Mistress of Melody

by Anthea Lawson

  “I will.”

  It was the only easy thing about her life now. If she could, she would live inside the music, crawl into the notes and never come out. Except that Louisa needed her. No doubt her sister was lying awake upstairs, waiting for her safe return. Jessa hurried up the cold, unlit stairwell.

  Light trickled from beneath the door of the bedroom she and her sister shared. Jessa stepped quietly inside, in case Louisa was asleep, but when she turned from shutting the door she found her sister watching her with large, dark eyes.

  “Jessie. I heard him shouting at you.”

  “It’s all right, love.”

  Jessa set her violin case in the corner, then slipped her cape off and hung it in the wardrobe. Every item of clothing Mr. Burke bought was another tally on the endless debt he felt she owed. The one time she had torn her skirt, Louisa had been given a fierce blow in punishment. Since then, Jessa had taken the utmost care with the possessions he had provided.

  She sat on the narrow bed that faced her sister’s.

  “Who is the Silver Lord?” Louisa asked in her soft, childlike voice. “Is he a prince from a fairytale?”

  Jessa shook her head at the memory of Lord Silverton’s cold demeanor, the threat in his eyes. “No.”

  There were no princes. Only men, with all their flaws and pettiness. Even her father, who had seemed perfect in her childish eyes, had been a foolish, selfish fellow. Would he still have eloped with Jessa’s mother had he known that tragedy and hardship would be his daughters’ only inheritance?

  She let out a sigh, and Louisa reached over and patted her hand. It was a sweet gesture, and Jessa smiled at her sister.

  “Shall I tell you a story?” she asked, reaching to smooth Louisa’s dark brown hair from her forehead. “The golden apples and the princess?”

  It was a favorite—one she had heard herself as a child around the Gypsy campfires.

  Yearning flashed through her. With their father’s untimely death, the carefree life of a Rom was closed to her. It was a life Louisa had barely known. If only their father had not been thrown by a half-wild stallion, her sister would have been cared for there, and respected for her curious, childlike wisdom.

  But without family to stand for them, Jessa could choose to wed whoever would have her, or take her sister and leave. They were three-quarters gadje—non-Romani. Too much outsiders for the clan to offer them a home. And yet too Gypsy to be accepted into the Society their mother had abandoned.

  Louisa sat up in bed and folded her arms around her knees. “I want the Three Wishes tonight. Do you think we can find a fairy and win three wishes from her, Jessie? I would wish Mama were still alive. And I would wish for the Silver Lord to be a handsome prince for you. And I would wish we lived in a beautiful castle all together, with plenty to eat and lovely gowns to wear.”

  Tears pricked the back of Jessa’s throat. “Those are very good wishes, indeed.”

  Alas, they had no chance whatsoever of coming true.

  ***

  The butler took Morgan’s hat and gloves, then showed him into Aunt Agatha’s parlor. It smelled of lemon oil, overlaid with some curious foreign spice that made his nose twitch. He paced to the mantel, the top of which was cluttered with curios. But these were not the usual porcelain shepherds and vases. No, of course not. Aunt Agatha would never display anything so conventional. Instead, these were carvings of wood, of ivory, of green-streaked stone. Each one depicted a human form. Naked. Some of them were even embracing.

  He let out an aggravated breath. A pity he had no other female relatives to help in this endeavor.

  “Morgan! Whatever brings you out to Surrey?” Aunt Agatha paused in the doorway, no doubt so that Morgan could admire the effect of her emerald silk turban. A white ostrich plume waved from the center, adding height to the already absurd headpiece. “Not that I’m displeased to see you, of course. Tea? Brandy?”

  “It’s eleven in the morning, aunt. Don’t you think brandy is a bit extreme?”

  She swept into the room. “That depends on why you are here. If it is to complain about Geordie again, then brandy is certainly in order.”

  “My complaints aren’t idle. I’d prefer you kept your son on a tighter rein.”

  Geordie had always been a bit spoiled, having been born later in life to his aunt and her now-deceased husband. But there were limits.

