by Mia Marlowe
“The earl?”
“No. Paschal,” Roddy said. “No one touches his bare hands. Not ever.”
That bordered on excessive, but she supposed with great talent came great pressure, which could only be relieved by certain rituals in order to maintain some semblance of control. In that way, the prodigy was not unlike her. A fire mage had her eccentricities too. Cassie felt a flash of kindred spirit for the boy.
“Mesdames et Monsieurs, please to speak among yourselves while I complete a few exercises,” Paschal said, his English only slightly accented. His voice was the pure high soprano of a lad whose body had not yet bid childhood adieu. Then he launched into a furious set of two-handed scales.
“How unusual,” Cassandra leaned to whisper to Roderick. “I’ve never seen a pianist begin a concert like this.”
“Paschal is a perfectionist. He wants to make sure the piano is tuned properly before he begins in earnest. If needs be, he will adjust the pins to insure the instrument is in perfect pitch.” Cassie would have said Roderick wouldn’t know a well-tuned piano if one dropped from the sky onto his head. “Trust me. This is only the first of many surprises.”
“His parents must be so proud.”
“Perhaps they would be if they could be found. As nearly as Father could learn, the boy was left on the steps of a great cathedral and raised in the church school where his brilliance came into evidence early on. He outpaced his teachers in no time.”
Only ten or eleven and alone in the world. Cassandra’s heart constricted for the boy. “Surely Paschal must have foster parents in order to travel on his performance tours.”
“No, he travels only with a valet and a personal chef. He never eats anything prepared by anyone other than his own cook. As you say, eccentric.”
The boy stopped the scales and cracked his knuckles. The room went breathlessly silent. Then Paschal began to play.
Years later, when anyone asked Cassandra about that night, she would only say that Paschal’s music had claimed part of her soul. And she had surrendered it willingly. The sound rolled over Cassie, now tender, now passionate, now playful. He coaxed the piano to give up its voice. He dominated it with ruthlessness. He tickled its ivories into uncontrollable mirth. Every piece was a revelation. It was more than technical prowess. The boy performed with a depth of feeling not found in artists six times his age. And he demanded emotion from his audience with every stroke of the keys.
The concert stretched on for hours, but the time flew by unheeded. Cassie found herself perching on the edge of her seat, hungry for the next fulfilling chord, the next brilliant run, the next ethereal arpeggio. The sound made her want to dance, to leap up and shout, to weep. When the last note died, she despaired of ever hearing anything so magical again. Even as Paschal calmly donned his scarlet gloves, no one applauded. No one breathed. They couldn’t bear to break the spell.
Then the boy stood and gave a quick bow from the neck. The room erupted into thunderous acclamation. Cassandra was on her feet clapping so hard, her palms became red and sore but she wouldn’t stop. Roderick clamored for an encore, and the shout was taken up by the entire company.
Paschal held up a hand for silence and the audience took their seats, satisfied that he would oblige them.
“I am sorry. I can play no more this evening. In fact, I will not play again until the Prince Regent is here among us.” The lad’s gaze swept the roomful of disappointed faces. When he met Cassandra’s eyes, he paused and seemed to say only to her, “Take the memory of my music with you until then.”
She saw something in the boy’s eyes, a loneliness no amount of applause could assuage. He obviously loved his music, but was just as obviously a slave to it.
Poor, motherless, wretchedly gifted child.
Cassandra had never really believed in the mothering instinct. She thought it was something men dreamed up to insure that women bore the brunt of childrearing on top of their birthing. But she felt such a sudden flood of motherly affection for Paschal, a need to nurture and protect him, it threatened to burst out of her chest.
When Roderick offered to whisk her to the front of the receiving line to meet the boy, she took his arm without bothering to see if Garret was discommoded by her actions. Since Roderick and his family had brought Paschal to Brighton, even Lady Waldgren didn’t complain when he and Cassandra stepped in front of her to greet the artist.
“Paschal, I’d like you to meet Miss Cassandra Darkin,” Roddy said.
