Mistress of Melody

by Anthea Lawson

  The bouquet floated, red and white upon the gray water, twirling as the current bore it away. He watched the flowers drift out of sight, his stomach churning. What a horrible excuse for a gentleman he had turned out to be. Nothing more than a hollow shell full of lies. Perhaps the world would be better off if he followed the bouquet into the noisome waters.

  But no. Dreadfully flawed though he was, he still carried the weight of family upon his shoulders. He would not leave Geordie with such a distasteful legacy. But he could not remain in London a moment longer than he must.

  He would go apologize to Lady Anne, and then retreat to the country—to Farthingwood Manor, where he would attempt to piece together the fragments of his shattered honor.

  Now, three days later, he remained trapped in the swamp of his own soul. Still, one thing had become clear. It was an utter relief to have freed himself from the expectation of marrying Dearborn’s daughter. Morgan’s impulsive folly of telling her as much seemed, in retrospect, to have been the best course.

  Only bitterness and eventual hatred would have followed in the wake of Lady Anne’s expectations, and her dawning realization that she had not, in fact, married a true and worthy gentleman. They were both better out of that trap.

  A bachelor earl could keep a mistress. It was what Jessamyn had proposed from the first.

  As for the family name, Morgan would work with Geordie, and begin to hand over a few of the responsibilities of running the earldom. He’d be a fine heir with a little training—and no doubt it would please Aunt Agatha. Morgan was certain his aunt would have some choice words for him, but he would find understanding there. And perhaps some wisdom, too, if he listened.

  Morgan took a deep breath of the fresh air, and turned Sterling back toward Farthingwood. Tomorrow he would return to London to seek Aunt Agatha’s counsel. And beg Jessamyn’s forgiveness.

  ***

  “What do you mean she departed on Thursday for Paris?” Morgan demanded.

  His fingers curled into fists as he stared at Aunt Agatha. How could she recline so calmly on her settee when the world was crashing into calamity?

  “Calm yourself,” she said. “Jessamyn had the wonderful opportunity to tour with Master Reynard, and she took it. Certainly there was no reason for her to remain here.” Her last words held a bite.

  “Are you saying it’s my fault she left?” He began pacing over the garish red, orange, and blue carpet.

  “It is,” Louisa said. “You did not give her the last talisman.”

  Morgan shot her a glance, then returned his attention to his aunt. “I came back to apologize to her.” And ask her to stay with him. To be his mistress.

  Aunt Agatha’s brows rose, as if she could hear what he was thinking. “I believe you owe her more than that.”

  “I don’t know.” He ran a hand through his hair, his thoughts careening about the walls of his mind. “I just…”

  His aunt must have seen the confusion on his face, for her expression softened. “Take some time. Jessamyn is safe and well, and will be returning in a few weeks. Perhaps matters will seem clearer to you then.”

  They did not seem particularly clear the next morning, but a message arrived that proved a welcome distraction from his turmoil whenever he thought of Jessa.

  Silverton – I will be calling upon you this afternoon at three to discuss a very important matter of mutual interest. Ensure that your butler and footmen permit me admittance.

  –Burke

  At last. If Morgan was in a quandary over what to do about Jessa, at least he knew exactly how to deal with her former guardian. He dispatched an urgent summons to Commissioner Rowan.

  The commissioner arrived promptly at two, and the butler showed him into Morgan’s study.

  “Rowan.” Morgan rose and shook the commissioner’s hand. He could not suppress his flare of satisfaction that Commissioner Rowan was attending him, for once. “Please, take a seat.”

  “Do you truly think Burke is coming to threaten you?” Rowan asked, settling into the armchair across from Morgan.

  “Yes. Something has set the man off, and I strongly suspect he’ll be showing his hand this afternoon.”

  “I hope so.” Rowan frowned. “I brought two of my men to take him in. Your butler installed them in the back parlor room.”

  “I’ll meet Burke in the drawing room. There’s a connecting door we can leave ajar. Listen, and as soon as he condemns himself, come in and take him.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  Morgan glanced at his pocket watch. “We’ll know within the hour. In the meantime, would you and the lads care for some refreshment?”

