I’m skeptical about that, at least where you are concerned. I know you to have very strong desire.” His eyes were so knowing that I feared I would blush. “Sometimes when I’ve held you in my arms and heard the urgent little sounds you make, I know you’ve felt it very strongly indeed.”

  “I didn’t realize I made noises,” I said, mortified.

  “The dearest noises, like a kitten or a dove.” His voice was caressing as he leaned forward, but instead of kissing me he reached for my right foot and removed my high-heeled slipper. Then his hand found its way under my skirt and petticoats to my leg, and with a rustle of fabric it slid its way upward until his palm cupped my calf. The warmth of his touch seemed to melt my bones.

  “What are you doing?” I managed to whisper.

  “Smoothing your stocking.” His hand glided farther up. “Oh, dear,” he murmured, his voice at its huskiest. “Your garter seems to be loose.”

  He hooked his finger under it and with a gentle tug slid it down over my knee. I drew in a quick breath as his fingers slipped under the top of my stocking and drew it down, baring my leg. His index finger found the sensitive inner crease of my knee and I gasped again as he traced it back and forth, his fingertip finally coming to rest in the little indentation at the innermost point. My stays suddenly seemed tighter.