“But the lady and I, we have already met, monsieur.” Paschal bowed over Cassie’s offered hand. “Our souls mingled in the music and thereafter, n’est-ce pas, mademoiselle?”
She’d been aware of the connection when their eyes met, but didn’t think he would have felt it, too. Cassandra barely resisted the urge to hug the boy as if she were his favorite aunt. “Your mastery of music is breathtaking.”
He waved away her compliment. “Music is and then it is not. A vapor, a mist. It exists in time only, not in space. I master nothing most of the day.” Paschal cocked his head at her and narrowed his dark eyes, considering her like a mongoose would a snake. Then he gave himself an almost imperceptible shake and grinned at her as if he were any other ten-year-old boy with mischief on his mind. Paschal stood on tiptoe and cupped a gloved hand so he could whisper in her ear. “And I sense in you one who is gifted with mastery of something that flares up and then is gone—poof!—as well.”
Cassie blinked in surprise. The boy was definitely attuned to the psychic world if he had an inkling that she possessed an affinity for flames. If the Duke of Camden were present, he’d no doubt decide that, despite the boy’s tender years, Paschal was worthy of inclusion in the Order of the M.U.S.E.
She glanced around, looking for Garret. “I have a…a friend whom I’d like you to meet.”
“If you mean Sterling, you are out of luck,” Roddy said. “During the concert, a footman approached him with a message and he left in the middle of the Haydn sonatina.”
Cassandra wondered again at Roderick’s sudden proficiency with all things musical. Then she turned back to Paschal. “It must have been something terribly important to make Mr. Sterling leave while you were playing. You must forgive him. I know he will be back to hear you when you play for His Royal Highness.”
“This friend of yours, he has no need of me to forgive him. He did me no disservice. He is the one who missed the music. He has suffered enough,” Paschal said with a self-important shrug. “And I know you and I will meet again, Miss Darkin.”
For a second time, Cassie was certain the mysterious boy was M.U.S.E. material. She dipped in a shallow curtsy and left Paschal to his adoring claque.
She could have walked alone back to the Earl of Stanstead’s residence despite the lateness of the hour. There was enough foot traffic of other concertgoers to make her feel comfortable and safe, but Roderick insisted on giving her a ride in his gig for the journey of a few blocks. She was eager to learn if Garret had returned to his uncle’s home and what message had made him abandon the concert—and her!—so she accepted Roddy’s offer.
When Roderick reined his smart equipage to a stop before the earl’s residence, he didn’t immediately hop down to help her out. Instead he took her hand, twining his fingers with hers.
“Cassie, I think of you every day.”
“You mustn’t.” She tried to tug her hand free, but his grip tightened. If anyone happened to walk by, they might see that he was holding it.
“I can’t help it,” Roddy said. “You were my first love.”
Or his first conquest. He had certainly demonstrated no skill in lovemaking during their ill-fated encounter.
“You are going to be married,” she said firmly. “Lady Sylvia deserves to be your love now.”
“I know. What you say makes perfect sense, but my heart does not listen to my mind’s dictates.” He started to gather her into an embrace, but she straight-armed him.
“Then listen to my dictates, Roddy,
or I will scream, and if Garret is in his uncle’s home, he’ll come out and lay you flat.”
“I’m not afraid of Sterling.”
“You should be.” Their altercation at the dower house had proved that Garret was a better scrapper than Roddy. And if fists failed, he could also Send a suggestion to Roderick that it would be a good thing if he were to bash his own head against the nearest wall. “And if you’re not afraid of Garret, then be afraid of me. I will not permit you to manhandle me.”
Roderick laughed. “Don’t fight fate, Cassie. We were made for each other.”
Cassie imagined a lighted brand under his right foot. The smell of burning leather filled her nostrils.
“Ow!” Roddy released her and began frantically beating his smoldering boot with his hat.
Cassandra clambered down from the gig. It was only a short sprint up the garden path to the earl’s bottle-green front door.
Without a backward glance to see if Roddy was on her heels, she didn’t wait to knock for the butler to open for her. Breathing hard, she swung the door wide and then slammed it behind her.
But the commotion didn’t bring anyone skittering to her side.
