by Regina Scott
*
Nathan knew the amount of preparation necessary to perform a complicated concerto in public. He’d heard Glynnis practice for weeks when she’d been called on to play at His Grace’s last birthday celebration. The youngest child in a family that boasted four sisters ahead of him, he’d also seen his siblings’ panicked gyrations during their Seasons. Had any of them been asked to open a musicale with no warning, they would have either run from the room screaming or expired on the spot.
Miss Tate smiled graciously. Gathering the soft swirl of her pearly skirts, she swept to the front of the room and seated herself at the pianoforte. The pale gown made her hair look like tongues of golden light, the flame at the top of a beeswax candle. She did not ask for sheet music or poke about to find the proper key. She set her fingers to the ivory and began to play.
Nathan leaned back, not expecting much. Every young lady of his acquaintance played an instrument of some sort. Few progressed beyond proficiency. From the first note, however, he found himself sitting up, listening closer. Instead of merely hearing the music, he could feel it: the joy as she played high and fast, the sorrow when she played low and slow. Her impassioned rendition demanded that he enter into the song, savor it like a fine meal. When she finished with a crescendo, he found himself as breathless as if he’d run a race.
The applause was thunderous, Lady Weston’s look nearly so. Priscilla smiled again, blushing delicately as if pleased and humbled by their response, then rose to allow another young lady to take her place on the bench. Nathan pitied the woman who had to follow her.
“Well done,” he couldn’t help whispering as she returned to her seat beside him.
“Thank you,” she whispered back, settling her skirts around her. “I hope you will let the duke know how disappointed I was not to play for him. I had him in mind when I chose the song.”
As she had not known she was to play tonight, Nathan found her statement hard to believe. But perhaps she’d been thinking about what to play for His Grace if given the opportunity. At the moment, Nathan was heartily glad the duke was safely home with Glynnis. Nathan wasn’t about to let his cousin out and about until he knew who was threatening him.
And Miss Tate.
She sat serenely beside him, smiling as each young lady took her turn at the front of the room to sing, plunk out a tune on the pianoforte, or strum one of the other instruments. Always she applauded as they finished. As he had suspected, none played with her gift, and a few had questionable skills. As a Miss Nightingale began warbling about a sweet little birdie in a bush, he leaned closer to Priscilla.
“Miss Tate, if I may, I’d like a private word with you when this is over.”
Her gaze did not leave the woman in the front, who had begun flapping her arms as she sang about the bird soaring. “I’m afraid that would not be proper, Mr. Kent.”
“Sh,” Lady Minerva warned with a glare to him.
Nathan leaned closer still to Priscilla, until his lips brushed the warmth of her hair. “Somehow I cannot believe you allow the rules of Society to dictate your actions.”
Still she did not look at him, even though Miss Nightingale’s bird began to sound more like a consumptive crow. “You would be mistaken, Mr. Kent.”
If that was how she wanted to play it, he could strum along. “I promise you no bad motive. It is only that I have lately become aware of a potential threat to your wellbeing, and I wanted to assure you of my desire to help.”
She blanched as if he’d offered to boil her in oil.
Lady Minerva leaned around her. “That is quite enough about desire, young man. Do not make me rap your knuckles.” The way she gripped her ivory-handled fan told Nathan she would relish the opportunity to use it on him.
He straightened in his seat. Priscilla cast him a glance, then swayed in his direction, and the scent of roses drifted over him.
“Has Acantha Dalrymple spoken with you, then?” she whispered.
Was that fear in her voice? Nathan frowned. “Miss Dalrymple? No. In fact, when we call upon her she makes it a point never to speak to anyone but His Grace. What does she have to do with the matter?”
“Sh!” Lady Minerva said, snapping shut her fan and leveling it at him.
Priscilla faced front once more, spine stiffening. “That, Mr. Kent, is what I’m about to determine. Excuse me.”
As Miss Nightingale chirped to a close, Priscilla rose and glided toward the front of the room.
