by Jane Ashford
“You all talk about me as if I was some sort of despot,” Flora objected. “I only want to see justice done.”
“And we all love you for it,” said Robert, dropping a kiss on her dark hair. “A thing I am very good at, I might add.”
“Did Herr Grossmann tell you so?” Flora replied with a shake of her head.
“That and more.” Robert pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket and showed them a smaller version of the cranial diagram Herr Grossmann had exhibited at the ton party. Handwritten notations had been made upon it. Randolph couldn’t read them from his place by the hearth. “You will be interested, but hardly surprised, to learn,” his brother continued, “that our esteemed phrenologist considers my skull fascinating.”
“I would be surprised to learn that he expresses any other opinion in his sessions,” said Flora dryly.
“Nonsense. My head is extraordinary,” Robert insisted. Randolph noted that his blue eyes were dancing with laughter. “For example, my bump of comparison, which is to say intelligence—”
“How is it to say that?”
“One demonstrates intelligence by making comparisons.”
“I would argue with that definition,” said Flora.
“Of course you would, my love.”
Randolph exchanged an amused glance with his mother. Robert and his wife couldn’t seem to talk without bickering. They appeared to relish the jousting.
“I have little propensity to remain permanently in the same place or residence,” Robert went on, reading from the page.
“You’re nomadic?” replied Flora. “You never said so.”
“Say flexible, rather. The most amiable fellow in the world.”
Flora laughed.
“My alimentiveness is not pronounced, which seems to mean that I am not greedy for food.”
“It’s true. You never were,” said the duchess.
“Not like Sebastian,” said Robert.
“I wouldn’t use the word greedy.”
“No, that would be snatch-pastry.”
“Active boys need fuel,” replied the duchess with a smile. “And Sebastian was more active than the rest of you.”
“Bigger, too. With a longer reach.”
“Did Herr Grossmann call you a jokesmith?” asked Randolph.
“He said I have a bent toward mirth.”
“That was certainly on the mark,” said Flora.
“As well as strong self-esteem.”
“Or vanity,” teased his wife.
“Quite different. A healthy understanding of my own merits. And finally, I have a strong tendency to hope.” He gazed at Flora.
Their eyes held for a lingering moment, then Flora bent to look at the chart. “Look here. Combativeness and conjugality are placed right next to each other in the brain.”
“They are indeed.” Robert’s smile was tender. “In a cluster with friendship and parental love and amativeness. Perhaps there’s something to this new science, eh?”
Randolph watched his mother gazing at them, reveling in their marital harmony. He felt a pang. He would probably never see that pleased expression directed at him. The thought was surprisingly painful.
“Herr Grossmann is putting on an exhibition tomorrow, if any of you would care to see him at work,” said Robert.
“I can’t,” Randolph replied somewhat curtly. “I have to rehearse.”
“Rehearse what?”
His brother’s bright, inquisitive gaze made Randolph wish he’d kept mum. Everyone would know soon enough though. He might as well get the telling over with. “The Prince Regent has ordered me to sing at one of his parties,” he said. “With Miss Sinclair.”
“Ordered you?” exclaimed Flora. “How outrageous.”
“And typical,” said Robert. “Prinny has to get his paws on any new thing. Mark my word, he’ll be telling his guests that he discovered your extraordinary talents.”
“I hoped we might use the music room for our preparations, Mama.”
“Of course.”
Robert gave him one raised brow. “Assignations behind the harp strings?”
“Miss Sinclair’s mother will be present,” answered Randolph stiffly. Usually, he didn’t mind Robert’s teasing. But somehow, just now, it grated.
“How disappointing.”
“Really?” said Flora. “Is that the sort of tryst you used to arrange?”
“I can’t sing,” said Robert.
“And that is not what I asked you.”
“I studied Akkadian in secluded libraries,” he said with a smile.
“Our library is not secluded,” Flora replied. “That is an exaggeration.”
They could go on like this for hours. At the moment, Randolph had no patience for it. “We agreed on one o’clock,” he told his mother.
“I’ll be happy to welcome them,” said the duchess. “I have an appointment at the dressmaker’s at two, but I could change it.”
“No need. We have to choose pieces to perform and try them out. This isn’t a social visit.”
“Very well. But I wouldn’t want Mrs. Sinclair to feel slighted.”
“I’m sure she won’t.” He rose. “I should look over the music you have, to see if I need to add to it.” Not waiting for a reply, he walked out, conscious of eyes on his back.
The music room was a gracious space at the back of the house, overlooking the small walled garden. As he closed the door behind him, Randolph immediately felt better. He’d spent many happy hours here as a youth, and these surroundings soothed him. The walls hung with blue damask; the cello on a stand in the corner had occupied his youngest brother, Alan, for a while and then bored him; the antique instruments decorating the walls, none as old as his lute.
Randolph took the cover off the harp by the window and ran his fingers over the strings. The glissando lilted through the room. Miss Sinclair hadn’t mentioned playing, and they wouldn’t want to lug the instrument to Carleton House in any case. Or the prince would no doubt provide one. But no, they should keep to what they’d done before. Their royal host would expect that. Randolph replaced the cover and went to sit at the pianoforte. It was perfectly in tune, as he’d known it would be.
