Guilty Series

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  Chapter 7

  Covent Garden Opera House was once again popular after several years of turmoil, and many peers of consequence had renewed their subscriptions for boxes there. Because Dylan Moore was England’s most famous composer, because he had recently published a new symphony, and because he was conducting his new symphony himself, the theater was filled to the rafters for his concert on Tuesday night.

  Hammond had a box, but it was Viola who most often used it. Seated with her this evening were the two daughters of Sir Edward Fitzhugh and three of the Lawrence sisters. Viola had made these arrangements on purpose, for John had sent her a note on Saturday, stating his intent to sit with her for Dylan’s concert. She had sent a reply back at once, informing him she had already filled the seats and he would have to sit elsewhere. Then, of course, she’d gone on a frantic search for the extra person or two she needed to keep him away.

  “This is so exciting,” Amanda Lawrence, Dylan’s sister-in-law, murmured to her over the squeaky sounds of the orchestra as they tuned their instruments. “My sister told me Dylan has not conducted in years.”

  “I am excited to see it, too,” Viola confessed. “I have only seen him conduct once myself, and that was years and years ago. I was at school in France, and my brother came to visit me. Dylan was on a tour of Europe at that time, and Anthony took me to the concert.”

  Amanda glanced at her program. “His symphony comes after the intermission. Do you know anything about this other composer, Antoine Renet? He is presenting a violin concerto.”

  “I have not heard much of his music,” she answered as bells began to ring, the call for people to take their seats. A few minutes later ushers dimmed the lamps, and the first part of the concert began.

  Viola gave it only the most superficial attention, her mind preoccupied. She was fully aware of the discreet stares directed her way from behind opera glasses. It had been four days since her picnic with John, and by now everyone in London society was discussing the amazing reconciliation of Lord and Lady Hammond.

  At intermission, the Fitzhugh and Lawrence girls went to get ices, but Viola remained in her seat. When her companions returned, Amanda was not with them, and her youngest sister, Jane, explained to Viola, “I saw her being introduced to a pair of very handsome men by your sister-in-law, the Duchess of Tremore. One of them looked quite entranced with her.” She laughed. “We didn’t want to spoil things by interrupting.”

  The bells rang again, announcing that the second half of the concert was about to begin, but Amanda still had not returned. Viola leaned forward over the rail and glanced sideways toward Anthony’s box, thinking perhaps Daphne had invited Amanda to sit with them after intermission.

  “Looking for me?”

  The unmistakable sound of her husband’s voice had her turning in her chair, and she watched in dismay as John sat down in Amanda’s vacant seat. “What are you doing?”

  “Joining you, of course.” He leaned back in the chair and smoothed his perfectly tied cravat, smiling at her. There was such a complacent expression on his face, she wanted to bash him with her fan. He was as handsome as ever, looking quite the dashing man about town in his dark blue evening suit, silver silk waistcoat, and white linen shirt, but his good looks and heart-stopping smile didn’t negate the fact that he was her greatest irritant.

  “You cannot sit with us, Hammond.”

  “Of course I can. This is my box, after all.”

  She ignored that truthful, ghastly fact. “I told you, I filled the seats. You have to leave.”

  “Leave? I couldn’t possibly, my dear. Dylan is a friend of mine, too, you know, and I wouldn’t miss the chance to see him conduct for all the world. He’s nervous as a cat on hot bricks, by the way. I saw him backstage a short while ago. He said to give you his regards.”

  “What happened to Amanda?”

  “Who?”

  “Grace Moore’s sister,” she said, and jabbed her fan in his direction. “The young lady who was sitting here before you usurped her seat. Miss Amanda Lawrence.”

  “Ah, yes, Miss Lawrence.” He pointed to their left and up one tier. “She has moved into Hewitt’s box.”

