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Mistress of Melody

Page 20

by Anthea Lawson


  “Well, miss, I must tend to my duties,” Betts said.

  “Of course,” Jessa managed.

  “Here.” The maid handed her a mended handkerchief.

  Jessa nodded her thanks, then turned away as the first drop slid down her cheek. The door closed quietly behind Betts, and the storm broke.

  A rain of tears first, quickly followed by hard anger. How dare Morgan use her so! What a cad, to make love with her, and then flee the very next day to ask another woman to be his wife.

  Jessa tucked away the damp kerchief and picked up her teacup. It would be so easy to break the delicate china, patterned with roses. She nearly flung it into the hearth. But the earl would not even notice, and Betts or one of the other maids would have to clean up the mess.

  So. If Morgan was not at home, she would take this opportunity to search his study for the mysterious letters. Surely nothing she discovered could shake her more than the fact of his imminent betrothal. And it served him right, having her pry into his secrets.

  Morgan’s study smelled of leather and ink as Jessa slipped inside and quietly shut the door. She stood for a moment, trying not to feel as though she had invaded his privacy.

  As if she should be concerned. He had taken her innocence, after all.

  Slowly, she turned. His desk dominated the room—the most likely place to begin. She rounded it and sat in the chair, then studied the drawers. Three on either side, and one in the front. Although she doubted she would find any letters there, she pulled the center drawer open.

  To her surprise, it held a hodgepodge of items: a chipped blue marble, an old Roman coin, a key, a piece of string, a sketch of an Irish Retriever. It was a glimpse into Morgan’s past, a reminder that he had once been just a boy and not the controlled man he was now.

  S almost softened—shut the drawer, and left the study.

  But anger still sparked through her, and a mounting curiosity. Was there, in fact, anything in his study for her to discover, or had the note been a ploy from Mr. Burke to sow discord and suspicion? Jessa slid the drawer closed on Morgan’s childhood treasures, and opened the top left-hand drawer.

  Ten minutes of searching yielded only dry account books and notes from the manager of Morgan’s country estate. Fingers slightly smudged with ink, Jessa opened the next drawer down. A packet of letters peeked from behind another stack of ledgers.

  Tension prickling through her, she fetched them out and set them before her on the smooth mahogany desktop. They were bound with twine. Before undoing the knot, Jessa studied the packet. She would want to replicate it as closely as possible when she put the letters away.

  Once she had fixed the placement of the string firmly in her mind, she untied the packet. Her fingers trembled as she unfolded the top letter.

  April, 1827

  My dearest Morgan, how my heart yearns to see you once again. The hours that we have spent together are precious to me…

  Jessa scanned the letter, which seemed to consist mostly of declarations of love. It was signed Abigail Smith. The name the anonymous note had specified.

  A love letter a dozen years old was not particularly damning, but it was only the top of the stack. Jessa set it aside and took up the next one.

  At the third letter, she found the first hint of calamity.

  … I fear I am increasing, however, it is still early. If we were to wed soon, no one would be the wiser…

  The fourth letter made her heart plummet to her toes. The paper was marked with round water stains, as though from tears.

  Morgan, how could you be so cruel? I thought you loved me! You promised to care for me forever, not cast me aside like a soiled garment. I bear your child, and can hide the fact no longer…

  Jessa squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, her head filled with the pounding of her pulse. Please, let this not lead where she suspected.

  The fifth letter was exceedingly short.

  February, 1828.

  Morgan, you have a daughter.

  No.

  Jessa pushed the letter away and leaned back in the chair. According to the damning evidence before her, Morgan had an eleven-year-old bastard daughter. And he’d told her he had no secrets!

  Stifling a sob, she reached for the remainder of the packet. Skimming the letters, for she could not bear to read more deeply, certain lines leaped out at her.

  Her name is Rosemary. I received your money, and we have settled into the cottage…

  … has begun to walk. She has your bright hair. My lord, will you ever come to visit us?

  It was kind of you to provide a pony for her fifth birthday. She often asks if she will ever meet her papa.

