Mistress of Melody

by Anthea Lawson

  With a rueful twist of her mouth, she snicked the latches shut.

  Her guardian grasped her shoulder and pulled her to face him. “The queen did not like your performance.”

  Jessa stared at him—his expression pinched with anger, the violence coming off him in hot waves.

  “But… she did, sir. I am sure of it. She even gave me a token.”

  “As to that.” Mr. Burke held out his hand. “A pretty enough trinket. I can put it to some use.”

  “Please. May I keep it?” She hated to beg, but she could not bear for him to rob her and Louisa of this small joy.

  “No.” His tone was implacable.

  He stared at her, his eyes like dried molasses, until she reluctantly gave him the brooch. Her heart pricked as he tucked it away in his pocket. Another treasure, gone.

  “The queen gives such tokens to everyone,” he said. “It means nothing. Why did you choose sad songs to play?” His voice lifted on the rising tide of his temper. “You are trying to thwart me, aren’t you? Attempting to undo your fame?”

  He lifted his free hand, and she wrenched away, stumbling over the gilded table leg. The blow landed short, the punishing slap he had intended just clipping the side of her jaw. It stung, but not as fiercely as landing directly on her cheek would have.

  “No! I am doing everything you say. I swear it.” She backed away, furiously trying to think of the words that might placate him. “You know I would not jeopardize Louisa—”

  “Perhaps you’d obey better if your sister truly was locked away.” There was an ugly, exultant note in his voice. He lunged and caught her arm. “What do you say to that?”

  “I say release Miss Lovell. Immediately.” The cold voice came from the threshold.

  The Earl of Silverton stood there, one hand on the open door. Though his voice was controlled, fire sparked in his eyes.

  “My lord.” Mr. Burke did not let go of Jessa. “No need to involve yourself, I assure you. My niece is sometimes in need of a firm hand.”

  The earl’s gaze slid to Jessa’s face. From the slight narrowing of his eyes, she was certain he noted the marks of her guardian’s slap against her skin.

  “Miss Lovell.” Lord Silverton inclined his head toward Jessa. “May I escort you home? I would not like to see any… harm befall you.”

  “Look here!” Mr. Burke let go of her arm and set his fists on his hips. “That’s completely unnecessary. You’re meddling in our business, Lord Silverton. It’s a family matter. Far beneath your notice.”

  “Nevertheless.” The earl took three strides into the room, his presence dominating the space. “Then I shall wait with you until you depart from the palace.”

  Her guardian sputtered, but there was nothing he could do. Despite herself, Jessa let out a soft breath of relief. Her fingers crept to her jaw, where her skin still smarted.

  The earl caught her gaze, and she was trapped there, falling into the chilly pools of his eyes. Cool, yes, but not entirely without sympathy. Of course, he was a gentleman. It was no doubt against his code to condone violence against women—although she had heard that many men of the ton proclaimed one set of values in public, while demonstrating quite another in private.

  But despite the spark of genuine concern in his expression, there was no assistance he might give her. Beyond standing sentinel so that Mr. Burke would not abuse her, which was help enough. She mustered up a grateful smile, then perched on a nearby settee.

  The earl remained standing, hands folded behind his back. His coat of silvery gray flattered his broad shoulders, and the white linen at his neck served to emphasize the gleaming gold of his hair. The line of his lips was uncompromising, as if he seldom smiled. His eyes met hers and he raised one fair brow.

  Heat crept into her cheeks. Indeed, she had been staring at him overlong. Jessa dropped her gaze to her hands. What did he think of her, if he thought of her at all? Was it only chivalry that kept him there, a guard against her guardian’s rough violence?

  She peeked up through her eyelashes, to find him still regarding her. She knew that men found her attractive, though most of them wore their lustful thoughts plain on their faces. The Earl of Silverton did not. The predatory look was gone from his eyes, and now he watched her as one might assess an unfamiliar creature, waiting to see if it would take flight, or attack, or simply return to grazing upon a nearby bush.

  “Mr. Burke, Miss Lovell.” The servant reappeared in the doorway. “And Lord Silverton,” he added smoothly.

