Chapter 30
"Is Lord Eastmere in?" Oscar barely paused on the threshold of Covent Garden’s most infamous gaming hell, the battered green doors swinging wide to admit him and a cloud of cigar fug.
The majordomo, whose name Oscar had never bothered to learn, straightened at the desk. "Arrived not one hour ago, Your Grace," he said, with the oily respect reserved for men whose pockets ran deeper than the Thames.
Oscar offered nothing but a tight nod and stalked past, his boots striking sharply against the tile.
The gaming floor was its usual menagerie: gentlemen in wrinkled linen, whores painted to the eyes, a scatter of fortune-seekers playing at greatness and failing spectacularly.
It was a place built for hiding in plain sight, which is why Oscar suspected Adrian would haunt it even on a night he was expected elsewhere.
He took the room in at a glance. Adrian's preferred table, the one near the east window, was occupied by a pair of minor baronets and an overdressed merchant’s son, none of whom bore any resemblance to the Viscount.
Oscar prowled the perimeter, ignoring the curious glances, the half-bows, the whispered bets on whether tonight he would finally lose his legendary composure.
He did not find Adrian in the hazard pit, nor in the private rooms behind the bar.
He did not find him at the billiards, nor among the knots of idle gossipers near the terrace.
For a moment, Oscar wondered if the majordomo had lied, but one did not rise to the rank of Duke without learning to read a servant’s face.
He doubled back to the entry. "You said he was here," Oscar said, low, to the majordomo.
The man blanched. "I saw him myself, Your Grace. He received a note, then left through the back—perhaps fifteen minutes ago. I assumed he would return. Shall I send a runner, if he comes again?"
"No." Oscar turned, unwilling to grant the man even that much power over him. He let himself out, drawing a long, icy breath on the street. The city was cold and restless. He felt the same.
He directed his driver to Adrian's townhouse off Brook Street, a place designed to look unassuming but built on a foundation of family arrogance and cash. Oscar mounted the steps two at a time, pounded the knocker once, twice.
The butler—tall, drier than last year’s toast—opened the door a precise width. "His Lordship is not at home."
Oscar planted a hand on the jamb. "You’re certain?"
The butler's chin did not move. "He departed for the country this evening, on urgent family business. We do not expect his return for some days."
Oscar stared, weighing the odds. If Adrian was running, it was not from a debt. It was from him. The thought did not soothe.
"Tell him," Oscar said, "that the Duke of Scarfield called. Tell him I require an answer before the week is out."
The butler did not blink. "I shall relay the message, Your Grace."
Oscar allowed himself a single moment of indulgence, imagining the words being delivered, the color draining from Adrian’s cheeks. He stepped back into the night, savoring the clean snap of air and the silence that followed him down the steps.
How convenient, he thought. How perfectly, infuriatingly convenient.
He climbed into his waiting carriage. "Home," he said, and the door slammed with a sound that could have been a period, or a starting gun.
Oscar could have retired to his study, where the brandy was always at hand and the clock’s loud tick might bully his mind toward distraction. Instead, when he entered Scarfield Manor, he found himself pulled not left but right, past the cold marble of the foyer and into the drawing room.
He told himself it was because the room was empty, and because Nancy would not be awake after such a day. The real reason was the thing against the far wall: a grand pianoforte, shut and shrouded, its keys untouched for years.
He dropped his coat on a settee, poured himself a shallow glass from the sideboard, and stared at the instrument. For a long time, he did nothing but stare. Then, with the deliberation of a man placing the first stone on his own grave, he crossed the room, lifted the lid, and sat.
The bench creaked, and the hammers muttered a small protest as he pressed down the first note.
He began to play, something mindless at first—a simple melody, the kind you use to warm up the fingers or clear a room of guests.
But soon the music came stronger, deeper.
His hands remembered what his heart had long denied.
He lost himself in the flow. The world shrank: no more scandal, no Adrian, no talk of honor or betrayal. Only the keys, and the feel of each note blooming under his touch, and a long distant memory.
Oscar, darling, you’re rushing again. Don’t strangle the poor notes—let them breathe.
He was seven, perched atop the bench, feet not yet reaching the floor. His mother’s hands hovered above his, sometimes ghosting over the same keys, sometimes redirecting with a gentle tap.
“Why must we repeat it?” he asked, petulant but not defiant.