  … now eight years of age. The villagers are not unkind, but they will never welcome us completely. Will you please bring us up to London?

  Rosemary broke her arm falling from a tree, but is otherwise well. The dress you sent for her tenth birthday is too small, as she is growing apace.

  The last, most recent letter, was dated May 14th, a mere three months prior. It held the same tone of resignation, another thank-you for sending money, and a snippet of information about Rosemary, whose feet were apparently now as large as her mother’s.

  Jessa shut her eyes, despair washing through her. How could she have been so wrong about Morgan’s character? She had lost her heart to a man who thought nothing of abandoning his own child. She had welcomed him into her body, and her soul.

  She carefully reassembled the packet and tied the twine. Her heart was filled with ashes. Moving as though her bones were brittle twigs, she replaced the letters in the drawer, then left the study.

  The corridor leading to her bedroom seemed infinitely long, and sorrow pressed against her chest with such weight that she could scarcely breathe. She gained the sanctuary of her room, grateful beyond measure to find that Louisa was not within. Jessa flung herself onto the bed and wept until her soul was wrung dry.

  Finally she rose, pulled the curtains closed, and donned her nightdress. Although it was barely three in the afternoon, she was going to bed. She was sick at heart, and could not bear to see or speak to anyone. Especially not Morgan.

  Tomorrow, she would rise, and plaster her heart, and carry on. But for now, she would close her eyes and let sleep drag her into blessed darkness.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Music aficionados rejoice! Maestro Reynard and his family will be returning to Paris to perform at the Conservatoire—a concert not to be missed by any person of refined tastes.

  -l’Assemblee

  The next morning, Jessa woke when Louisa cracked the curtains. A sliver of bright sunshine crept into the room, and Louisa came to stand beside the bed.

  “Are you feeling better?” she asked, dark eyes full of concern.

  Not particularly. Jessa was not certain her heart would ever mend. But she could not spend the rest of her life abed in a darkened room. Slowly, she sat up.

  “I will do,” she said.

  And her resolution had crystallized. She would leave Trevethwick House at once. She could not bear to remain near Morgan, not with the double anguish of his betrothal and betrayal. At least Jessa had known her father, despite his frequent absences. Morgan’s daughter had been raised completely bereft—abandoned in a backwater village, an illegitimate child of an uncaring lord. Her stomach twisted.

  “Good!” Louisa clapped her hands. “Supper yesterday was so quiet, without you and the Silver Lord here.”

  “The earl was not at supper?”

  “No. Lady Agatha said he went away.”

  “What? Where has he gone?”

  Jessa slid out of bed and began to dress. It was unexpected but welcome news. If Morgan was not due home for a handful of days, it would give her time to lay her plans and depart. Better if she never saw him again. Her heart twisted with bitter despair.

  “Lady Agatha said he went to his country estate. It’s called Farthingwood.” Louisa tilted her head thoughtfully. “I wonder if there are ponies. And a l
ake.”

  “You will have to ask Lady Agatha, for I’ve no idea.” And did not care to know.

  Settling before the mirror, Jessa pinned up her hair. The reflection in the glass stared back: wan, with red-rimmed eyes.

  Today was Wednesday. Tomorrow, Mr. Widmere would be departing for the Continent. She must arrange to travel with him, and she would need a maid to go with her. It was prudent to behave as properly as possible, no matter the reality of her changed situation.

  “Are you ready to come to breakfast?” Louisa asked, opening the door to the hallway. “I’m famished.”

  Jessa tucked up a stray lock of hair, then joined her sister. She had no appetite herself, but a cup of tea would not come amiss.

  Sunshine streamed into the breakfast room, making the silver gleam. Lady Agatha was already in her usual place, wearing a pensive expression.

  “Good morning, ladies,” she said. “Jessa, I trust you are feeling somewhat recovered?”

  “Adequately.” Jessa took her seat across from Morgan’s aunt, and Louisa sat beside her, clearly sensing that Jessa needed her close.

  Ah, how she would miss Louisa—the brightest thing in her universe.

