by Stella Riley
CADENZA
Rockliffe Book Six
Stella Riley
Cadenza
Stella Riley©2018
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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Cover by Ana Grigoriu-Voicu, books-design.com
Previous titles in the Rockliffe series:-
The Parfit Knight
The Mésalliance
The Player
The Wicked Cousin
Hazard
Also by Stella Riley
The Marigold Chain
A Splendid Defiance
The Black Madonna
Garland of Straw
The King’s Falcon
Lords of Misrule
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
PROLOGUE
VIENNA, March 1778
The performance finished in a flourish of technical brilliance as the soloist brought the lengthy cadenza of Bach’s fifth Brandenburg Concerto to its conclusion. For a handful of seconds as the last notes died away there was utter silence … and then the room erupted into a storm of enthusiastic applause. The young man rose from the harpsichord to look at his audience with a faintly bemused expression. After a moment, he remembered to bow and did so awkwardly, one hand on his heart and a lock of brown hair dropping over his brow. And finally he summoned a shy smile which caused three young ladies in the front row to heave soulful sighs and make frantic use of their fans.
When, some minutes later, he was allowed to leave the platform he found Herr Krassnig purring with satisfaction.
‘A triumph, my boy. By tomorrow, your name will be known to everyone who matters and Vienna will be yours for the taking. Now … go and accept the accolades. Be charming.’
If anything, Julian Langham looked even more bemused.
‘Charming?’ he echoed. ‘How do I do that?’
Herr Krassnig sighed. ‘Then try ‘modest’ instead. But do not promise any private performances. If you wish to make a living, you will leave future engagements to me.’
By the following afternoon, his head still ringing with praise and applause, Julian continued to feel as if he was floating in a bubble that might burst at any moment. He dealt with it by locking his door and hiding in his work.
The primary theme of the scherzo in his head swelled to a crescendo. Alternately playing a few bars and committing them to paper, he was oblivious to everything … until Frau Bessler in the rooms upstairs began banging on the floor, causing things to vibrate. Julian stopped what he was doing and reluctantly opened his ears to reality.
Somebody was hammering on the door to the street.
Sighing, he went to open it and then, staring blankly at the thin, bespectacled fellow on his doorstep, said, ‘Who are you?’
‘English, if you please,’ snapped the little man. ‘I do not speak German.’
Blinking, Julian switched to his native tongue and asked the question again.
‘I am Benjamin Fellowes of Bartle, Bartle & Fellowes. You will have been expecting me.’
‘I wasn’t – and can’t imagine why you’d think so. What do you want? I’m busy.’
Mr Fellowes surveyed him from head to foot, taking in uncombed hair and a severely frayed dressing-robe, flung over shirt and breeches. Repressing irritation, he said, ‘Perhaps you would be good enough to invite me in?’
‘What for? I don’t know who you are so I’ve nothing to say to you. Go away.’
Julian moved to close the door. Mr Fellowes put his foot in it.
‘My lord, do you never read your correspondence?’
Recollection stirred vaguely in a corner of Julian’s mind. He said, ‘You’re here about that? Why? I wrote back explaining that you had the wrong man.’
‘And we have written three times since then stating most emphatically that we do not.’
‘Oh Christ,’ he muttered, stepping back. ‘I don’t recall any other letters. But if it will put an end to this nonsense, come in and say your piece. I haven’t got all day.’
Mr Fellowes – who had survived an unpleasant channel crossing, endless hours in a poorly-sprung carriage and a great deal of indigestible food – cast him a look of dislike.
‘I would have been happy to have resolved this matter from my office in London. So if my presence here is an inconvenience, you have only yourself to blame.’
‘If you say so.’ Shutting the parlour door behind them, Julian folded his arms and stared at his visitor. ‘Your letter said I’d inherited some title or other – and I replied that you must have me mixed up with somebody else. That was clear enough, wasn’t it?’
The lawyer held on to his severely strained patience.
‘You are Julian Langham – only son of Francis Langham and his wife, Maria, now deceased. Grandson of Hector Langham and --’
‘Spare me the last dozen generations. So far as it goes, you have it right. What of it?’
‘Your grandfather was a nephew of the second Earl of Chalfont. The fourth earl died over a year ago, leaving no legitimate male children, brothers or nephews. It has taken months to trace both the male and female lines for the last three generations in search of an heir and thus prevent the title dying out. There is only one possible candidate, sir. You.’
There was a long, long silence. Then Julian said flatly, ‘No.’
‘I can assure you that there is no mistake, my lord. The papers will prove --’
‘I don’t care what they prove. And the title can die out with my very good will.’
Mr Fellowes looked shocked. ‘But you are the fifth Earl of Chalfont and --’
‘No. I’m not. I’m Julian Langham, musician. I don’t want a bloody earldom I never heard of and you’re wasting your time.’ He wrenched the door open. ‘Good day, sir.’