  She peered down her thin nose at him. “Geordie is sensible enough to behave well enough on his own. Besides, young men need to kick up their heels. Goodness knows you and your brother did—”

  “And look where that ended.” Morgan kept his temper leashed. His youthful indiscretions had not been his aunt’s fault. Still, she needed to understand the seriousness of the situation. “I’d rather not have to haul your son out of a ditch.”

  Morgan closed his eyes briefly against the memory of his brother’s body being pulled out of the broken curricle, illuminated by torches that sputtered in the night rain.

  “Oh, dear.” She paused, then sank down on a gaily striped chaise. “He hasn’t been racing, has he?”

  “Not that, no.”

  “Gambling?”

  “He hasn’t the taste for it.” Nor the ability. Thank God the boy kept clear of that particular vice.

  “Dueling?” She whispered the word, her face pale.

  “No.” Blast it, he’d have to tell her—though he’d leave out the fact that the incident had happened outside the seediest brothel in Piccadilly. “He was in a brawl, and taken up for disturbing the peace. Apparently he broke a constable’s nose.”

  Aunt Agatha rose and went to the ornately carved sideboard. “He didn’t tell me of this.” Her hands trembled slightly as she poured brandy into a glass, then took a gulp. “Is he… is he in jail?”

  “Of course not. He sent word to me, and I posted a surety for his good behavior.” All told, Geordie had spent less than two hours in the London jail—but it had been enough to shake the boy. Morgan hoped.

  “Then all’s well.” She drained her glass and turned to Morgan. “I shall have a talk with him.”

  “Good. I’ve spoken with him already, but perhaps he will listen to you.” And all was not well. Not with the charges still hanging over Geordie’s head as insurance for Morgan’s assistance in the damned Mr. Z case.

  “Thank you for coming to tell me the truth,” his aunt said.

  “There is one other thing.” Morgan picked up one of the inappropriate carvings, then set it hastily back down, and turned to his aunt. “I would like your… advice.”

  His aunt’s eyebrows rose dramatically. “Goodness, Morgan. And here I thought you had your entire life well in hand.” There was an acerbic edge to her voice. Aunt Agatha made no secret of the fact she did not approve of his rigidly controlled existence. But she did not understand that he had no choice.

  Morgan paced before the hearth, his footsteps muffled by the garish red and orange carpet. “I’ve decided it’s time to find a wife.”

  “Of course you have.” The plume in her turban waved wildly as she nodded. “And have you anyone in mind for this singular honor?”

  “I’ve a list.”

  “A list.” She let out an unladylike snort. “No doubt it consists of the most boring and insipid females the ton has to offer. Do you plan to go down it, name by name, until someone will have you?”

  He halted. “I’m not such a poor catch, Aunt. I doubt I will need to ask more than one.”

  “Then you had better choose well. It wouldn’t do for the upright Earl of Silverton to make a bad match.” She set her finger to her chin. “Though it all depends on how one defines a bad match. Some would say love—”

  “I’m going to host a musicale at Trevethwick House.”

  He could not stand to hear her lectures on the importance of love. Emotions had no place in it. Just because she had enjoyed a deliriously happy marriage until her husband’s death, she thought everyone should embrace such maudlin sentiments.

  �
��You are?” She blinked up at him. “Well. A musicale. How unlikely.”

  “I need your help.” The words scraped out of him.

  A slow smile eased across Aunt Agatha’s face. “Yes. You do, don’t you? Goodness, but this will be amusing!”

  “The aim is not amusement. It is a suitable engagement.”

  “I’ll have to come up to Town. I’ll stay with you at Trevethwick House—it’s only sensible. Have you a date planned for this musicale?”

  “The third of July.”

  Her expression of satisfaction faded. “That’s a mere thirteen days away! Morgan, you can’t be serious.”

  “I have every faith you’ll manage to make it a splendid event, Aunt. Shall I expect you in London tomorrow?”

  She pursed her lips. “Of course you may expect me. We will begin with the musicians. I wonder if Sir Thomas Moore—”

  “I’ve already arranged for Miss Lovell, the Gypsy Violinist, to perform. She’s rather the sensation about town.” Though he hoped she would wear a less revealing gown. He could not afford to be distracted again. Especially not under his own roof.