  “Has Louisa told you of Morgan’s absence?” Lady Agatha asked.

  “She mentioned it, yes. How long will he be away?”

  Lady Agatha firmed her lips. “He did not say. What a vexing man.”

  Jessa made no comment, merely squeezed lemon into her tea. After a fortifying sip, she spoke.

  “Louisa, Lady Agatha, I have come to a decision. I intend to depart London tomorrow.”

  “Jessie!” Louisa grabbed her hand.

  Lady Agatha gave her an unhappy look. “I suspected you might be leaving us imminently, and I am sorry to hear it. But I will not entreat you to stay, and neither will Louisa.”

  “What if I want her to stay?” Louisa asked, her tone plaintive.

  “I must go, duckling.” Jessa leaned over to embrace her sister about the shoulders.

  “Don’t fret, Louisa,” Lady Agatha said. “As soon as Morgan is wed, we will go visit your sister. Jessamyn, I presume you are going to the Continent?”

  “Yes. I shall impose upon Mr. Widmere to let me accompany him. Also, I am in need of a maid to travel with me. Have you any recommendations on such short notice?”

  “Hm.” Lady Agatha frowned thoughtfully. “As a matter of fact, I do. It has come to my attention that one of the girls here has a difficult family situation. I’ll inquire whether she would like to leave it, and join you instead. And I believe her salary is paid for the remainder of the year, so you would not need to bear that expense just yet.”

  Jessa narrowed her eyes. It would be true to Lady Agatha’s generous nature to pay the girl in advance, but Jessa did not want to argue the matter. Truly, it would be a boon to her own limited finances.

  “Do ask her,” Jessa said. “If she is agreeable, perhaps she might help me begin to pack.”

  “I’ve a spare steamer trunk,” Lady Agatha said. “Please make use of it. And take the gowns. You’ll need to be properly garbed.”

  “Thank you for your generosity.” Jessa’s voice caught on the edge of tears, and she busied herself with buttering a piece of toast she had no intention of eating.

  “I only wish you were leaving under happier circumstances,” Lady Agatha said.

  “You should not be leaving at all.” Louisa crossed her arms. “The story isn’t supposed to end this way. You’re supposed to get the talisman, and live happily ever after.”

  “Life is full of things that don’t turn out quite as we wish them to,” Jessa said. “Don’t worry, love. Before you know it, you’ll be attending one of my concerts. In Spain, perhaps.”

  She spoke with a confidence she did not feel. There was still no guarantee Master Reynard would agree to put her on his program. But no matter the difficulties, she must go forward into that bleak, unknown future.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  In a shocking turn of events, it transpires that the Earl of Silverton does not intend to offer for Lady Anne Percival! Three days ago, he reportedly paid her a call where he apologized profusely for leading her to expect something he could not offer, then immediately departed London for his country estate. What a sorry state of affairs, to see how low certain gentlemen of the ton have fallen.

  -Tilly’s Mayfair Tattler

  Morgan cantered over the morning fields. The steady rocking of Sterling’s smooth pace and the sweet early air, scented with clover, soothed his exhausted thoughts. Since leaving London three days prior, he had slept poorly. He’d spent far too many restless hours in Farthingwood Manor’s library, casting aside one book after another in search of something to distract his mind. Searching for answers to the turmoil within.

  But there was no distraction from the perturbation of his thoughts, and the dusty philosophers offered no wisdom. So he was left to fight his demons alone.

  The sun behind his shoulders cast long, spiky shadows over the fallow grasses, and the dirt road was still dark with dew. He’d forgotten how much he liked the country. It was too easy to remain mewed up in London, tending to the endless details of the earldom and ensuring he continued to represent the Trevethwick name with honor and propriety.

  And how well that had turned out!

  He urged Sterling into a hard gallop, trying to shake off the self-hatred that had driven him from Trevethwick House. It was no use. The stark fact remained that he had taken Jessamyn Lovell’s innocence.

  Jessamyn. A hot pain went through his heart. She deserved better than to be the castoff mistress of a blind and arrogant lord.