Silence brooded over the house like a thick fog. No one seemed to be about on the ground floor. The swish of Cassie’s kid-soled slippers sounded unnaturally loud as she climbed the stairs to the first story. Once she reached the landing, she heard someone sniffling above her and then murmured voices. She froze in midstep, straining to listen.
“But it ain’t fair, I tells you.” The speaker was female, but Cassandra couldn’t place her. Probably a servant. She wasn’t Lady Easton’s maid, Nellie. That girl’s speech had a bit more polish than this one’s. “I was only just promoted to chambermaid and now if the ’ouse is shut up, what’s to become of me, I’d like to know?”
“Don’t cry before you’ve been cut, Mable.” Cassie recognized Mr. Clive’s hushed tones. “I expect he’ll keep the house open. Nothing is more likely, a young man like him.”
“If his Nibs does let the lease go, maybe there’d be a place for me at the Stanstead country seat, don’t you think? I hear Surrey is ever so nice. That’s where the big house is, ain’t it? I do so love the country and Brighton don’t count no more. Not with all the Quality flooding in during the Season like a high tide,” Mable said in a wheedling tone. “Please, Mr. Clive. I can’t lose my position.”
“If you do lose your position,” he said testily, “it will be because you danced on my last nerve. We don’t know yet what’s going to happen. Don’t borrow trouble.”
“But after this…ugh! How can we stay? Did you see him? I tell you, Mr. Clive, it weren’t natural.”
“Hush, girl. We’ll have no more of that and if I hear tales of these unusual circumstances outside the confines of this household, I shall know whom to blame.” He paused for effect. “And whom to sack.”
Cassandra hurried up the rest of the staircase. The maid, whose red nose showed she’d been blubbering, dropped a shallow curtsy to her. Mr. Clive advanced briskly to her side.
“Ah, there you are, Miss Darkin. We were concerned for you,” he said, solicitous now that he was not speaking to an underling. “His lordship sent a footman to collect you at the Pavilion. I gather he was successful.”
“No, your footman must have missed me. Mr. Bellefonte brought me back after the recital ended.” Another maid came out of Lord Stanstead’s chamber bearing an ewer with soiled linens draped over her arm. “What’s happened? Is Mr. Sterling here?”
“Yes, but…well, one ought to refer to him as Lord Stanstead now. I have the misfortune of telling you that his lordship’s uncle, the previous earl, passed on to his reward this evening.”
Garret had been so certain his uncle’s illness wasn’t serious. This would come as a terrible shock. “Where is he?”
Clive knew whom she meant. “My lord is in his uncle’s chamber. Dr. Tallywood is with him. Oh, no, miss, you’ll not want to be going—”
“Yes, I do.” Cassandra wanted to be with Garret, no matter what darkness he was going through. She paused for a deep breath to collect herself. Cassie had little experience with death, but if she was going to be a comfort, she needed to be calm before she slipped into the room.
Once inside, the miasma of a sickroom assaulted her nostrils, stale air, sweat, and beeswax candles fighting to mask other more unwholesome smells. Garret slumped in a chair next to the bed, leaning his elbows on his knees and holding his head in both hands. It was a measure of his weariness that he didn’t even look up at the sound of the door latching. Cassandra called on all of her willpower to keep from scurrying across the room and pressing his forehead to her heart. But the doctor was still there, bending over the old earl’s body, so she remained by the door.
“I must confess, my lord, this illness is quite beyond my experience,” Dr. Tallywood was saying as he scrubbed his face with a not terribly clean white handkerchief. “I’ve never seen anyone so changed in such a short period of time.”
In the middle of the large tester bed, lay a wizened little corpse. Garret had described his uncle as a robust septuagenarian whose cantankerous nature destined him to live to be a hundred. With wiry, iron-gray hair sticking up from the desiccated scalp, eyes sunken in their sockets, the body in the bed reminded Cassie strongly of the Egyptian mummies she and Garret had seen at the British Museum a couple of weeks ago.