  “Excellent. I’ve read about Miss Lovell, and would very much like to hear her play. She seems quite the thing.” Eyes narrowing, Aunt Agatha tipped her head. The plume in her turban quivered with the movement. “Have you attended any of her performances, Morgan?”

  “Yes.”

  “And did you enjoy them? Is Miss Lovell as lovely as the scandal sheets say?”

  Good Lord, his aunt was like a hound scenting a fox. Morgan rose. “I suppose she is lovely enough.” Exotic-eyed and hair like black silk. “I must be going. I’ll let the housekeeper know you’ll arrive tomorrow.”

  Aunt Agatha folded her arms. “You won’t be able to run away from me when I’m staying at Trevethwick House. And I believe the musicale will be quite diverting. I’m eager to meet this Gypsy Violinist of yours.”

  “She’s not mine.” And she never would be. Miss Lovell was perilously tempting, but she was a temptation he could refuse.

  No matter the rough heat that filled the coldness he’d so carefully cultivated inside. No matter how unruly desire scorched through the bounds of his dreams until he woke, gasping, the echo of wild melodies pulsing through him, leaving him full of hot lust.

  It was nothing that taking a wife could not cure. In the meantime, he would silently endure, and conduct himself properly. No wanton-eyed Gypsy lass could make him stray from the path he had set himself.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Esteemed Earl Seeks A Wife?

  News has reached the Tattler that Lord Silverton will be holding a musicale, to feature London’s newest sensation, the Gypsy Violinist Miss Lovell. The bachelor lord is rumored to be inviting an array of Society’s most accomplished Eligibles. Watch for your invitations, ladies!

  -Tilly’s Mayfair Tattler, June 18

  Jessa carried her violin case through the halls of Buckingham Palace and tried not to stare. Since she’d begun performing for the ton, she had seen wealth and ostentation aplenty, but nothing rivaled the palace. The chandeliers glowed brilliantly, the carpet underfoot was lush and thick, and the very air itself seemed scented with royalty—a perfume of luxury and privilege that saturated her senses.

  The liveried footman led Mr. Burke and herself to a side room, where she could warm up and make ready for her performance before the queen. As soon as the servant left, her guardian gave her a baleful look. It seemed that being surrounded by so much wealth he could not touch had put him in one of his blacker moods.

  “Hurry up, girl. You must be ready when the queen sends for you. I’ll not have you shaming me.”

  Jessa dipped her head and busied herself with her violin: sweeping fine rosin dust off the gleaming wood, tightening her bow, carefully tuning her strings. She turned away from her guardian and played a lilting set of notes. The Fairy Glen waltz, to begin. Surely the young queen would favor such a sweet tune.

  A servant cleared his throat from the doorway. “Her Majesty will hear you now, Miss Lovell. Please follow me to the Music Room.”

  Jessa tucked her instrument under her arm, then shot her uncle a quick glance.

  “Go on,” he said.

  The footman did not move from the threshold. “Yourself as well, sir.”

  He gestured for Jessa and Mr. Burke to precede him out of the room, as if he suspected they were the sort that would make off with the silver candlesticks atop the mantel if left to themselves for too long. A wise fellow, indeed.

  Eyes narrowed, her uncle stalked past Jessa, displeasure clear in the set of his shoulders. The footman nodded, closed the door behind them, then stepped forward to lead the way. His knee breeches and powdered hair made her feel as though they had slipped into the previous century, yet the formality was perfectly suited to the grand passageway they were traversing. The servant paused before a pair of wide doors and spoke, low-voiced, to another man—presumably the lord steward, who was resplendent in scarlet livery and carried a white staff.

  At the steward’s nod, the footman pulled open the doors, and Jessa’s mouth went suddenly dry.

  She, Jessamyn Lovell, who had grown up in the poorest area of Oxford, daughter of an ailing lace-maker and a gypsy stableman—she was being presented to the queen! Oh, but she must remember every moment so she could recount it all perfectly for Louisa.

  At the far side of the domed room sat Queen Victoria. She wore a cream satin gown covered in lace and bows, cut low upon her shoulders, and the looped braids of her glossy brown hair were caught up at the back of her head in an elegant bun. Her face was round and regal, and her eyes were serious as she watched Jessa approach.