His fingers moved automatically into a favorite passage from a Mozart sonata. He gave himself up to it, falling into a heady harmony of body and senses as the movements of his hands and arms produced exquisite sound. This meshing had seemed a form of magic to him since he was five years old.
The music took over. It revitalized him. He rode the rhythms of the notes through the piece to the end. Then he sat back and let out a long breath. There was no solace like music, and he needed to remember that there were many pleasures in the world beyond the connubial.
Six
Looking around the front hall of Langford House, with its soaring stair and rich marble floor, Verity judged it the grandest house she’d ever entered. Light poured down from high windows, glittered in a huge crystal chandelier, and gleamed in the gold stripes of the wallpaper. A hint of potpourri scented the air, along with beeswax and lemon. The clatter of the London streets didn’t penetrate the gracious silence. “Goodness,” murmured her mother. Verity was determined not to be intimidated.
A liveried footman led them through two beautiful reception rooms to the back of the house. He opened a door and stood back. Verity and her mother stepped over the threshold into a perfectly splendid music room. For a moment Verity forgot everything else as she took in the fine instruments waiting to be played, the older ones adorning the walls, and the piles of expensive sheet music. She could spend hours in a place like this and be blissfully happy, she thought.
And then a tall, stately woman came forward to greet them, and Verity was making her curtsy to the duchess, as well as wondering where Lord Randolph could be.
He hurried in
on the heels of that thought. “I beg your pardon,” he said. “I was just… Mama, this is Mrs. Sinclair and Miss Verity Sinclair. Ladies, my mother.”
“Your Grace,” they murmured.
The duchess said, “Welcome to Langford House.” And with the warmth in her blue eyes and the ease of her smile, Verity felt the atmosphere in the room change from grandiose to relaxed. Or perhaps it was simply her own mood that had shifted. As they sat down and exchanged remarks about the weather and the season, she found she could talk to Lord Randolph’s mother with surprising ease.
“I know you have musical matters to discuss,” said the duchess after a while. She rose. “I will leave you to it. But I wanted to make sure you have all you need, Mrs. Sinclair.”
“You’re very kind.”
“I’ve seen to the arrangements, Mama,” said Lord Randolph.
“Sponge cakes and macaroons?” she asked.
“What else?”
The humorous look they exchanged gave Verity a glimpse into the Gresham family, which seemed a pleasant place. The door opened, and a maid came in with several sturdy working candles. “You said you’d bring some embroidery,” said Lord Randolph to Verity’s mother. “I wanted to make certain you had good light.”
The duchess gave him an approving nod and went out. Lord Randolph made a great production of getting Verity’s mother settled with the candles set just so and a cushion for her back and offers of tea or other refreshment. “So kind,” she murmured as she was settled in the front corner of the room.
Verity noticed that it was the corner farthest from the pianoforte. And that the special candles and cushions—which a less observant person might dismiss as finicky items for a man to consider—effectively rooted Mama at a distance. It was unlikely that she would overhear much of what they said, unless they started shouting. Which she might, if Lord Randolph tried to maneuver her in a similar way. And where had he acquired such skill at diverting chaperones?
“I’ve pulled out piles of music,” he said when they were at last free to begin. He led the way over to the table where the sheets were displayed. “I was thinking we should choose popular pieces rather than anything too complicated. Perhaps even repeat the song we did at Lady Tolland’s.”
Their eyes met, mirroring memories of that astonishing experience. Verity’s cheeks grew hot. A self-conscious silence stretched out. She could actually hear her mother’s needle prick the embroidery canvas.
Lord Randolph cleared his throat. “Ah, our audience at Carleton House will be varied,” he went on. “Not all will be particularly musical. But I’m eager to hear your opinion about the program, of course.”
He stopped and waited for her to speak. He gazed at her as if he actually wanted to know her views, and wasn’t just pausing to give the appearance of listening before telling her what to do. It was a point in his favor. “What about some Italian songs, varied with Scots or Irish ballads?” she suggested. “How long need we sing, do you think?”
“Long enough to satisfy the prince’s wounded vanity,” he responded wryly.
Verity looked down to hide a smile. “That sounds rather difficult to measure. An hour?”
“No more, certainly. We are doing a favor, not putting on a full concert. Shall we say six pieces? With one in reserve in case they insist on more?”
Verity agreed, and they looked through Mozart’s and Haydn’s arrangements of popular tunes and sheets of songs by Robert Burns and Thomas Moore. Langford House appeared to possess any piece one could desire, and Verity envied the bounty. She had to ration her purchases of sheet music on her allowance. The money her grandfather had left her was in trust until she married. And why was she thinking of that now? “‘Robin Adair’ would make a lovely base for a set of variations,” she said.