  “What?” Viola groaned and pressed her fingers to her forehead, feeling a headache coming on at yet another reminder of what her life was going to be like until she got this absurd reconciliation idea out of her husband’s head. He was going to be the proverbial bad penny, turning up no matter how she arranged things to prevent it. He seemed to live for the purpose of making her life a mess, for it had been a mess ever since she had danced with him on a ballroom floor and fallen in love.

  “The Duchess of Tremore was kind enough to make me acquainted with Miss Lawrence during intermission,” John explained, “and I introduced her to Lord Damon. He took one look at her and invited her to sit with his family. His father, aunt, and two sisters seemed to favor the idea, for they did have an empty seat. Wasn’t that a coincidence?”

  She lifted her head but did not look at him. “A most amazing coincidence, one arranged by you, no doubt.”

  “Not a bit of it. Lady H has a cold. Even I, as calculating and devious a fellow as I am, and as determined as I am to have the pleasure of your company—even I cannot give a marchioness the sniffles. As to the rest, Damon took one look at Miss Lawrence, saw that blond hair and those hazel eyes, and he was lost, poor fellow. Had an expression on his face rather like a stunned sheep. I’ve never seen him look like that before, but since I’ve always had rather a passion for a certain hazel-eyed blonde myself, I can’t blame him for losing his head to one almost as pretty.”

  She refrained from pointing out that his preferences hadn’t stopped him from enjoying the company of quite a few redheads and brunettes over the years. “Lord Damon is a wild and undisciplined fellow of the worst description!” she said instead. “He carouses around with you.”

  “That is a most despicable offense, I grant you, but Lord Damon is also the eldest son of a marquess. Think what a coup such a marriage would be for the sister of a country squire from Cornwall like Miss Lawrence. Very sensible match, I’d say.”

  “Sensibility being the most important thing in a marriage,” she shot back, remembering his words about why he had chosen her. “Love, of course, has nothing to do with it.”

  “I wouldn’t say that. Damon looked like a man in love to me,” he said, ignoring the barbed reference to himself and his marriage choice. “Besides, you seem to have taken on the project of launching Grace’s sisters into good society, and I am helping you help them. How can you complain when I’ve just introduced one of them to a future marquess?”

  “I promised Dylan last autumn that I would introduce his wife’s sisters into good society, but they do not need suitors like Lord Damon. As a future marquess, he might be a marriage coup, but he is a disaster for happiness. Amanda is a sweet girl.”

  “Just what Damon needs to steady him.”

  “Really?” she countered smoothly. “That didn’t work for you.”

  “I didn’t marry a sweet girl.”

  “Thank you so much. If you are trying to win me over with compliments like that one, save your breath.”

  The lamps were dimmed once again. Relieved by the distraction, Viola leaned over the rail, watching as Dylan Moore stepped into the orchestra pit, took his place at the podium, bowed to the audience, then turned to face the orchestra. If Dylan was nervous, it didn’t show.

  John moved forward in his chair and leaned closer to her, resting his forearms on the rail. His shoulder touched hers. “I didn’t marry a sweet girl,” he repeated in a murmur beside her, “because I didn’t want a sweet girl. I wanted a passionate one.”

  “You wanted a rich one, you mean.”

  “No, I needed a rich one.” He didn’t sound the least bit ashamed of himself. “I wanted a passionate one. And that was what I had, until she forgot what passion was all about.”

  “How cruel you are!” she cried. But her words were spoken
just as the music began, and that was a blessing, for with the deep opening notes of the symphony played by a one hundred piece orchestra, no one else could have heard her words. She leaned even closer to her husband, but kept her gaze on the concert below. “If I forgot passion,” she told him in a harsh whisper, “that is your fault.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  The quiet admission startled her, and she turned her head to look at him. He was so close her lips almost touched his, but she couldn’t seem to move away. “John, that is the first time I have ever heard you admit any culpability for our mess of a marriage.”

  “Yes, well, it’s awfully hard for a man to admit he’s wrong about anything. It’s due to lack of practice, of course. Because we’re almost never wrong.”

  She pressed her lips together.

  “Ah,” he murmured, “I almost got a smile there, didn’t I?”

