Mistress of Melody

by Anthea Lawson

  She rode beside Morgan on a white mare with an easy, placid gait. Since they had met ten minutes ago at the gates of Hyde Park, Lady Anne had been much involved in greeting acquaintances and waving hellos. They’d stopped to exchange niceties with nearly a dozen other members of the ton, but at last had come to a less crowded area of the bridle path.

  “Indeed, an excellent day for a ride,” he said. Warm sunlight bathed the trees, and spangled the path ahead with dappled shadows and light. “Would you care for a trot?”

  As if understanding his words, Sterling snorted and mouthed the bit. The horse was ready to do more than walk sedately about the park. As was Morgan.

  “Oh, no, thank you,” Lady Anne said. “I find the trot to be quite jolting.”

  “A canter, then?”

  She let out a nervous trill of laughter. “My brother broke his arm when he fell from a cantering horse. I’d rather not risk it.”

  “Then a gallop is straight out of the question, I suppose.”

  He tried not to let his disappointment show. Lady Anne was a trifle staid for someone of such young years, but truly, was that not what he desired in a wife? Someone sensible and cautious, without the wild streak that had led his family into ruin.

  Certainly not someone who would race recklessly over the moonlit green, laughing.

  “Now you are teasing me.” She gave him a bright smile. “If you wish to gallop, and show off your excellent horsemanship, I would be delighted to watch.”

  “No, no. I will not abandon your charming company.” Besides, the small wood they were riding through was hardly the proper terrain for a hard gallop.

  “You are too kind.” She said the words matter-of-factly. “Oh, look, what delightful flowers.”

  She pointed off the path, to where a spray of columbines grew. Morgan did not think them particularly fetching, but he understood they were meant to provide a distraction.

  “Shall I pluck you one?” he offered, reining in Sterling.

  “How lovely. I would like that above all things.”

  Morgan dismounted and handed her the reins. “I promise he will not move an inch.”

  Sterling watched Morgan step into the underbrush, his ears pricked forward, but true to his training, he remained still. The loam was springy under Morgan’s boots, and birds flickered and sang in the branches overhead. He plucked a stem of the pale blue and white flowers, then returned to present it to Lady Anne.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I believe it will look stunning tucked into my hatband. Would you?”

  Before Morgan could protest, she leaned precariously down.

  “Lady Anne, I truly don’t—”

  Too late. With a little cry she tumbled off the saddle, and into his arms. She clung to his shoulders and lifted her face to his, lips parted.

  He hesitated, then, with a mental shrug, bent to kiss her. Her lips were sweet and soft beneath his, but no urgency ran through his veins, no fire spiraled upward from his belly. Kissing Lady Anne was pleasant, but that was all. He pressed her closer against him, hoping to spur a deeper reaction. Nothing but a faint stirring.

  Surely, in time, it could become something more. Forcing back his disquiet, Morgan ended the kiss.

  “Oh, my,” Lady Anne said, blinking up at him. “I hope you do not think me too forward.”

  Color pinked her cheeks. Clearly the kiss had affected her far more than it had moved him. Curse it.

  “I am only glad I was here to catch you,” he said, letting go of her waist. “Are you steady now?”

  “It was rather clumsy of me.” She removed her hands from his shoulders and made a show of tucking the flowers into her hat. “Thank you for your assistance.”

  A more calculated clumsiness he had never seen, but he could not begrudge her. She’d chosen a secluded spot, at least. And if anyone had observed them embracing, well, he was set on marrying her anyway.

  “It was my pleasure.” More or less.

  He assisted her in mounting her white mare again, and the two of them rode out of the wood, into the sunshine and social flurry along the Serpentine. Lady Anne sent him dreamy glances and shy smiles from time to time, and he supposed he was glad that she found him such an object of romantic interest—beyond his title and fortune, obviously.

  She was pretty enough in both form and manners. He had made an excellent choice. Certainly the majority of Society matrons approved, judging by their manner when he and Lady Anne stopped to greet them, and the overloud whispers of what a lovely couple they made as they rode away.