They bent over the music together. “It would indeed,” said Lord Randolph. He sat at the pianoforte and began to play the simple melody, and then to embellish it. Verity hummed along, following his elaborations. “Just here,” he said, playing intricate series of notes. She caught the idea at once. Spontaneously they sang a verse with the new adornments, their voices blending in a twining harmony. By the end they were staring at each other, mutually astonished.
“Very pretty,” said Verity’s mother from the corner.
It was as if he could predict exactly what she meant to sing, Verity thought. Or, perhaps, his musical impulses ran in precisely the same direction. The phrase in tune took on a whole new meaning as they ran through the entire song, consulted briefly, and then tried it again. The result was equally lovely and interesting, but different with the varying choices of the moment. This must be what it was like to be intoxicated, she thought, as she fell into the music and a give and take with this man she barely knew—except that somehow they vibrated to the same pitch.
They chose three other songs and experimented with variations and harmonies. Verity was aware that they were taking more trouble than was required for a simple evening’s performance. But the process was so delightful. Lord Randolph obviously felt the same way. “What about a change of key here?” she said.
“Perfect,” he replied. And when he smiled at her—that devastating smile—Verity thought he meant more than simply a musical variation.
The next time she surfaced, at her mother’s behest, Verity discovered that two hours had passed. How was that possible?
“Verity,” said her mother again.
She had put aside her fancywork, Verity saw. A maid was setting out tea and an array of cakes. It was time to stop. Her sharp pang of regret seemed to be echoed in Lord Randolph’s intense blue gaze. He didn’t have any trouble devouring several macaroons, however.
“We’ve made good progress,” he said between confectionaries. “Don’t you think so, Mrs. Sinclair?”
Watching the boredom on her mother’s face shift, Verity understood why he addressed the question to her. Not that understanding always helped anything.
“It all sounded pretty,” her mother replied. “I don’t know why you need to sing a tune over and over though, when it was fine the first time. But then I’ve never been musical. Verity gets that from her father.”
“Indeed? The dean is a musician?”
“Oh yes. He selects all the music for cathedral services. The organist is so happy to have his guidance.”
And if you believe that, Verity thought, you’ve never heard one of their planning sessions. Papa was more a manager of music than a musician, in her view. But of course she never said so. He thought of the two things as the same.
“It’s too bad he won’t be there to hear us,” said their host.
“Oh, well…”
Verity met her mother’s eyes. For once, they were in perfect sympathy. Beyond Papa’s likely disapproval of the event, he had a tendency to exalt his taste over everyone else’s. There had been a few testy moments with the bishop. Would he hesitate to correct the prince? Verity suppressed a shudder. “He’s far too busy,” she said. “Is your family coming?”
“All of them who are in town,” Lord Randolph replied promptly. He turned to her mother. “Perhaps we could rehearse again on Thursday afternoon?”
It was all well and good to include Mama, Verity thought. But she was the one doing the singing. “I’ve promised to visit my friend Olivia Thursday afternoon,” she declared.
“Olivia Townsend?”
He’d met Olivia in Northumberland. Verity had forgotten that. “Yes.”
“Perhaps you might go another day?”
“Oh, no, it’s a set thing.” He might have a glorious voice, but she wouldn’t be…herded.
“Friday then?”
Verity allowed her mother to consider and agree. They chatted for a bit longer. Verity resisted a second cake, and soon after, they took their leave.
* * *
“You seem a thousand miles away,” said S
ebastian that evening as they prepared to go in to dinner at his house.
“Not so far as that,” Randolph responded. His thoughts had strayed only a few blocks away, in fact, to the music room of Langford House and the hours he’d spent there this afternoon. How did such harmony of taste come about, he wondered, in two people with quite different histories? He’d met any number of individuals with fine voices, but when he sang with Miss Verity Sinclair, an unseen hand seemed to pluck the strings of his being. He lost himself in the music they created together; he felt as if his spirit expanded. And this with a young lady whose first reaction had been to reject him out of hand! She still glanced at him, now and then, as if he seriously annoyed her. It made no sense.
“You look like someone has hit you with a rock,” said Lady Hilda Stane. “Not too hard, just enough to muddle your senses.”
The youngest Stane sister had probably calibrated blows to the head exactly, Randolph thought. She had enough effrontery for three girls. He gathered his wits and smiled at the smirking blond. He suspected he’d been invited tonight to help Hilda feel she was enjoying a taste of society while Emma was out with friends. Sebastian had mentioned rumblings in his household as Hilda watched her older sisters go off to party after party. The fact that she was only fifteen years old, and not nearly out, didn’t weigh with Hilda, and Sebastian feared some revolution was brewing.
Randolph watched his brother settle his wife into her chair at the dinner table, full of tender solicitude. Randolph was reconciled to his fate, but it seemed unfair that he should be burdened with so many blissfully married brothers. Taking the seat at his hostess’s right, he addressed himself to the soup.
“We were wondering,” said Georgina quietly after a few spoonfuls, “if you might be able to take Hilda about a bit.”
Randolph choked on a mouthful of broth. This was far worse than he’d expected. He shot Sebastian an indignant glance. Cannily, his brother wasn’t looking at him. He was keeping Hilda occupied at the other end of the table.