When the doctor noticed Cassandra, he hurriedly pulled up the sheet over the remains of the previous Lord Stanstead. “Your pardon, miss. I am sorry you had to see that.” Wringing his hands, he turned back to Garret. “I do hope your lordship won’t fault my skills for your uncle’s sad passing.”
“No, Doctor. I’m sure you’re not to blame,” Garret said woodenly. “That will be all.”
“Not quite, my lord. I can assist you in the disposition of the body, if you wish. Hinfinkle and Sons is a local funerary concern that may be relied upon to transport your uncle to his final resting place. I work with them regularly. Well, not regularly, you understand. No indeed. If only I’d been called in sooner. I rarely lose a patient, you see. Certainly not like…like this.” The doctor harrumphed loudly to cover his distaste for the startling appearance of the dead man in the bed. “We may trust Hinfinkle & Sons to be discreet.”
“Very well.”
The doctor started toward the door, but stopped halfway and turned back to Garret. “This is a most unusual case. I daresay there was nothing anyone could have done. As you know, a man in my position is often judged by the outcome of the treatment of his last patient. I do trust your lordship will not feel the need to mention my name in connection with your uncle’s demise.”
“Yes, yes. You’re quite safe from me as long as you leave now.” Garret’s voice was edged with irritation over the man’s attempts to distance himself from Lord Stanstead’s death. “See that you refrain from speaking of it yourself beyond what is necessary to make the arrangements to transport my uncle’s body home.”
Once the door closed behind the doctor, Cassandra hurried to Garret’s side. He rose and took her into his arms, sagging into the embrace. His broad shoulders shook, and Cassie felt a little boy grieving for the uncle who’d never accepted him.
Garret and Lord Stanstead had started an interrupted conversation that would never be finished. A dispute without resolution. Garret was evidently so starved for family that even a bad uncle had been better than none.
Cassandra’s heart broke for him. Tears wet her cheeks. She held him close and let him grieve. She longed to be with this man for the rest of her life, sharing his joys and sorrows.
She just hadn’t expected sorrows to come this soon.
Chapter Nineteen
Though the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon,
Yet we’ll go no more a-roving
By the light of the moon.
—George Gordon, Lord Byron, from “So We’ll Go No More A-Roving”
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br /> “Were you able to speak with him…before?” she asked, once Garret composed himself, straightened, and released her.
“Briefly.” He pulled out a handkerchief and swiped his eyes. “How he’d despise me if he saw me now.”
“No, he wouldn’t.” She smoothed back the shock of dark hair that had fallen over his forehead. “He’d know you cared for him and I suspect deep down, he must have cared for you, too.”
“If he did, it was very deep down. Come.”
Garret stuffed the handkerchief back into his pocket and led her through a curtained doorway into the small bright sitting room adjoining his uncle’s chamber. The air was much fresher there, tinged with the pleasing scent of pipe tobacco. The comfortable-looking furnishings were less ponderous and more welcoming than those in the earl’s chamber. Cassie was relieved to put a little distance between them and the dead man.
“He wasn’t making much sense near the end. It was mostly gibberish,” Garret said as he opened the window that looked out onto the Prince Regent’s pleasure park. “The only thing I could make of it was that he was trying to tell me something about the music.”
Cassandra frowned. Paschal’s melodies were still floating in her head, leaving a special little glow inside her. She didn’t relish connecting his glorious recital with a dead man. “After hearing Paschal play, I’m certain his music didn’t cause this. The concert was wonderful and I feel more than wonderful for having heard it.”
His gaze cut sharply to her. “And I suppose sitting with Roderick Bellefonte has nothing to do with your wonderful feelings.”
“You know better than that.”
“Do I? You certainly left me without a second glance.”
“We’re here in Brighton to investigate, not please ourselves. We must look for information where we can find it, not quibble over the source.” She might not have learned about Paschal’s lonely childhood as a foundling if not for her conversation with Roderick. Though admittedly, she couldn’t see how that tidbit of intelligence related to finding the ASP, one never knew when a nugget of gold would appear amid the dross. “Sitting with Roderick was not my first choice, but when we are in the service of the Order, it is expected that we set aside our personal wishes.”