  Morgan straightened his shoulders. This grimness that settled like fine dust over him was what any man would feel at the thought of matrimony, nothing more.

  ***

  Commissioner Rowan’s office still smelled of pickled herring as Morgan took his usual chair. Across the desk from him, Rowan steepled his fingers and gave him a thoughtful look.

  “You’re sure Burke took the bait?” he asked.

  “Quite.” Morgan leaned back and folded his arms. “Although it could well be weeks until I’m contacted by Mr. Z. Don’t you think it’s time you removed all charges against Geordie?”

  Rowan let out a gusty breath through his nostrils. “I suppose. You’ve done everything you can to help, I’ll give you that. But I expect you to keep us apprised of anything else you discover about Burke, or his activities.”

  “Of course. There is one thing.” Morgan kept his tone cool. “I understand he is not, in fact, Miss Lovell’s uncle, but rather a cousin of some kind.”

  “True.”

  “What is the family’s connection to the ton?”

  He had planned to ask his aunt, but it would not do to show too much interest in Jessamyn Lovell when he was supposed to be courting Lady Anne. And Rowan would not find his questions odd, given that they were both involved in uncovering Burke’s identity as Mr. Z.

  The commissioner straightened a pile of papers on his desk. “As I recall, Miss Lovell’s grandfather held the title of Viscount Trenton. No male heirs, and quite a scandal involving the daughter.”

  “She ran off with a Gypsy fellow, yes.”

  “Not only that, but the family fell into financial ruin. When the viscount died, the title passed to his brother’s son, Phinneus Burke. I believe that gentleman removed to Italy, and is living there in poverty. Our Mr. Burke is the viscount’s younger brother.”

  “So, he remained in London, and assumed guardianship of the disinherited daughter’s children.” Morgan leaned forward. “A convoluted tale.”

  “And not likely to end well for the Lovell girls, whether or not we manage to collar Mr. Burke. I wouldn’t wish his guardianship upon a pigeon, let alone two young ladies.”

  A twinge of guilt went through Morgan, but truly, what else could he do to aid Miss Jessamyn Lovell? Nothing that would not compromise her reputation beyond repair. She’d been correct in thinking that no one would engage her for performances if she were considered a light woman.

  Well, no one respectable would hire her. And her performances would be expected to consist of more than concertizing.

  At least she would play at his garden party, and this time he’d offer her more than a glass bauble in extra compensation. Something useful, like a bag of coins, or jewelry she might be able to pawn in need.

  He shifted, the chair uncomfortably hard. “Is there no other recourse for the Lovell sisters?”

  “Short of running off to Naples and throwing themselves on the viscount’s mercy?” Commissioner Rowan gave a rueful shake of his head. “It’s a common story, Silverton. Girls fall into ruin daily. Even those with a better pedigree than the Lovells.”

  “What about places of refuge? The Magdalenes?”

  “Better than the streets, I suppose.” Rowan’s mouth twisted, as if tasting something bitter. “I don’t like the tales I hear of what happens behind those walls.”

  “Sir.” The junior constable rapped on Rowan’s closed door. “Dispatch for you.”

&nb
sp; “Come,” Rowan called. He stood, his chair scraping against the floor. “Keep us abreast of things, Silverton.”

  “I shall. Good day.”

  Morgan donned his hat and strode out into the afternoon, squinting against the too-bright sunshine. He had cleared Geordie’s name. Yet instead of relief, he felt only a grim resignation toward life. Duty and honor were damnable weights to carry about constantly on one’s shoulders, and they would be his true companions until he died.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  According to sources, the case involving the Piccadilly brothel brawl has been closed. No parties were charged, and it appears the constabulary is not interested in revealing further details.

  -The London Engager, July 12

  Jessa’s spine prickled with fear as she and Louisa crept down the stairs, each carrying a valise. Their small store of jewelry weighed heavily in the pocket of her cloak. She had a few shillings as well, taken earlier that evening from Mr. Burke’s desk.