Chapter Six
Priscilla reached Acantha Dalrymple’s side just as the rest of the audience rose for an intermission. She made sure to compliment Miss Nightingale, who blushed becomingly, then turned as Acantha passed and pressed her toe against the lowest flounce of her lacy gown. Among the rising conversations, the whisper of tearing fabric wasn’t even audible. Priscilla let the girl take a few steps forward along the row before converging on her.
“Why, Acantha, how awful! You must have caught your gown on a chair.”
Acantha pulled away from Mr. Cunningham, who had succeeded in capturing her arm before the marquess, and twisted to see behind her. “Where?”
“Just there, dearest,” her mother assured her after a quick look. “You are naturally so effusive, but you must not let your enthusiasm cause you to ruin a gown. I’ll ask Lady Weston about a maid.”
“Allow me,” Priscilla sang out, wrapping an arm about the one Acantha had pulled free from her escort. “I’d be happy to help.” Before Acantha could protest, she dragged the girl out of the room.
A footman pointed them to an unoccupied room away from the other guests. It appeared to be her ladyship’s study, for a dainty white-lacquered desk on gilded legs sat near a window, now hidden behind brocaded draperies. Priscilla led Acantha across the flowered carpet and pushed her toward the spindle-backed chair near the desk, where a lamp cast a golden glow enough to sew by.
“Sit there,” she ordered.
“I have never understood,” Acantha said as she did as Priscilla bid and adjusted her skirts, “why you must be so dictatorial. Shouldn’t you tell the footman we need a maid?”
“No. I come prepared to events such as this.” And she wanted no witness to their conversation. Priscilla knelt and drew out the threaded needle she always carried in her reticule, pulling off the cork that sheathed the tip. “Be thankful, else you might be limping home with your skirts between your legs right now.” She found the tear in the fabric and set about to sewing it up.
Acantha craned her neck as if to watch. “I’ve never known you to be particularly helpful either.”
“Perhaps I’m feeling generous,” Priscilla said, careful to take tiny stitches and pull them tight. “I can be very helpful when I set my mind to it. For example, I can tell you that those curls your maid insists upon do you no favors.”
Acantha’s fingers leapt to the ringlets on either side of her face. “My curls? I’ll have you know they’re all the rage.”
“Just because something is fashionable doesn’t mean it’s the best style for you,” Priscilla replied. “You have a long face, Acantha. If you pulled your hair behind your ears and let the curls fall down the back, you might appear rounder.”
Heedless of Priscilla’s work, Acantha pushed to her feet. Priscilla just had time to tuck the needle into the fabric before the girl went to peer in the mirror atop the marble hearth. “Really? Show me.”
Priscilla sighed as she gathered her skirts to follow. She hadn’t intended to school Acantha but to question her in private. However, if Acantha was her blackmailer, perhaps a bit of kindness might make her think again before betraying Priscilla. Aunt Sylvia always said a lady caught more flies with honey than with vinegar.
“Like this,” Priscilla said, sweeping back Acantha’s hair with one hand. Between the few pins in Acantha’s hair and the ones Priscilla borrowed from her own coiffure, she managed to effect the new style. Acantha turned this way and that, eying herself in the mirror.
“I like it.”
In the mirror, Acantha narrowed her eyes at Priscilla. “Why are you telling me this?”
Priscilla shrugged, taking a step back. “As I said, I’m in an uncommonly generous mood this evening. Now return to the chair if you please, so I can finish your hem.”
Acantha merely turned to face her, putting her hands on the hips of her gown. “You can’t lie to me, Priscilla Tate. I know your secret.”
Priscilla felt her breath hiss out of her. So, she had been right. “And what do you intend to do about it?”
Acantha flounced past her and threw herself back into the chair. “Nothing. You can be as kind as you like, but it’s only a matter of time before all of London knows you haven’t a feather to fly with.”
That secret? Their circumstances would be obvious to anyone who visited the cramped little house her father had managed to secure for the Season. There was a reason she held most of her at-homes with Emily at the Emerson town house.