  “Something stronger than tea, please.”

  “Ale, then. Let me show you to the parlor, and I’ll have the maid bring your drinks.” Morgan stood and ushered Rowan from his study.

  “I hear you’ve changed your mind about Lady Anne,” the commissioner said. “Rather unexpected of you, Silverton. Are you still sheltering the Lovell girls?”

  “Only one of them,” Morgan said shortly. “Here’s the drawing room. And the parlor. I’ll just go over and ensure the connecting door is unlocked.”

  Rowan gave him a thoughtful look, but asked no more prying questions. With a brief nod of farewell, Morgan left him with his two burly companions. He unlocked the door between the two rooms and left it open a crack. Without close inspection, it was difficult to tell the door stood ajar.

  It was no use going back to his study. It had been hard to concentrate on the account books earlier, and he absolutely would not be able to now. He hailed one of the maids and asked her take the men some ale, then found his steps taking him to the back drawing room. But there were too many echoes of Jessa’s presence there. Firming his lips, he strode toward the front of the house, just as the sound of the knocker echoed down the hall.

  He arrived at the door as the butler pulled it open. As expected, Mr. Burke stood on the step. He wore a beaver top hat and a smug look, but anger burned in his brown eyes.

  “Silverton. How kind of you to meet me yourself,” he said.

  “My lord?” The butler gave him an anxious look.

  Morgan waved him off. “I will show Mr. Burke to the parlor,” he said. “See that we’re not disturbed.”

  “Not going to offer me tea and biscuits?” Mr. Burke asked, stripping off his gloves as he followed Morgan down the hall. “How inhospitable of you.”

  “You should be grateful I agreed to see you at all.” Morgan held open the drawing room door and let the detestable man precede him into the room.

  “Rather the opposite, my lord,” Burke said. “After you hear what I’m about to say, you’ll be glad you deigned to meet with me.”

  “Well then.” Morgan folded his arms. “Out with it.”

  “So blunt you are with those you consider your inferiors. I hope my dear wards haven’t suffered too much during their stay with you. Oh, wait.” Mr. Burke affected a look of surprise. “My meddling older brother has decided to take them under his wing, instead! A pity the mail from Italy travels so slowly.”

  “Then you know that I and my aunt are acting on their behalf. And whatever brought you here today has no hope of success.”

  Mr. Burke let out a mirthless laugh. “On the contrary, their time beneath your roof is coming to an end. It shouldn’t take them long to pack, once we are done speaking. I look forward to taking them back home.”

  Morgan burned to punch the smirk off Mr. Burke’s face. Instead, he forced his anger to the side. Fighting the man would not achieve the results he and Rowan were hoping for.

  “My patience is nearly at an end.” He spoke through gritted teeth.

  “Mine has been gone for three weeks,” Mr. Burke spat back. “Listen well, Silverton. If you don’t give the Lovell girls back to me, I’ll make sure that news of your bastard daughter is smeared across every gossip rag in England. Your precious reputation will never recover.”

  “I haven’t the faintest not
ion what you are speaking about.” Morgan kept his tone haughty, though triumph flashed through him.

  “Don’t play the innocent.” Burke bared his teeth. “It’s a tawdry, yet common tale. A pity yours will be brought to light.”

  Morgan’s hands tightened, though not from fear, as Mr. Burke surely thought. This was the trap he had laid, and he must ensure that Burke ensnared himself fully.

  “How did you hear of this?” Morgan asked. “It’s not generally known.”

  He bit the inside of his cheek to keep any hint of a smile from his face.

  “I have copies of the letters from your spurned mistress,” Burke said. “I’m sure she’ll come forward once the sordid details are revealed. Especially if I offer a reward.”

  “Let me understand.” Morgan raised his voice. “You are threatening to expose my previous affair and bastard child, unless I agree to release the Lovells back into your custody?”

  “Precisely. And a few hundred pounds won’t come amiss, either.”

  Morgan strode forward and took Burke’s arm in a tight grip. “What if I refuse?”