  Over and over the memories played. Making love to her, his soul consumed with fire. Then waking the next morning, nothing but bleakness in his heart.

  He had lain in bed, staring blankly up at the canopy, his thoughts tangled like moldering roots snarled and twisted in the dark ground.

  The night before, he’d made Jessamyn Lovell a fallen woman. The fact that she had wanted him did not mitigate the blame.

  How could he even call himself a gentleman, after what he’d done?

  Who was he?

  The façade of the earl cracked then, that shell breaking away to reveal the shallow, pleasure-seeking boy he’d been before his brother’s death. Trev. Useless, foolish Trev, who could not see the destruction he sowed in his wake.

  Bile in his mouth, Morgan rose. He dressed, his thoughts still battering his brain. When he stepped out the door, would the servants see the Earl of Silverton, or, his true nature revealed, would they avert their eyes and scurry from him?

  It was too early for breakfast to be laid out, and at any rate he wanted to keep to his rooms. He felt as though he were stained with dishonor. There were no amends he might make.

  As he paced through his sitting room, his eye fell upon one of the pretty notes Lady Anne had sent him, lying open on his desk.

  Lady Anne. Ice crept up his spine. For God’s sake—there was another woman he’d wronged. How had he come to this despicable pass? He stared at her note as though it were a venomous snake, ready to rise up and sink its fangs into his hand.

  What would the earl do? Not the sniveling boy he had descended to, but the upright Lord Silverton?

  Morgan drew in a deep, shuddering breath, then rang for his footman.

  Within two minutes, Thaddeus arrived at his door.

  “Fetch me a cup of tea,” Morgan said. “And ask one of the maids to gather a bouquet. Have her…” He cleared his throat. “Have her include red roses and a spray of jasmine. Then saddle Sterling for me.”

  Thaddeus’s eyes widened, but he made Morgan a precise bow. “Very good, my lord.”

  The hour was too early to pay a call upon Lady Anne, but Morgan could not remain within the walls of Trevethwick House. Not where Jessamyn still slumbered.

  She would wake, and realize what he had done. Realize what an imposter of a man he was.

  Bitterness rising in his chest,
Morgan gulped back his tea, took the bouquet, and rode Sterling out into the streets of Mayfair.

  He did not ponder upon his destination, but without thinking ended up at Green Park. Mist rose from the manicured lawn. Sterling pricked his ears up, but Morgan had no heart for anything faster than the measured paces of a walk. His pulse throbbed, echoing through his head and pounding against his temples.

  The scent of jasmine nearly turned his stomach, even though the bouquet was tucked away in the saddlebag, a wad of dampened paper keeping the flowers fresh. But no matter how fast he rode, there was no escaping the smell. Or the weight of his obligation to Lady Anne.

  With a growl, Morgan pointed his mount away from the park, and into the streets leading toward the river. Perhaps the stench of the Thames would drive the pungent sweetness of jasmine from his nose.

  Morning sunshine sparked off the water, and the cries of vendors punctuated the air as Morgan rode beside the river. The bells of Westminster struck. He counted them, surprised to find the hour was rising eleven.

  Late enough to pay a visit to Lady Anne Percival. Yet he did not turn his horse from riding south along the Thames. Mayfair lay behind him, and it could wait a while more.

  A woman with dark hair stood on the side of the street. For a moment, she resembled Jessamyn, and Morgan drew Sterling to a halt, breath freezing. But no, this was a stranger.

  The woman smiled as a man in worker’s garb strode toward her. Regardless of who might be watching, she flung her arms around him and kissed him on the lips. The sight made memory flare through him: Jessa’s soft lips against his, her strong-willed determination, the joy and brightness surrounding her.

  He could not put Jessamyn Lovell out of his life forever.

  And he could not marry Lady Anne. Though it made a mockery of his upstanding reputation, he could not bring himself to propose to Lord Dearborn’s daughter.

  Morgan wrenched the bouquet from his saddlebag. He urged Sterling to the water’s edge and, with a shout, flung the flowers into the river.

 

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