  The lord steward tapped his staff upon the floor and announced, “Miss Lovell, the Gypsy Violinist. Mr. Burke. You may approach the queen.”

  Jessa stepped forward, the crystal gasoliers a blur of light, calling forth the sparkle of gems from nearly every neck and finger of the assembled court. When she was a few paces from the queen, the steward lifted his hand in a signal to halt. Jessa dropped into the most gracious curtsy she could manage with her violin tucked beneath her elbow. From the corner of her eye, she saw her guardian make a deep, precise bow. When she lifted her head, the queen gave her a faint smile.

  “We are pleased that you have come to play for us, Miss Lovell.”

  “Your Majesty—it gives me great honor to perform for you and your court.” Jessa took a steadying breath, then set her violin on her shoulder and looked to the steward. At his curt nod, she began.

  It was such a blessed relief to play without fear, to pour herself into the music without watching the shadows. She had chosen a medley of tunes, beginning with the waltz, then moving into more spirited melodies. This was, like almost everything she played, music made for dancing. It always felt a bit odd to perform to a room full of still and silent listeners. She counted as a victory every foot she set to tapping, every lady’s fan that waved in time to the beat. If these proper lords and ladies would not leap to their feet and kick their heels up in a wild mazurka, at least she made them dance inside. The thought made her smile.

  There was one gentleman off to the side, unmoving and alert. She slanted him a look along with a flurry of notes—an invitation to enter the music—but her fingers nearly faltered when she met his cold gray gaze. The Earl of Silverton.

  Her joy curled in upon itself like a flower exposed to frost.

  There was something predatory in his eyes, as though she were a bird and he a cat, waiting for her to take flight so that he could pounce. Her guardian might claim she had made a conquest of the gentleman, but she did not see admiration in his eyes. Suspicion, certainly, and a rigid control that she did not think any music could unbend.

  With a deep breath, she pulled her attention away from the earl, and back into the music. Her final tune was a scattering of sparks against a star-dappled sky, and she made her bow rock and dance over the strings, remembering.

  The scent of wood s
moke, the bonfire gilding the trunks of the trees, the bright gazes of the children as they sat, barefoot, listening to the music and the tales. That sense of the world in perfect balance, with everything as it should be.

  Jessa brought the tune to a close, her focus now on the queen. Victoria’s expression was wistful, her eyes filled with a yearning for simpler times. Of course, the queen must carry burdens even heavier than Jessa’s own.

  “Thank you,” Queen Victoria said.

  “Your majesty.” Jessa dipped into a low curtsy, barely hearing the applause of the court. She hoped she’d helped the queen forget her troubles—if only for a short while.

  The queen beckoned her forward. She unpinned a pearl and diamond brooch from her dress, and held it out to Jessa.

  “A small token of my thanks,” she said.

  “I am deeply honored.” Jessa took the brooch from the queen’s gloved fingers, then bowed again.

  Louisa would be so delighted to hold a pin that the queen herself had been wearing! When Jessa straightened, the members of the court had already turned back to their gossiping, and the queen’s attention had shifted to an older gentleman who seemed to be an advisor.

  The servant who had shown Jessa into the Music Room hovered at her elbow, ready to escort her from the royal presence. So quickly did her moment of glory evaporate.

  Mr. Burke scowled and stalked after her as the servant led them back to the waiting room.

  “Where’s our pay?” he asked the servant as the liveried man turned to go.

  A look of distaste crossed the man’s face. “I have no doubt your compensation will be arriving shortly. Good day.”

  “Lackey,” Mr. Burke muttered, even before the door was shut.

  Jessa made no comment, instead busying herself with tucking her violin and bow away. The bright Rom scarf brushed softly against her fingers. Who would have thought that it—and she—would be here, inside the palace? It almost seemed a dream: the opulent carpet beneath her feet, the glittering chandeliers, the richly painted artwork decorating the walls. Yet she would trade anything for the perfect summers of her childhood, traveling the dusty roads and sheltering in the forests with her father’s clan.