Chapter Twenty-Three
“ Y ou cannot be serious!” Ambrose Castern declared as soon as he was shown into Vincent’s study. “You are sending lawyers after me? What next? Scotland Yard?”
“You cannot barge into my house,” Vincent said. “Not like in the old days. Although knowing you have been served by my solicitor and are a mere octave away from justice finally coming down upon your miserable, conniving head, that alone gained you entrance when otherwise my butler would have closed the door in your sorry face.”
Ambrose threw himself into the only empty chair. “Everything looks exactly the same.” His friend used to be a steady fixture in Vincent’s house, the first year after he purchased it, before ... everything.
“Why wouldn’t it?” Vincent asked, not wanting to have a civil, social discussion with the person who had betrayed him.
“I guess you had no reason to alter it. My wife had my entire house repainted and refurnished directly after we married. Cost me a bloody fortune!”
The wretch could only have brought up Lydia to be irksome, to wound Vincent as best he could. Strangely, even though the thought of her used to cause a pinch of pain, at that moment, he no longer gave a fig.
Seeing her again as Ambrose’s wife had taken the shine off her nob, as it were. She was better in his memories than in the real-life person.
It was a relief to feel that way. On the other hand, Ambrose was also better in the past. In person, his old friend was now nothing more than a whining, light-fingered diddler. And a weasel to boot.
“Since you paid to redecorate your house using money you made from my music, you must excuse me if I don’t give a damn. And I am certain you didn’t come to discuss my home’s furnishings.”
Ambrose stopped the pretense of being friendly. His sly face sobered.
“I came because I received a threatening letter from your solicitor. It is absurd.”
“What is? How once again you stole my music? Or the part about how I want you to confess publicly?”
“Both. All of it. Even if I had purchased an anonymous piece of music, and I am in no way saying I did, I had no idea it was yours. That was purely bad luck.”
“It honestly doesn’t matter, does it?” Vincent asked, trying not to lose his tenuous hold on serenity and on his temper. “The point is you knew it was not yours.”
“It sounded like mine,” Ambrose grumbled. “I could tell that it would when I first read the sheets.”
“You mean it sounded like mine !” Vincent reminded him. “Because it is. Luckily, I am in a position this time to prove that I wrote it. But if the music hadn’t been mine, you would be getting away with stealing from some other sad bleater.”
He knew the black ache in the soul when forced to listen to someone passing off one’s work as his own. He wouldn’t wish that on anyone else. Looking at Ambrose now, with his boyish face and quick, darting eyes, a shiver of pure disgust danced up Vincent’s spine.
What a slithering snake! It was galling to have been fooled for years by this man who had pretended, convincingly, to be a loyal friend.
Leaning back, Vincent put his booted feet upon his own desk, feeling for the first time since Ambrose had stolen his music that he had the absolute upper hand.
“I don’t know why you do it, either. Pure laziness, I suspect, because I recall you had some spark of ability. Small talent, perhaps, but not completely negligible. Why don’t you simply compose your own music?”
Ambrose’s face twisted. “That’s easy for you to say.”
“Easy? Easy!” Vincent exclaimed, realizing he was fisting his hands, belying his relaxed position. So much for serenity. “There is nothing easy about composing. And it was made far more difficult after you, my so-called friend, took all my work. It deflates one’s powers to produce and create. Something you wouldn’t understand since you are always taking, not making.”
Ambrose didn’t even have the decency to appear the least chagrined. “The music was just sitting there anyway, being wasted.”
Vincent caught his breath. It was the closest Ambrose had come to confessing. Unfortunately, it was so dismissive of any responsibility, his words had Vincent seeing a red haze.
“If I play my music only for myself or even my blasted horse or if I choose never to play it at all, that is my choice. My pieces weren’t like spare dinner plates, which you needed at a party.”
Ambrose shrugged, looking sullen. “I have already played that new composition in concert, and very well, too. The audience loved it, and they loved my rendition. What can I say now that won’t break their hearts and make them hate me?”
Vincent couldn’t maintain his sangfroid another moment. His composure snapped as he swore a blue oath. Uncrossing his ankles, he lowered his legs slowly to the floor and rose from his desk.
“You may not understand why, and God help you for your lack of understanding, but I don’t care about any of that. They should hate you. I hate you!” He halted. “No, I don’t really. I despise you, and now that you must admit to the world what a fraud you are, I pity you. Almost.”
Ambrose stood quickly. “Save your pity. You’ll need it for your little Diamond lady when I’m finished with her.”
Vincent’s feet carried him around the desk and ran him directly into Ambrose before he could even think what he was doing. Sweeping the worm backward until he heard Ambrose’s head connect with the study wall, Vincent pressed his forearm across the stunned man’s throat.
“Hewitt,” Ambrose croaked, scrabbling at Vincent’s arm, but he kept applying pressure until his adversary’s eyes bulged.
“You will do nothing to her,” Vincent ground out, seething with fury. “You won’t try to contact her, you won’t speak to her, you won’t so much as look at her. If you do, I’ll break every bone in your hands.”
Ambrose paled — either from the threat or from lack of air. Either way, Vincent was finished with him and stepped back so he could breathe.
Grabbing at his own throat, Ambrose rubbed the skin above his necktie as if to soothe it.
“That was rash of you. I could charge you with assault.”
“You could,” Vincent said. “Why don’t you go ahead and try? In the meantime, get out of my house. And I shall look for that public confession in The Times . Otherwise, to the Court of Chancery we will go.”
Opening his study door, he stood back so Ambrose could leave.
He brushed by without another word.
After the successful dinner with her parents, Brilliance had expected Vincent to send his card requesting to see her or perhaps send an invitation to a social event.