“Very likely,” Priscilla agreed, going to kneel once more beside her. The needle had come free of its mooring and dangled from the thread. Too bad it hadn’t pricked Acantha!
The girl squirmed as if she didn’t like the hard seat. “I must say, you don’t seem all that concerned about the matter.”
If she only knew. “I suppose I have grown used to our constrained circumstances,” Priscilla said, hurrying her stitches. Now that she knew Acantha wasn’t her blackmailer, she couldn’t wait to quit the girl’s presence.
“I suppose,” Acantha allowed, but still she did not relax against the seat. “I wish I could be so calm knowing someone else had guessed my secret.”
Priscilla’s hand slowed. “You have a secret?”
Acantha jerked, pulling the needle from Priscilla’s fingers. “No! Of course I don’t have a secret!”
Priscilla rocked back and eyed her. Acantha’s cheeks were pink, her face twisted, and her fingers knotted together in her lap. Priscilla counted the seconds, watched as the girl’s color darkened, heard her suck in a breath.
“Oh, very well!” Acantha cried, throwing up her hands. “I have a secret, and some odious creature knows it!”
Priscilla frowned. “How can you be sure?”
“Because I found a note in the pocket of my spencer this afternoon. It said, ‘I know your secret. Stay away from the duke or else.’”
Priscilla stared at her. “If you are lying, Acantha, I shall sew your hem together and leave you to hobble out of the room.”
Acantha snatched back her skirts as if fearing Priscilla would follow through on her threat. “Why would I lie about something so horrid? Don’t you see, that’s precisely the problem. His Grace values honesty. If he knew my pearls were paste, he might begin to suspect me of other falsehoods.”
Paste pearls? Priscilla had a few of those herself. So did half the ton. Would that they were all she had to worry about!
“And you have no idea who would threaten you?” she asked, forcing her voice to come out concerned rather than eager. She tugged Acantha’s skirts out of her grip.
“None.” Acantha sagged against the chair at last. “I thought it was you, but now you’re being so kind to me.” She frowned, gaze off in the middle distance. “Unless this is a ruse to trick me into complacency.”
“Certainly not.” Priscilla knotted off the thread and lifted it to bite it through with her teeth. “I’m sincerely concerned for your wellbeing after such a tale. Lady Emily and I will call on you tomorrow. She’s something of an investigator, you know. She’s solved two crimes already.”
“Two?” Acantha climbed to her feet and swished her skirts as if to test Priscilla’s handiwork. “I knew about Lord Robert, of course. The audacity of the man, stealing jewelry from every lady with whom he dallied! Who was the other criminal?”
The other was her Aunt Sylvia, and too late Priscilla realized she could hardly tell Acantha that. “I cannot divulge the name,” she said, lowering her voice as if afraid to speak aloud. “But it involved a high-born lady. The point is that with such experience Emily will know how to find your blackmailer.”
Acantha shook her head, threatening her new hair style. “I may have misjudged you, Priscilla Tate. Thank you, for your help tonight and for enlisting Lady Emily’s aid on my behalf. I’ll expect you both on the morrow.” She smiled, a soft wistful look that transformed her peaked face into something approaching beautiful. “And I shall try to wear blue.”
Priscilla found herself smiling as well as they exited the room together. That is, until she sighted Nathan Kent waiting for them.
*
Nathan watched as Priscilla Tate and Acantha Dalrymple ventured out into the corridor. He’d have traded a month’s salary to know what the two had been discussing. The few times he’d seen them together, they’d been at each other’s throats, in a viciously polite manner, of course. Now they were smiling as if sharing a delicious secret. What could possibly have brought them into harmony?
He inclined his head as they drew abreast. “Miss Dalrymple, Miss Tate.”
Acantha raised her brows at him. “Really, sir. Do I know you?”
He’d always suspected she looked right through him. But then, he was used to being treated like a piece of furniture when he was with his cousin.
“You must have met Mr. Kent, Acantha,” Priscilla put in with a warm smile. “He’s the personal secretary to the Duke of Rottenford.”