  If he caught them now, there would be no concealing the fact they were running away. But Sir Dabbage was coming on the morrow to take Louisa. Jessa desperately hoped that by waiting until the last moment, Mr. Burke’s suspicions would be allayed—and that there would be no time for him to pursue and find them, or concoct a reasonable tale for Sir Dabbage.

  The front door opened smoothly, thanks to the cooking oil she had been regularly applying to the hinges. They stepped out into the night, and the latch snicked shut behind them. She prayed she would never cross that threshold again.

  Louisa opened her mouth, but Jessa waved her to silence. Keeping to the shadows, she led her sister down the street. Unfortunately, no night fog shrouded their passage. Above, the sickle moon shone through the faint haze of soot, and a few stars struggled to stab through the darkness.

  At last they reached the bustle of the busier streets. Jessa hailed a hackney, told the driver their destination, and handed up a precious shilling.

  “Right-o,” he said, as matter-of-factly as if he often transported young ladies about London in the dead of night. Which perhaps he did.

  Jessa helped Louisa into the carriage, then settled next to her, tucking their valises beside their feet. The hackney lurched into motion, and she felt the tightness binding her ribs ease a notch. They were not safely away—not yet—but each turn of the wheel over cobbles carried them farther out of reach.

  “Are you worried?” Louisa took Jessa’s hand. “You are frowning.”

  Jessa attempted to smooth her expression. Dangers still loomed ahead, with no guarantee that they would find safe refuge.

  “Perhaps we should have gone to find the clan,” she said. Part of her wanted to flee London altogether.

  “But you told me that is the first place Mr. Burke will look,” Louisa said. “He would have found us there and taken us again. The Rom would not protect us.”

  Jessa gave her sister a reluctant nod. Louisa had the right of it. And Jessa’s second thought, to find rough lodgings and play her violin on the street for money, was too perilous—and held the same lack of safety. Once he discovered they were gone, Mr. Burke would upend London to recover them.

  There was only one answer.

  Louisa squeezed her hand and leaned forward, nothing but excitement shining in her eyes. Of course, she was convinced they would receive a warm welcome and an immediate offer of shelter and safety. Jessa was far more realistic in her expectations.

  The hackney wended through the streets. Each time they swayed around a corner, Jessa shot a glance behind them. Nobody seemed to be following; no telltale lamps shone at a steady distance, no furtive riders tailing them, or scuttling figures in the shadows. Still, fear lay dry and metallic against her tongue, as if she had licked a knife blade.

  Knives, too, pricked in her stomach as the hackney drew up before the dark, imposing bulk of Trevethwick House.

  Louisa hopped down, smiling, and Jessa had to grab her hand to keep her sister from marching up the walk to the front door. The hackney trundled away, and Jessa steered Louisa into the concealing shelter of the front hedge.

  “We can’t just knock at the door,” Jessa said.

  “Why not? There’s a lamp lit—I can see the light.”

  Jessa clenched her teeth for a moment. Sometimes Louisa’s lack of understanding was difficult to bear.

  “Because it is the middle of the night. And rousing the butler would cause far too much gossip. People of our station should use the servants’ entrance. It’s more discreet.”

  “But you are the princess,” Louisa said.

  “Duckling, that’s only in the stories you tell. I’m not truly a princess—you know that. Lord Silverton might not even take us in.”

  He was their last hope, however. And he was powerful enough to protect them from Mr. Burke until she could procure another situation for them. Perhaps as governess to some family of the lesser gentry. Although she had no references, and they must be willing to take Louisa as well, and…

  She pulled her thoughts away from the many obstacles in their way. One step at a time.

  “We will go around to the back,” Jessa said. “Follow me. Quietly.”

  To her disappointment, no light shone from the earl’s study. The entire back of the house was quiet and still. Jessa halted beside the terrace and rubbed her temples. What should they do? Find a place to shelter until the servants began to stir? Wake the house and face the consequences?