For a few days, nothing happened, which was a disappointment. She went to a ball with Lord Redley and didn’t bother looking for Vincent, since she hadn’t seen him at any of the Season’s festivities, neither in the spring nor since returning to London.
But the following morning, their butler brought her a calling card on his silver salver.
Jumping to her feet, Brilliance read it swiftly and asked, “Is Lord Hewitt waiting?”
“No, my lady. His footman bought the card with a request to see you later today if you are free. At two o’clock. Would you like me to give the man a reply?”
“Thank you, Mr. Dunley. Please tell the footman to tell Lord Hewitt that I will be here at two o’clock and shall expect him.”
“Very good.”
Thus, she had to wait on pins and needles for the correct hour, knowing Vincent to be a punctual sort of person. The clock had not yet struck the hour when she heard Mr. Dunley admitting Vincent to her home.
Appearing in the doorway, Brilliance waved at him.
“Do come in. Please bring the tea service,” she asked the butler who was collecting Vincent’s coat and hat.
And then, after greeting, at last, they were seated in the drawing room. Alone.
He pushed his spectacles up his nose. “Should you request a maid or your mother?”
“I don’t see any need. I vow I have snuck a peek at each of my sisters as they entertained a suitor without a chaperone. And Mr. Dunley will be in momentarily with the refreshments. It is not as though he will find us in an embrace.”
She smoothed her skirts, then looked up at him. “Will he?” Oh, dear . She definitely had the tone of longing and hope in her voice.
“No,” he said quickly.
Drat! It occurred to her, despite the happy butterflies in her belly, that Vincent hadn’t come on a social call as she had hoped. But she’d been wrong before.
“Did you come today in order to begin courting me once more?” She might as well ask.
“No,” he said again, looking uncomfortable. “I came because I was paid a visit yesterday by Ambrose Castern.”
Now she understood. He was there to tell her the results of the solicitor’s letter.
“Did you and he work things out satisfactorily?”
Mr. Dunley came in promptly with the tea service since they’d been preparing for the exact moment of Vincent’s arrival. The tea was perfectly steeped and ready to pour, the milk was in the cups, and there was a plate of delectables.
Vincent said nothing while she poured for them both and offered him the plate with biscuits and small custard tarts.
He took the tea but waved away the plate. “Thank you, but no.”
“The tarts are very good, my lord. I would warrant they are as fine as the baked goods your cook made for us at your Joyden’s Wood estate.”
They stared at one another, both recollecting being at his country home. She would love to recapture the sentiment of the best day of their short friendship.
He cleared his throat. “I have no doubt.”
“Well, you must doubt, my lord, until you taste. How could you not? Anyway, our cook will be insulted.”
“Very well.” Vincent leaned forward, snatched a tart from the plate, and took a large bite. As he chewed and swallowed, his face changed, becoming less tense. With him looking more relaxed and friendly, Brilliance could just observe him silently.
She, too, ate a tart. Strangely, she was content simply looking at him without the need to make the usual polite prattle in order to keep the quiet moments at bay.
“This is nice,” she said before taking a sip of tea. “Perfect. Sometimes, there is nothing better than a cup of tea. Please drink yours before it grows cold. And then tell me about Mr. Castern’s visit.”
Vincent sipped the tea, and then, oddly, he began to smile. “How do you make me happy by doing nothing but being yourself?”
She shrugged, although basking in his compliment. “It’s not me. It’s the tea and tarts. Who wouldn’t be happy with these? I don’t think I have ever cried while eating a custard tart.”
He set his cup down. “I assure you, it is you. Lady Brilliance, I know we have had a rocky start, but I want you to know that I hold you in the highest esteem.”
She felt her cheeks warm. “And I, you, my lord.” The day was looking up. “Are you courting me after all?”
His long hesitation gave her the answer, and she wished she hadn’t asked again. Moreover, despite what she had only just said, Brilliance could easily imagine crying while eating a tart and letting warm salty tears fall into her tea. She wanted not to be in love with the man seated opposite, but it was so very difficult to rein in her feelings when he was being pleasant.
When he was saying kind things about her.
When he was looking so dash-fire handsome he made her toes curl!
“What about Lord Redley?” he asked, answering her question with one of his own. “And his wonderful father with their ever-growing income? Gold sovereigns blossoming like weeds in a field,” he finished by mumbling under his breath.
The notion of money growing in a field struck her funny. Her amusement grew when she considered that Vincent could have said any type of flower. Weeds! Was he jealous? He seemed to want an answer.
Brilliance liked Lord Redley. She didn’t love him. She might come to love him, and in any case, she had no intention of living as though she had no prospects left. She had prospects a-plenty.
“I have been keeping company with Lord Redley. We were out last night in fact.” What more could she say? “He is a good dancer.”
“A good skill to have,” Vincent said tightly, then sipped his tea, appearing out of sorts again.
“I suppose if one is at a ball, yes, it is,” she agreed. “But it is a common skill, unlike yours and Mr. Castern’s.”
Vincent blinked and set his empty cup on the table. “I am a fool. I had nearly become distracted from why I wished to speak with you. When Ambrose Castern came to my home, he didn’t seem ashamed and apologetic as one would hope. In fact, he was threatening.”
Brilliance felt blood rush into her head.
“He threatened you? After stealing your work? How dare he!”
That would not stand, as long as she was Vincent’s friend. She was an earl’s daughter. While she didn’t put on airs, and wasn’t really sure what that meant anyway, she knew her father was powerful. And by some reason of association, she had a little power, too.
“How can I help?”
Vincent shook his head. “You misunderstand. He did not threaten me,” he said. “He threatened you.”