Having got this far, Mr Fellowes was not about to give up. He said severely, ‘There is more than a title at stake here, my lord. There is also responsibility for the land and the folk whose livelihoods depend on it. Allow me to explain …’
The annoying voice faded as the final phrase of the scherzo drifted tantalisingly back. If he didn’t capture it soon, it might escape again. His eyes strayed to the half-written page on the harpsichord and his fingers to the quill lying on top of them.
‘My lord!’ snapped the lawyer. ‘Will you please give me your attention? This cannot be left unresolved. An earldom is no small matter.’
‘It is to me,’ retorted Julian, frustrated by losing the elusive phrase yet again. ‘I didn’t ask for it. I don’t want it. And my life is here.’
A disparaging glance about
the cluttered, shabby room made Mr Fellowes wonder why Langham still hadn’t asked the blatantly obvious question that would have been any normal man’s response to the first letter. But since this omission was actually to his own and his partners’ advantage, he said merely, ‘You don’t understand, sir. If you --’
‘No. It’s you who doesn’t understand. I’ve spent seven years scraping a living giving music lessons and accompanying mediocre singers. And that coat,’ he pointed across the room, ‘is the first new one I’ve had in the last three. All of this was for the future I’ve wanted since I first touched a harpsichord at the age of eight.’ He stopped, breathing rather fast. ‘Yesterday, I gave my first paid recital. Yesterday, I finally brought an audience to its feet. Today, Vienna knows my name and I have a promise of three further engagements. Today, Mr Fellowes, is my beginning. And your earldom has no place in it.’
Finally accepting that he was not dealing with a rational being who would relieve Bartle, Bartle & Fellowes of the whole Chalfont mess by grabbing the offered title with both hands, Mr Fellowes said deviously, ‘Would not Vienna be more intrigued to learn that its rising star is an English nobleman?’
Julian, who would never have thought of that, frowned, struck by uncertainty and a measure of confusion. ‘I don’t see what difference that makes. And if taking the title means living in England --’
‘Permanently? It need not. Sign the papers, visit your estate and settle any outstanding matters there … I imagine it would take no more than a few weeks.’ Mr Fellowes paused, then added persuasively, ‘My partners and I will be happy to defray your travel expenses, my lord - so I beg you to at least consider it.’
Julian hesitated and then said slowly, ‘I could consult Herr Krassnig, I suppose.’
The lawyer had no idea who Krassnig was and didn’t care. Doubtless the man would be delighted to learn that his protégé was an earl.
‘A capital idea. Do that without delay.’ He grasped Julian’s unresisting hand and shook it. ‘But I have taken enough of your time and should leave you to your work. There is no need to show me out. I will call tomorrow to learn your decision. Good day, my lord.’
Somewhat dazed and with a vague feeling of disquiet, Julian watched him go. Then, shrugging slightly and telling himself he’d mention the matter to Herr Krassnig later, he banished it from his mind and went eagerly back to his scherzo.
~ * * ~ * * ~
ENGLAND
Summer, 1778
CHAPTER ONE
‘Mama,’ remarked Arabella Brandon to her cousin and best friend, ‘says it is time I stopped moping.’
Continuing to peruse the last custard tart, Elizabeth said, ‘Were you moping? I hadn’t noticed.’
‘That’s because I wasn’t.’ I was shocked and confused, then furious. And later, ashamed and frightened, thought Arabella. But not heart-broken. Never that. ‘I’m just tired of being everybody’s favourite topic of conversation.’
Her family meant well, of course. But she didn’t need reminding of that day six months ago when the future she’d expected to have had been snatched away. Of sitting like a stone amidst an outbreak of complete pandemonium; of her eldest brother with his hands around Andrew Forrester’s throat, while the two younger ones shouted a mixture of abuse and questions; and finally her mother’s voice demanding calm. Every word was engraved on her memory in perfect detail.
‘Enough, all of you! Adam, Leo – be quiet! And Max … let Andrew go, please. This is not his fault – nor is it helpful. We shall all take a seat and discuss the situation reasonably.’
Adam and Leo had sat down and the shouting had stopped. Reasonable discussion, however, had been out of the question.
‘Discuss it?’ snapped Max, giving his oldest friend’s throat one last squeeze before shoving him away. ‘What is there to discuss? After keeping Belle waiting for three bloody years, David has jilted her – and without even being man enough to tell her so himself!’
‘You think I’m happy about it?’ croaked Andrew. ‘But until his letter arrived this morning, we had no idea! And with him in Massachusetts, I can’t exactly get my hands on him, can I?’
‘It wouldn’t make much difference if you could,’ growled Max. ‘But if ever I lay eyes on him again --’
‘Sit down!’ said Lady Brandon. And when, with reluctance, they had done so, ‘Good. Now, Andrew. What precisely did David’s letter say?’