  Then he paused, looking to the earl.

  “I am merely keeping the queen’s guests company,” the earl said. “Pay me no mind.”

  The servant nodded, and held out a thin leather wallet to Mr. Burke. “Your payment, drawn upon the Bank of England. I shall see you out now.”

  Mr. Burke took the wallet, checked the contents, then grunted in approval.

  “Fetch your things, girl,” he said.

  Beneath the earl’s watchful gaze, Jessa rose, donned her pelisse, and picked up her violin case. She wanted to thank him, but that would only earn her guardian’s wrath. Instead, she met the earl’s eyes as they passed, hoping her expression might convey her gratitude. She did not trust the man, but he had saved her from more blows. At least temporarily.

  He inclined his head, ever so slightly. As she followed Mr. Burke into the wide hallway, she felt the earl’s gaze upon her back. She did not know any longer what he was—enemy, ally, or something of both.

  ***

  Morgan watched Miss Jessamyn Lovell follow her uncle down the wide hallways of Buckingham Palace. She held her head high, uncowed by the wealth and gentility displayed on all sides.

  The constable had told him the Burke family was of minor nobility, but that Miss Lovell had been raised primarily in the slums of Oxford, and sometimes in Gypsy encampments. Her self-possession was remarkable.

  The uncle, however… Morgan curled his hands into fists at the thought of the red mark on Miss Lovell’s jaw. Had he entered the room a moment earlier, instead of sharing a brief word with Sir Peel, Morgan could have prevented Mr. Burke from striking her. As it was, he’d barely restrained himself from collaring the man and giving him a few blows in return.

  But fighting in the public rooms of the palace would achieve nothing except a return to the notoriety he had spent a decade trying to erase. So he had mastered himself, but his dislike for Mr. Burke was now a hot coal inside his chest. He regretted scheduling the musicale, regretted that he must continue to deal with a man he despised.

  Yet the entire point of hiring Miss Lovell was to bring her uncle to the justice he so richly deserved. Morgan would do well to keep himself fixed on that ultimate goal.

  And his aunt was even now waiting to consult with him further. Clenching his jaw, he turned on his heel and departed the palace. He did not know which was worse—the plethora of useless details she insisted he make decisions upon, or the fact that she treated him as an errant schoolboy instead of the Earl of Silverton.

  Some twenty minutes later, when he strode into Trevethwick House, she pounced upon him.

  “Morgan!” No doubt she had been lying in wait, anticipating his return.

  “Yes, Aunt?” He hoped the weary coolness of his tone would deflect her, though it never had in the past.

  She threaded her arm through his and towed him toward the drawing room. “The replies are coming in. I’m sure you’ll want to look them over.”

  He most assuredly did not, but Aunt Agatha had him in her grasp, and there was no escape. She pushed him into one of the armchairs set beside the hearth, then bustled to the small desk and returned with a handful of envelopes.

  “The first acceptance to arrive is from Lord and Lady Dearborn. I recall you mentioned that their daughter, Anne, was a lovely girl. And a likely prospect.”

  “Perhaps I did.” He dimly recalled her yellow hair and sweet expression, but the features were hazy.

  Damn, the face scribed all too clearly in his memo
ry was that of dark-haired Miss Lovell. Who was a most unsuitable prospect—unless one were thinking of a single lamp burning at midnight, and the heat of her lips beneath his, and how soft her skin might feel under his hands…

  His aunt rapped him across the knuckles with her sandalwood fan. The sting of it recalled him to the task.

  “Enough woolgathering, my boy. Heavens, how you manage to run an earldom, I cannot fathom.” Aunt Agatha thrust three envelopes at him. “In addition, the Adderlys and the Cornells would be pleased to attend. I hear that Honoria Adderly is well spoken, and Mary Cornell is reputed to be a clever thing.”

  “Very good.” He could muster not one whit of enthusiasm.

  She gave him an impatient look. “I declare, you must do better than that if you hope to woo any of these young ladies. A smile, at least. You used to turn heads with your smiles.”