  “Ha!” Mr. Burke’s stale breath washed over him. “This information is also in the hands of a friend. Should anything happen to me, be assured he will spread the tale far and wide.”

  “Then you leave me no choice.” Morgan let his fingers sink painfully into Burke’s upper arm. “Rowan, I believe I have your man,” he called.

  “What?” Burke twisted in his grasp as the door slammed open and the commissioner and his men burst through. “Let me go!”

  He bent and sank his teeth into Morgan’s forearm. With a yell, Morgan released his grip.

  “Catch him!” he cried as Burke darted for the hallway.

  Luckily, the commissioner’s men were faster than they looked. One leaped forward and grabbed Burke’s shoulder, while the other got his arm around Burke’s neck.

  “Mr. Z, I presume.” Commissioner Rowan came to stand before Burke.

  “I’ve never heard that name before,” Burke wheezed, his eyes darting wildly about the room.

  “Deny it all you like,” Rowan said. “Mr. Alfred Burke, you are charged with blackmail, not only of the Earl of Silverton, but many other members of the ton as well. By the time of your trial, I’m sure we’ll have more than ample proof.” He turned to Morgan, “Silverton, thank you for your assistance. Your part in this has been invaluable.”

  “You’ll be sorry once I’m free,” Burke said, hatred shining in his eyes.

  Morgan did not bother to reply, and Rowan simply nodded to his men. “Take him away.”

  They watched silently as Burke was removed from Trevethwick House. Then the commissioner held out his hand to Morgan.

  “Well done,” he said, his handshake firm. “You’ll be needed as a witness, but probably not for another month, I’d imagine.”

  “Of course. It would be my pleasure. Good day, commissioner.”

  “It has been already.” Rowan gave him a smile. “We’ll be in contact when we need you.”

  He retrieved his hat from the butler, then hurried out the door to catch up with his men. And their quarry, bagged at last.

  Morgan took a deep breath and slipped his hands in his pockets, enjoying the warm satisfaction settling over him.

  Sadly, the feeling was short-lived. Finally, Mr. Burke was dealt with—but whatever was Morgan to do about Jessamyn Lovell?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Listeners were treated to a surprise at Maestro Reynard’s concert on Friday. Debut musical sensation Mlle. Jessamyn Lovell, oft called the Gypsy Violinist, took the stage early in the evening to perform a selection of sad and beautiful melodies. She then raised the mood by playing a medley of fiery dance tunes that set toes tapping. An excellent addition to the bill!

  - l’Assemblee

  Jessa played. In Paris and Chartres, in Madrid and Seville, she lifted her violin before the anonymous audiences and played her entire soul. Her violin was her wordless cry into the world. Sorrow, always sorrow first, until she became known for eliciting tears with her sweet, yearning melodies.

  Mindful of her obligation—to her listeners, to Master Reynard and his wife, who had so graciously added her to their performance schedule—she always ended her portion of the concert with something happy. Well, as happy as she could muster with a broken heart.

  In the three weeks she had been gone from England, she’d been very careful to avoid reading the London Times, or any of the news out of Town. She had perused papers aplenty, as Mr. Widmere liked to bring her notices of the praise she was garnering. But never the Times. She could not bear to hear of Morgan’s betrothal and the no-doubt-imminent wedding of the Earl of Silverton to Lady Anne Percival.

  She had received one letter from Louisa, posted the day after she left, but Mr. Widmere had told her that most of her correspondence would be waiting for her when they returned to Paris. It was too difficult to rely upon the mails to stay reliably on schedule as the tour moved so rapidly from place to place.

  And so, she played. And traveled in the Reynard family’s shadow. And spoke very little, but wrote long, descriptive letters to Louisa, full of amusing anecdotes of her travel and avoiding all mention of her emotional state.

  She’d found an unexpected friend in Darien and Clara’s eight-year-old daughter, Annabel. After the first night Jessa performed, Annabel had marched into Jessa’s suite of rooms in the Paris hotel, carrying her own small violin case.