  “No.” She turned away. “You’re imagining things again.”

  “Am I?” His knuckles brushed her cheek, and she almost jumped in her chair. She clenched her carved ivory fan tight in one hand and curled the fingers of her other hand around the carved railing in front of her, tense and wary, acutely aware of the stares they were getting as he moved his hand to the back of her neck. His fingertips traced feather-light circles at her nape. His lips brushed her ear.

  “Don’t. People are watching us.”

  Being John, he ignored that. “If you have forgotten all about passion, and it is my fault, then I need to rectify my mistake, don’t you think?”

  “John—” She broke off, forgetting whatever she’d been about to say as he kissed her ear and his thumb began to caress the line of her jaw.

  “I could think of all sorts of ways to remind you,” he went on. “If you let me.”

  She closed her eyes. Why was he doing this to her? She had forgotten passion, it was true, but it was all coming back to her now with a vengeance. She was over him now, and she did not want to remember that passion she’d once had for him. She did not want to remember making love in the mornings with him, and racing horses with him, and how he could make her smile and laugh just by being near. She did not want to feel that sort of dizzying happiness ever again. It was too painful when it ended.

  She opened her eyes and deliberately turned her head in his direction, but she did not look at him. Instead, her gaze sought out one particular box among the many that ringed the second tier of Covent Garden. Sure enough, Lady Pomeroy was there, and the sight of the dark, striking beauty was enough to dampen any passion John might being trying to evoke in her now. How many times during that woman’s amour with John had some clueless hostess forced Viola to sit across from Anne Pomerey at tea or cards? Viola’s safe, icy shell, a familiar friend that had protected her for so long, wrapped itself around her now. “You know far more about the passions and pleasures of lovemaking than I, Hammond,” she said. “You’ve had so much more practice.”

  Though she was not looking at him, she knew both her words and the direction of her gaze had hit their mark. Beside her ear, she heard his sharp, indrawn breath. His hand slid away from her cheek and he leaned back in his chair without a word.

  Safely numb again, she leaned back in her seat as well, letting go of the rail and loosening the tight, tense grip she had on her fan. Her gaze moved to the stage below and she tried to concentrate on that. But as much as she hoped for the success of Dylan’s performance, as sure as she was that it would be a triumph, she could not have judged any of that for herself, since the only thing she could seem to hear was John’s voice promising passion when she knew passion was not enough.

  When the symphony ended with a final, rollicking flourish of strings, horns, and cymbals, the crowd was on its feet at once, roaring with approval. Viola stood up as well, only then coming out of her reverie. Applauding along with everyone else, she watched as Dylan turned and bowed to the audience, and she was so happy for her friend that for a moment she forgot her own troubles.

  Until John reminded her. Amid the curtain calls, he leaned close to her again. “No matter what I have to do, I will make you remember how passion felt, Viola. The passion we once had. More than that, I will make you feel it again. I swear it. I shall see you on Thursday. Two o’clock. It’s your turn to decide where we go this time.”

  He was gone before she had the chance to reply. She stared down at the milling crowds below and had a sinking feeling her husband would succeed. That was exactly what she was afraid of.

  On Thursday, John found himself regretting the fact that he had allowed Viola to choose their outing this time. He groaned. “You’re not serious.”

  “Oh, but I am.” She gave him a smile of triumph as she stepped up into his carriage. “I want to spend the afternoon at Anthony’s museum. I heard him mention this morning that he would be there all day.” Her smiled widened. “He can give us a tour himself. Won’t that be nice?”

  It was going to be hell. He settled himself beside her on the carriage seat, trying to find a way out of this. “Viola, history bores you to tears.”

  “It used to bore me. I have broadened my interests.”

  “To include Roman antiquities?”

  “Yes.” She looked at him, cool, composed, and oh-so-pleased with herself. “This may come as a shock to you, but I have managed to make quite a full and satisfying life for myself without you. I have developed interests in many things.”