  The rustle of shrubbery made her turn. Her sister was gone, leaving her alone in the dark garden.

  “Louisa? Louisa, where are you?”

  She must have returned to the front, stubborn girl. Jessa grabbed her valise and ran down the garden path. She must stop her sister before she did something foolish.

  Jessa rounded the house, in time to see Louisa rap at the front door. At least she used her gloved hand, and not the immense lion-headed knocker, which certainly would have woken the entire house.

  “Stop,” Jessa whispered urgently as she dashed up the steps.

  She took Louisa by the arm, just as the front door opened. The thin, disapproving form of Lord Silverton’s butler stood there. Behind him, Jessa saw the head footman, hair tousled with sleep, striding down the hall with a candlelit lantern.

  “What do you want?” the butler demanded.

  “We need to see the Silv—” Louisa began.

  Jessa cut her sister off. “Is Lord Silverton available?”

  “He is most decidedly not. Nor is he in the habit of taking up with street doxies. Begone, the both of you.”

  The butler began to close the door, but the footman stopped him.

  “Wait. The dark-haired one looks familiar.” The man squinted at her. “Is that Jessamyn Lovell?”

  “Yes.” Jessa shook her hood back. It was too late to do anything except brazen things out. “I apologize for the lateness of the hour, but might we speak with the earl?”

  “Most irregular.” The butler frowned at them. “No, you may not.”

  “But—”

  “He has not arrived home for the night,” the butler continued.

  “Put them in the yellow parlor,” the footman said. “Clearly they wouldn’t be here except for some dire trouble. I’ll keep watch on them.”

  The butler sniffed, but stepped back and opened the door. “I suppose you may wait.”

  He raised his eyebrows at Jessa’s valise, but she did not feel any great need to explain it to him. Soon enough she’d be facing the earl, and must save all her resolve for that encounter.

  “Come along, ladies.” The footman led them down the hall, their candlelit reflections whispering in gilt-edged mirrors and the polished side of an oriental urn.

  He ushered them into a sitting room that held as much furniture as Mr. Burke’s entire house, and lit two lamps. The even light reflected off polished wood, warming the yellow and cream carpet covering the parquet floor. Louisa glanced longingly at the plush divan.

  “May I sit down?” she ask
ed.

  “Certainly,” the footman said.

  Jessa wagered her sister would be asleep within five minutes.

  “Thank you,” she said to the man. “I’m sorry to put you to any trouble.”

  He gave her a sympathetic look. “I’d say you’re in worse. The earl should be home within the hour.”

  “Where has he gone?” Louisa asked, then stifled a yawn.

  “A party at Lord Dearborn’s, I believe. Make yourselves comfortable. I’ll be just outside.”

  Before they could ask him any more questions, he’d slipped out and shut the door behind him. At least he hadn’t locked them in.

  “I’m going to lie down,” Louisa said. She kicked off her shoes, then settled down on the cushions.

  Jessa found a lap robe folded on top on an ornately carved chest, and covered her sister. The cashmere was soft against her fingers, and for a moment she wished that she, too, could curl up and escape into sleep. But the agitation running through her would not allow it.

  To the sounds of Louisa’s gentle snores, Jessa paced and mustered her arguments. There were not many, beyond appealing to the earl’s sense of honor and chivalry. Or… She paused, reluctant to admit there might be one other way.

  She could appeal to the desire she had seen in his eyes.

  The rumble of male voices in the hallway made her turn and face the door. She made herself lower her hands, though she wanted to keep her arms tightly folded across her chest. But that was not the best way to present herself.

  The parlor door opened, and the Earl of Silverton stepped inside. The lamplight polished the golden highlights in his hair, but did little to soften his grim look.

  “Miss Lovell. What are you doing here?” He closed the door, shutting out the hovering footman. “Thaddeus informs me you have also brought your sister?”

  “Yes.” She gestured to the slumbering form on the divan. “Please, my lord. We have no place else to go. Would you… take us in? It would only be for a short time, until I could find some employment.”