  “Teach me those songs you played,” she said, regarding Jessa from determined blue eyes.

  Jessa gave her a curious look. “Isn’t it your bedtime, Miss Reynard?”

  “My parents let me stay up as late as I like, as long as I’m playing music.” She set her case on the table and began unpacking the instrument. “And you may call me Annie.”

  Annie proved to be a quick learner, and before long she was playing the Rom melodies as though she’d learned them in the cradle. Her sweet nature and delight in the music helped ease the wretched ache in Jessa’s soul. Once or twice, she even made Jessa laugh with one of her childishly forthright observations.

  This evening, the concert tour took them to the Teatro Nacional in Lisbon. Jessa waited in the hushed shadows of the wings, her violin tucked beneath her arm. Five rows of balconies rose to the ornately painted ceiling. Directly facing the stage was an elaborate box, columned and gilded with gold paint. Tonight, Queen Maria and King Consort Ferdinand were in attendance.

  Two weeks ago, the prospect of playing before royalty had made her sick with nerves. But with a few concerts, and the kind support of Master Reynard’s composer wife, Clara, Jessa was able to steady herself and perform without undue panic. Though her pulse still fluttered at the thought.

  The lights along the balconies were extinguished, and the hum of anticipation rose. In a few moments, the concert would begin.

  Jessa took a deep breath. Her portion of the performance would be over in fifteen minutes. Before she went on stage, it seemed an eternity, but once she started to play, the time sped.

  And now the manager was announcing her.

  Trying not to blink at the brightness of the stage lights, Jessa strode forward. Applause washed about her, but not loudly. Some members of the audience continued to converse. They were here to see Darien Reynard and Clara Becker, not some unknown Gypsy girl.

  Jessa had become accustomed to the lack of interest. It was a challenge, to woo the listeners until they fell silent beneath the spell of her playing. Some nights she was more successful than others.

  The air in the Teatro was warm, and the scent of perfumes swirled about the stage. Jessa bowed to the audience and, without waiting for their silence, began to play.

  Strangely, she had found that beginning quietly hushed her listeners more quickly than if she thrust the music at them with force and volume.

  The first notes crept into the air, curling like faint tendrils of smoke after a candle is blown out. Jessa let the sound twist and d
issipate, almost coming into silence. The audience stilled.

  She did not smile—not outwardly. But she felt that moment when the attention in the room shifted to her. Jessamyn Lovell. A woman in an emerald satin dress, playing the violin. Slowly, she increased the pace of the music.

  The notes swirled and flurried, no longer smoke but fallen leaves. Dancing, even in decay, bright against the ominous clouds of winter. She danced with them, swaying as the tune rose and fell, until it ended in a gust, and blew all the leaves away.

  The applause was far more enthusiastic this time.

  “Obrigado,” she said. “Now, I will play for you a selection of Rom songs, dedicated to love, and sorrow.”

  She had often wondered why so many of the Rom love songs were sad. Now she knew, to the depths of her heart. The two emotions were intertwined, just as shadows could not exist without light. At least in the music she could sob and wail, and give voice to everything she had lost.

  Morgan.

  His name was a burning coal lodged inside her chest, painful and bright.

  When the aching sadness became too much, Jessa segued into the dance tunes. They still carried the echo of melancholy in the minor modes, but the tempos were jaunty. She stepped the pace up, and then again, driving the beat forward with her bow, driving all memory from her mind as her fingers flew.

  At the end of the final tune, she pulled the bow across all four strings in a full, triumphant chord. It rang up to the ceiling, and the crowd applauded madly.

  Jessa bowed, but declined the cries for an encore. Her part of the concert was over.

  A few flowers were flung on stage, and a nimble stagehand scrambled to pick them up. He handed them to Jessa, who waved them at the audience as she headed for the shelter of the proscenium curtain.

  “Well done, Jessamyn!” Clara Becker Reynard stood in the wings beside her husband, her fair hair glowing in the reflected stage lights.

  “Indeed.” Master Reynard gave her a nod of approval. “Your performances grow stronger with every concert.”