‘Not nearly enough,’ he replied, casting a wary glance at the three Brandon men. ‘He was wounded in a skirmish, sent to recover at the home of a Boston family and nursed by the daughter of the house – whom he appears to have married.’ For the first time, he looked at Arabella. ‘Belle … I can’t tell you how sorry I am. The very least David owed you was to write and tell you himself. I can’t believe that he hasn’t done so.’
‘I can,’ muttered Adam. ‘He was always leaving somebody else to clean up his mess.’
For the first time since the news had exploded like a faulty petard, Arabella drew an unsteady breath and forced herself to speak. ‘It’s very stupid of me … but I don’t seem able to – to believe that David would do this. Are you quite sure it isn’t a mistake?’
His jaw tightening, Andrew said, ‘I wish to God it was. But given the time the letter has taken to reach us, he must have been married for at least two months.’
And that was when Arabella had risen from her seat, made her excuses and left them. She’d locked herself in her bedchamber and forced herself to face the fact that, after a betrothal of almost three years during which she had refused a London season and waited patiently for him to return from the colonies and marry her, David had abandoned her without a qualm. And worse even than that … he had done it knowing perfectly well that she couldn’t marry anybody else.
Pushing the memory aside, she looked at her cousin and said thoughtfully, ‘The truth is that I probably fell out of love with David long before – before it happened.’
‘Then perhaps – bad as his behaviour was – it’s a blessing in disguise.’
A blessing? Arabella had to bite back hollow laughter. It wasn’t a blessing. It was a disaster. A disaster that was as much her fault as it was David’s. She had known right from the first that she should never have given in to his pleas and persuasions … but, having done so, she’d comforted herself with the knowledge that it wouldn’t matter because one day they’d be married. Except that now, that wasn’t going to happen. And she couldn’t tell anyone – not even Lizzie – how big a problem that was.
She said dryly, ‘I wouldn’t exactly call it that. But I’m tired of hearing Adam and Leo talking about what they’d like to do to David. And I’m particularly tired of being an object of sympathy – which mostly isn’t sympathy at all but just a way of crowing over me.’ She paused, plucking at a fold of her skirt. ‘I finally let Mama bully me into attending the York assembly last week and had to put up with Sarah Fanshawe pressing my hand and telling me how deeply she feels for me. I thought I was going to be sick.’
‘Understandable,’ agreed Elizabeth, finally tearing her eyes from the tart. ‘She did her best to get David herself. Now, jealousy will have turned into gratitude for a lucky escape.’ She paused for a moment and then said, ‘But Belle … you can’t let girls like Sarah influence your life.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Aren’t you? Then why are you hiding?’
‘I’m not hiding. I just … I don’t feel much like going into society.’ Arabella pushed the plate containing the lone tart in the other girl’s direction. ‘Eat it. You might as well. I know half the reason you come here is for the cakes.’
Elizabeth laughed. ‘It’s one of my reasons, certainly. There’s nothing like this at home.’ She reached for the tart but before biting into it, said, ‘You’re changing the subject. Why?’
Arabella took her time about answering, conscious as she often was of the differences between her life and that of her cousin. Their mothers were sisters; but while
Arabella’s mama had married the district’s biggest and most affluent landowner, Elizabeth’s had fallen in love with a gentle and wholly unworldly cleric. And where Arabella had three brothers and a very handsome marriage portion, Elizabeth was the eldest of three sisters none of whom could expect more than five hundred pounds apiece. Inside this room, the gulf between the two girls didn’t exist. Outside it, because Arabella had every material advantage and Elizabeth little but her undeniable beauty, the contrast was huge.
At length, she said reluctantly, ‘Mama says it’s time I put the past behind me and began again. She’s also decided that since I’m no longer betrothed, I ought to have a London season. And guess whose help she’s hoping to enlist.’
Elizabeth narrowly avoided choking on her tart.
‘She’s written to the duke?’
‘Yes. Or to be more precise, to the duchess.’
‘Heavens!’
‘Exactly. At the moment I’m clinging to the possibility that nothing will come of it. The relationship isn’t exactly close, is it? Our mothers only ever met his Grace once, years ago; and every mention of him in the society pages makes him sound positively formidable. As for the duchess, none of us know her at all. She may not even be aware of the connection. And if that’s so, I can’t see why she would agree to sponsor a girl she never heard of before.’
‘But if she does,’ offered Elizabeth, carefully keeping any note of wistfulness from her voice, ‘only think how exciting it could be. Balls, parties, the opera; Vauxhall and Ranelagh … driving in Hyde Park. As a relative of the Duke of Rockliffe, you’d be invited everywhere. You’d probably enjoy it.’
Arabella’s eyes grew thoughtful.
‘I might enjoy it if you and I could go together.’
Elizabeth concentrated on dusting sugar from her fingers.