  That might very well be true, but he didn’t believe for a second that she had chosen Tremore’s museum because she had developed a fascination for Romano-British pottery shards. No, she had selected the museum because her brother was sure to be there and would watch his every move like a hawk, haughty and hostile, and making it impossible for him to do any serious wooing of his wife. And she knew it, too.

  As they rode to the museum, he studied her profile in the sunlight of the open carriage. She had just thrown down a challenge to his wits, and that made him vow that before they left that museum today, he was going to steal at least one kiss from her. With her brother hovering about, it was going to take a bit of ingenuity on his part to get her alone, but he used to be quite ingenious about that sort of thing during their courtship. He began to form some plans of his own.

  As it turned out, Tremore was at the museum that day, but he was giving a tour to a contingent of Venetian antiquarians when they arrived, and would be unavailable for at least the next two hours, possibly longer.

  It was John’s turn to smile. “Well, now,” he murmured, glancing at his wife as they stood in the enormous foyer of the museum, “Tremore cannot join us. Isn’t that a shame?”

  She wasn’t looking quite so pleased with herself now, he noticed. “We’ll come back later,” she said.

  “No, no,” he said, trying not to laugh. “We are here, after all. Besides, you have developed such a passion for antiquities, you should be able to give me quite a tour of the place.”

  He was the one issuing a challenge now, and she knew it. Her chin rose a little higher. “Very well,” she said with dignity. “Where do you want to start?”

  “I don’t know yet.” He glanced around at the high, domed ceiling overhead, at the walls and floors of travertine and marble, and at the corridors that branched off in all directions. It was a magnificent building. He had to admit that when Tremore did a thing, he did it well.

  He took a printed map from the young man standing nearby and opened it. A quick scan told him everything he needed to know about the design of the place. “They have a new wing, I see.”

  “Yes,” she answered as she loosened the ribbons under her chin. She pushed her hat back and it fell behind her, to hang between her shoulder blades. “There isn’t much in it as yet. A few rooms of arms and weapons. I’ve only been in that part of the building once before.”

  “Excellent place to begin, don’t you think?” He handed her the map. “Lead the way.”

  The museum was full of people, especially in the new wing, and they spent the next hou
r weaving their way amid the crowds gathered around displays of bronze shields and iron spears.

  John was surprised to note that she proved more interested in the antiquities than he would have thought. “When did you start liking history?” he asked as they leaned over a glass cabinet that displayed jeweled knives.

  “Daphne and Anthony’s enthusiasm is infectious, I think. They talk about it so much that one can’t help being enthusiastic along with them.” She gestured to the knives. “Besides, jewels have always fascinated me.”

  “That I remember.” He decided it was time to make his first move, and he glanced toward a doorway across the room. Remembering the map, he knew that was the way he wanted to go, and he began maneuvering Viola in that direction, one exhibit at a time.

  As they paused to admire an intricately carved shield of pewter, he leaned closer to her. “I’m going to see what is down there,” he said, gesturing to the doorway that led into a long corridor. “I’ll be back.”

  She protested at once. “But there isn’t anything down there. That part of the museum isn’t even open yet.”

  “That doesn’t mean there isn’t anything to see, does it?” With a wink at her, he slipped into the corridor, then hurried down its considerable length to the other end, passing several rooms filled with baskets of broken pottery shards and half-completed mosaics. Clearly, these were working rooms for people at the museum. He halted at the end of the corridor and looked left and right. A long gallery stretched in both directions, lit by square windows set high up in the twenty-foot ceilings. He went left, passing baskets of pottery but not much else. There was no sign of people.

  Viola’s footsteps echoed on the stone floor, telling him that she was following him, just as he’d hoped.

  “John?” she called.

  “I’m down here,” he called back, and listened as her footsteps brought her closer. He watched as she stepped into the gallery and paused, glancing to her right.

  “Viola,” he called softly, and saw her turn in his direction. He beckoned to her from where he stood at the end of the gallery. “Come down here and see this.”