  That had been when his life was a perfect platter of delights laid before him. In the folly of youth, he had thought it would last forever. Now, the present smothered him, and the future was a dark fog he must travel into. There was nothing for him to smile about.

  “Enough.” He stood. “I trust you to make further decisions as to whether the canapés should contain chicken salad or liver pate, and if the decorations should be lavender or violet. Just keep me informed which families are attending.”

  “My dear, I know this is difficult for you.” His aunt rose and patted his arm. “But once you fix upon the right lady, everything will seem brighter.”

  He sincerely doubted it, and wished his aunt would cease clinging to her romantic notions. Despite the fact she knew he had little interest in any of the invited young women, she could not help but weave fancies that he would suddenly, precipitously, tumble into love with one of them.

  More likely that the sun would begin to spin backwards across the sky than Morgan would lose his well-guarded heart to any woman.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The ride back to Mr. Burke’s home from Buckingham Palace was full of taut silence. The hired hack swayed roughly over the cobbles, and Jessa stared determinedly out the window. Soot smudged the rooftops, and clouds dimmed the sun, matching the grimness of her mood. The smell of burning offal stung her nose, and she braced herself on the worn leather seat as the hack turned a corner, the carriage creaking. The lopsided rhythm of the wheels matched her worried heartbeat.

  Covertly, she glanced across at Mr. Burke. His legs were crossed, his face set in its usual sour expression. He drummed his fingers on the seat, as if lost in thought. She feared what those thoughts might be.

  Would he truly take Louisa away and lock her up in an asylum? His threats were not idle—he’d taken pains to demonstrate as much to her in the past. Which meant that she and her sister were not safe.

  A bitter laugh rose in her throat. What a fool she’d been, to think her relative’s house was any sort of haven. She must come up with a plan to protect Louisa. Somehow.

  As soon as they entered the front door, the hinges groaning as if in pain, Jessa hurried toward the stairs.

  “Not so fast.” Mr. Burke caught her arm. “What are you up to with Silverton?”

  His fingers closed hard, creasing the fabric of her pelisse, and his eyes bored into hers.

  “Nothing,” she said.

  He gave her a shake. “Don’t lie to me. I’ve seen how he looks at you. Do you think to run away and find a different protector?”

  “Of course not.” But his words whirled about in her head like sparks. Could she, in fact, do that very thing?

  “Don’t deceive yourself, missy.” He laughed in her face. “A man like that would tire of you within the week. And he certainly wouldn’t take in that idiot sister of yours. Whatever you’re plotting, it won’t succeed.”

  She wanted to dash the sneer from his face. She wanted to gather her meager possessions and make a dramatic exit, taking Louisa with her. But the truth of his words cut deep. They truly had nowhere to turn.

  Jessa raised her chin and pulled out of her guardian’s grasp. “I am well aware that Louisa and I depend upon you. Good night, sir.”

  Mr. Burke folded his arms and scowled, but at least he made no further move toward violence. The skin between her shoulder blades prickling, she turned her back on him, lit a candle, and ascended the stairs.

  Louisa stirred sleepily in her bed as Jessa entered. The candle flame flickered in the draft from the closing door.

  “Did you see the queen?” Louisa asked, bringing one hand up to shade her eyes from the light.

  “I did—and will tell you all about her, and the palace, on the morrow.”

  “And the Silver Lord, he was there too?”

  “Yes.”

  Louisa smiled. “I knew he would be.”

  “Go back to sleep, duckling.”

  Jessa slipped out of her gown and carefully hung it in the wardrobe. She blew the candle out, and heard her sister burrow back under the covers.

  Somehow she must disabuse Louisa of the notion that the Earl of Silverton was some kind of knight in shining armor. He was simply a man who intended to hire her to perform at a musicale. A man who, from all appearances, did not care overmuch for music. Or anything beyond his own reputation, if the gossip she had overheard was true.

  At the edge of sleep, she could not help but conjure up his face. There had been a wordless sympathy between them when she left the palace. Ridiculous for her to think so, and yet, in that last gaze, she felt as though they had seen more deeply into one another’s souls than either of them expected.