She smiled, hair falling from its knot in a way that no lady of society would approve. “Because music is a spiral, Oscar. You keep coming round and round, and every time you see the landscape a bit differently.”
Peter, who at five had never met a rule he could not break, was under the bench, tugging at Oscar’s stockinged ankles. “He’s not playing it right,” Peter announced, as if he were the world’s foremost authority.
“He’s playing it beautifully,” their mother said. “But even beautiful things can become more beautiful with work.”
Peter rose and mashed his palms onto the highest, shrillest notes he could reach. “Like this?”
Oscar scowled, and his mother gave Peter a look—a gentle warning, never more. Peter subsided, content to dangle his legs and hum along, off-key but happy.
Oscar played the piece through, slower this time, letting his mother’s hand rest atop his. The warmth of her was everything: safety, approval, love that had never needed a single word.
“Excellent,” she said, and kissed the top of his head. “When you are Duke, remember to play for yourself, not just for the room.”
Oscar’s hands trembled, and the music faltered. He swallowed, his jaw clenched against the hollow ache that came with the memory.
A sound behind him announced a presence. He tensed, expecting Nancy, maybe even hoping for her. But when he looked down, it was Clara.
She wore a nightdress, bare feet silent on the carpet, hair wild as though she’d tried to braid it herself and given up. She did not speak, did not ask permission. She climbed onto the bench beside him, knees drawn up.
Oscar regarded her. “Do you need something?” he asked, bracing for a demand, or perhaps a demand disguised as a question.
Clara shook her head. She reached out and, with a kind of solemnity, pressed a single white key, holding it until the sound faded. Then she did it again, and again, always the same note, each time watching him out of the corner of her blue, blue eyes.
He waited for her to tire, but she did not.
She seemed perfectly content to play her one note, letting him fill the rest. So he shifted the melody, working her persistent tap into the rhythm of his own music.
It became a kind of duet, and Clara’s smile, when she realized what he was doing, was quick and devastating.
She’s a natural, he thought. Or at least she’s not afraid of making noise. That’s half the battle.
He kept playing. Clara added her note at intervals, sometimes exactly in time, sometimes wildly off, but she never seemed discouraged. When she missed, she simply tried again. The stubbornness of her—so like Nancy, so like her father—made something twist in his chest.
The door creaked again, and Henry peeked in. He wore a robe over his pajamas, a comically large pair of slippers on his feet. He said nothing, but his eyes found Clara immediately.
He was about to scold her—Oscar could see the gears turning—but then he caught the sound of the music, the sight of her next to Oscar, and whatever he’d planned to say dissolved. He slipped in quietly, standing just behind the bench, watching.
Oscar met his gaze. “Would you like to join us?”
Henry considered, then shook his head. “No. I just… wanted to listen.”
Oscar nodded and returned to the keys. The three of them—Oscar, Clara, Henry—existed in a small, perfect world.
For the first time in memory, Oscar did not feel haunted by the ghosts of Scarfield.
He did not feel the weight of his father, or the expectations of his dead mother, or the judgment of Society. He felt, simply, present.
He let the last chord ring out, the final note lingering long after the keys were still. Clara looked up at him, mouth open in silent wonder.
“Again?” she asked.
Oscar smiled. “If you like.”
“Will you teach me?” She asked it quickly, as if the nerve might escape her if she waited even a second.
Oscar felt something inside him yield. “Yes, Clara. I will teach you anything you want to know.”
She beamed, then fixed her attention on the keys, waiting for him to start again.
Henry edged closer until he was seated at the other side of the bench, so that Oscar was sandwiched between two small, warm children. Henry did not play, but he watched with a fascination Oscar recognized—his own, once upon a time.
Oscar found himself explaining, as he played, the names of the keys, the simple patterns, the logic of scales and chords. Clara absorbed every word, eager and unashamed of her mistakes. Henry listened, eyes round, committing it all to memory.
“That is like the alphabet,” Clara said, when Oscar showed her the repeating letters.
He nodded. “Exactly so. You learn the letters, and then you put them together into words. And the words become music.”
Clara looked at him. “Can you write a song for us? For me and Henry?”
Oscar thought of Peter, of the letters never sent, of the music never played, and for once did not feel the urge to look away from the pain.
“Yes,” he said. “I think I can.”
He played a simple tune, and as soon as he struck the first chord, Henry squealed.
“Oooh, more music for my ears!”