Acantha blinked, then peered past him. “Oh, is His Grace here?”
“Alas, no,” Nathan replied. “Though he sent me to convey his regrets.”
“Please tell him that Miss Dalrymple and I are disheartened by his absence,” Priscilla said before Acantha could respond. “But we look forward to seeing him soon. Come along, Acantha. I’m sure your mother and Lady Minerva are wondering what’s keeping us.”
They started past, but Nathan caught Priscilla’s arm and drew her up short. “A word with you first, Miss Tate, if I may.”
To his surprise, Acantha hesitated. “Do you wish me to stay with you, Priscilla?”
Priscilla was eying him as if she couldn’t quite decide his game. He schooled his face to innocence. She turned to her friend.
“No, thank you. You might tell Lady Emily to come find me if I don’t return shortly.”
Acantha nodded. “I’ll do that.” With a last scowl at Nathan, she hurried back toward the music room.
“Now, Miss Tate,” Nathan started, tightening his grip on her arm to make sure she didn’t escape. Something stung his hand. He yanked it back and rubbed the spot. “Did you just prick me?”
“Now, why would I do that, Mr. Kent?” she asked, busying herself with her reticule.
Nathan shook his head. “I have no idea. I have only your best interests at heart, I assure you.”
“Indeed.” She managed to imbue the single word with volumes of doubt. “And what, precisely, did you wish to share with me?”
She had given him an opportunity, and he knew he should take it. “Has anyone given you cause for concern recently?”
Something leapt to life in those glorious green eyes. Then she lowered her gaze. “Goodness, Mr. Kent! I have received nothing but kindness since our debut. I suppose it’s because my family has such deep roots among Society. Still, my ready acceptance into the highest circles has been most gratifying.”
She said it all with such sweet humility that he should not doubt her, yet he did. He couldn’t forget the look on her face at the Emerson town house. Something was troubling her.
He lay his hand over his heart. “If there is anything I can do to help, you have only to ask.”
Her gaze lifted, and her smile blossomed. “How kind of you, Mr. Kent, but I assure you all is well or will be tomorrow once I have a moment with my friends.”
Some part of him wanted to argue, but just then Lord Palmerstoke came pu
ffing up. A round older fellow, from his face to his impressive gut, he had nonetheless distinguished himself in Parliamentary circles.
“There you are, Kent!” he exclaimed. He nodded to Priscilla. “Miss Tate. Lovely piece you played.”
She bowed her head. “Thank you, my lord.”
He turned his gaze on Nathan. “I must know, is His Grace still of a mind to support my position on the enclosure bill?”
“You will have to read his paper on the subject, my lord,” Nathan replied.
The fellow rocked to the balls of his feet and back again, his stomach bouncing against Nathan’s arm. “Indeed, indeed. I have read it. Excellent work. His Grace always makes his point succinctly. I merely wish he’d present his case before Lords.”
“His Grace is a man of few words,” Nathan temporized. The fewer, the better. That way, no one would suspect that Nathan was penning the position papers.
“Yes, well, tell him I expect to see him at the vote on Thursday.” With a nod to Priscilla, he strode off.
“So that’s His Grace’s secret,” she said.
Nathan held himself still. Her green eyes were too bright, her smile knowing. “Secret?” he managed.
Her smile deepened. “I’ve wondered why he says so little on our outings. He’s shy, isn’t he?”
Nathan returned her smile. He took a deep breath and was surprised to find the air of the corridor tasting sweeter. “Yes, just so. I’m sure I can count on you to keep that to yourself.”
“Of course! I find the trait endearing. I do hope you let him know that he has my greatest admiration and respect.”
“Certainly. Now, about this trouble of yours---”
“Oh, goodness! Is that the harp?” She edged around him, gaze down the corridor toward the music room. “I could not live with myself if I didn’t support the other performers as they so graciously supported me. Pray excuse me, Mr. Kent, and give my regards to His Grace.”
She was past him for the music room, skirts swinging, before he could call out to stop her.
Chapter Seven