  ***

  The sound of the bedroom door closing in the darkness woke Jessa. Had she forgotten to lock it?

  Heart pounding, she sat up and strained to hear any sounds of movement from within the room. Nothing.

  “Louisa?” she whispered.

  She slipped carefully from between her covers, and reached for her sister. Tumbled sheets met her fingers, still slightly warm from her sister’s body. But the bed was empty, except for Louisa’s crumpled nightdress.

  Either she was wandering the house unclothed, or for some incomprehensible reason she had dressed herself. To go outside?

  Fear jolted through Jessa. She hurried to the window and pushed back the curtain. Moments later, she saw Louisa in her walking dress and cloak step out from their guardian’s house and into the street.

  “Louisa!” she hissed, but of course her sister could not hear her through the window.

  Jessa dared not bang upon the glass, for fear of waking Mr. Burke. Desperately, she struggled to open the window, but the lock was jammed.

  Outside, Louisa glanced up and down the street, her hesitation clear. Fog curled at the edges of the sparse streetlights, and the world lay in silence and shadow.

  Jessa flung herself away from the window. Not bothering to dress, she grabbed her cloak from the wardrobe and slipped on the closest shoes to hand—a pair of red satin dancing slippers. Nearly trembling from the need for stealth and speed, she opened the bedroom door and crept as rapidly as possible down the hall.

  Blessedly, her guardian’s snores continued uninterrupted as she descended the stairs. She was careful to keep to the outer edges of the treads, where they would not creak. Gaining the bottom, she darted across the room to the front door. No time to light a lantern—which, in any case, would only draw unwanted attention. Flipping up the hood of her cloak, she carefully pulled the door just wide enough to slip outside. Thankfully, the hinges let out only the faintest protest.

  The air was cool and clammy against her cheek, the cobbles slick beneath the thin soles of her slippers. They would be ruined, but she could not count the cost—not when Louisa was out wandering the streets well past midnight.

  Where was her sister?

  Jessa sent a desperate glance over the empty block. At the far end, she caught a glimpse of motion, the sway of a skirt turning the corner. Taking up the cloak in her fists, she dashed down the street.

  The sound of her slippers slapping
the cobbles echoed back faintly from the dark homes lining the block. A crumbling brick townhouse stood at the corner, and Jessa skidded around it, breath heaving in her lungs.

  She nearly collapsed with relief when she saw her sister standing before a wrought iron fence some paces away.

  “Louisa,” she whispered urgently. “Come back.”

  “There you are.” Louisa smiled at her, as if they were not shrouded in mist in the middle of the midnight street. “I hoped you would come.”

  “Come where?” Jessa hurried to her sister and took her hand, partially to reassure herself that Louisa was safe, and partially to keep her from darting off again.

  “We’re going on an adventure,” Louisa said solemnly.

  “I will gladly take you wherever you want. But not now. It is dark, and Mr. Burke—”

  “We don’t need to worry about him. Once we find the Silver Lord, everything will come out right.” Louisa’s eyes shone with perfect faith.

  Oh, dear.

  “Come back to the house, love.” Jessa tugged her sister’s hand. “Neither of us have the faintest idea how to find him.”

  “Goose. Of course I do.” Louisa grinned, then fished in her pocket and pulled out a card. “It says so right here. Tref… Tarv…”

  Jessa snatched the calling card from her sister. The Earl of Silverton’s name was easy to read, even in the dim light. She did not bother asking how her sister had found the card. Louisa was trapped every day for hours in their bedroom. There was no use concealing anything from her, but Jessa had never thought her sister would take such precipitous action.

  “Trevethwick House,” she said. “But we cannot go there. It’s the middle of the night.”

  She began leading Louisa back toward Mr. Burke’s.

  “Why not?” Her sister’s steps slowed. “I want to find him now.”

  “He…” Jessa thought furiously. If she could not keep Louisa from believing in fairytales, she would use them to her advantage. “By night, he is a ravening beast. If we appear unannounced on his doorstep, I fear he would devour us.”