Chapter 4
The house was worse than Drystan imagined. Though it sat in the old part of town near the manor he occupied, it was a distant cry from the polished floors, ornate tapestries, and fine furnishings that he was accustomed to. One didn’t even need to step inside to notice the cracked and faded paint on the fa?ade that might have once been a lovely shade of blue. That alone spoke volumes.
He expected some measure of surprise when he arrived at the Kinsley household unannounced, but Jackoby telling him that the poor housekeeper nearly almost fainted when he’d announced who waited in the carriage still caught him off guard. As did Mr. Kinsley, nearly tripping over his cane as he showed Drystan into the front parlor and insisted on him taking the wingback chair near closest the fireplace. For that, though, Drystan was grateful. It was the one piece of furniture that he felt comfortable wouldn’t splinter under him. The rest had seen better days, as had the threadbare rugs, to say nothing of the crumbling fireplace that could give way along with a side of the house at any moment.
This family was very poor indeed to not be able to maintain a proper parlor for their guests. He could scarce imagine the rest of it. But in this case, their unfortunate circumstance might aid his goal.
The housekeeper raced off to find Mr. Kinsley’s daughters the moment he informed them of his purpose and desire to speak with the woman who’d been attacked by the monster. Mr. Kinsley himself tried to offer tea, but Drystan declined. He could see the man had enough burdens as it was, and he would not add to them. Instead, Drystan tucked his hooded cloak around him and angled the offered chair toward the smoldering fire. Perhaps it was rude, but he wasn’t there to chat with Mr. Kinsley, not until he’d seen Ceridwen first. Mostly uncomfortable silence lingered between the group as they waited, with Mr. Kinsley occasionally asking benign questions of Jackoby and Kent. The man’s health might have seen better days, but he was wise not to push Drystan for pleasant conversation as many people would have done.
At length, the housekeeper finally returned with her charges in tow.
Drystan turned just enough in the chair to take a measure of the young women as they rushed inside. With his hooded cloak, he’d wager they could see little of him. For the best.
Mr. Kinsley rose on shaking legs and gestured to each woman in turn as they curtsied. “My daughters, Bronwyn and Ceridwen.”
Both were as lovely as any lady he had seen in some time, enough that it made him stir in the chair. But where the elder one, Bronwyn, failed to hide her shrewd assessment of him, Ceridwen was more demure, staring at his booted feet rather than the rest of him. He should be glad. He didn’t like being an object of attention in this place, his appearance mused over in local gossip. It was one reason he often stayed inside the manor and rarely invited anyone in. But in this case, he desperately wished she’d raise her blond head, if only so he could get a better look at her face.
Silence lingered. Drystan finally broke from his musings, realizing that everyone waited on his reply. “Thank you for returning so suddenly.”
The women curtsied again but said nothing more, so he continued, “I wished to apologize to the young woman who was attacked within my city.”
At that, Ceridwen’s nose wrinkled, her lips pursing. A look of disgust passed across her features and was gone, but that wasn’t the expression he expected given the attack. Weeping or swooning would have been more appropriate, but thankfully she had a better constitution than that. She’d need it.
“Ceridwen, was it?” he asked.
At the use of her name, she finally looked up. That lovely golden hair he admired framed a balanced face with pale eyes that he could see the blueness of even from across the room. An ember of warmth burned deep in his chest. Yes, her face is pleasing indeed. Not that it mattered. He needed her music and only that. There was no time for anything else, and the risk of it would be too great.
“I am glad you’re unharmed and were able to scare the monster away,” he said.
Bronwyn frowned. “You should thank our father for that.”
Jackoby sat a little straighter. Kent covered his mouth, trying to hide the grin Drystan hadn’t failed to miss. Quite the spitfire, this sister. She could be trouble.
“Just so,” Drystan said. “And Mr. Kinsley shall have my thanks, as well as payment for your family’s trouble.” He reached under his cloak and procured a small sack of coins, which he tossed to Mr. Kinsley where he sat on the sofa. The older man, caught unawares, fumbled the bag but caught it before it could spill out on the floor.
“M-My thanks, my lord,” he replied.
He didn’t open the small sack but left it sitting in his lap. How proper. Though he’d be in for quite a surprise when he did. He’d wager the man hadn’t seen that many gold pieces in some time. Plus, the offering had the added effect of relaxing both his daughters. Bronwyn’s gaze lost some of its shrewdness, her stance easing. Even Ceridwen ventured more than a half glance his way.
Drystan crossed his legs and settled back into the frame of the chair. He wasn’t here just to deliver some much-needed gold. That was only the opening act.
“While I’m here,” Drystan said, “do either of you have some art, some talent you could share with me?”
He must be sure, must confirm Jackoby’s information before he made his offer.
The women looked at one another, and he was surprised when the elder spoke first.
“I am a painter,” Bronwyn replied.
Ceridwen’s attention snapped to her sister as if she’d spilled some grave family secret. How interesting.
“Plates? Teacups?” he asked.
Ceridwen’s nose wrinkled again, and this time he didn’t miss the offense written in her pinched brows and sparkling blue eyes. She didn’t speak, but the look alone spoke volumes of the sisters’ bond.
“Landscapes on canvas,” Bronwyn responded, an edge of bitterness leaking into her tone. “And some portraits.”
“Very nice.” If the sincerity of his voice eased some of her fire, it did little to smooth the thin press of her lips. The elder sister was quite the prickly one. “And you, Ceridwen?”
“I’m a musician, my lord.” She frowned over his title, piquing his interest even more. “I play the flute.”
Good. Just what he hoped. “Would you play for us now?”
Ceridwen looked at her father, perhaps seeking his approval. Other than one hand twisting around the rough, wooden cane propped on the chair next to him, Mr. Kinsley sat almost completely still. Finally, he gave an encouraging bob of his head. “She will. Please allow her a few minutes, my lord.”
“Of course. A good song is worth waiting for.” He’d wait all day and a night if it got him what he wanted.
The young woman gave a wobbling curtsy and rushed out of the room. Only a minute later, she returned, her flute in tow. Ceridwen’s hands shook a little where she held the instrument. Could she be nervous? Surely not. The tune he heard at night always had such strength and power to it.
“Whenever you’re ready.” He waved a hand through the air.
Slowly she raised the flute to her lips, adjusted her grip, and began to play. He recognized the melody almost immediately, “The Nocturne of the Moon.”One of his favorites. A sad song, but also a love song. A curious choice to play for a male guest.
The notes filled the small room, echoing off the walls and consuming the space in a rush of sound. Whatever nervousness she had vanished as she played. She closed her eyes as her fingers flew over the keys, playing the tune by memory. Her form swayed gently to its rhythm as if the song consumed her body and soul. No one in the room moved. If he didn’t know better, Drystan would wager she held them all under her trance as she played, and him most of all. The music moved something in him, eased the restlessness that liked to creep up on him at the worst of times.
As the last note of the song faded away, Drystan rose from the chair and gave a long, slow clap in appreciation. Jackoby and Kent followed suit.
“Bravo, Ceridwen.”
The compliment sent a lovely blush racing to her cheeks and had her staring at Drystan’s boots once more.
Now was the time to spring his request. “I have a proposition for you. Come and play for me at the manor. I could use a resident musician, and I shall compensate you for your time.”
Ceridwen’s head snapped up, and she stared at him wide-eyed. “You’d pay me? For my music?” Her eyes sparkled, and she blinked hastily, glancing away.
A slight twitch pulled at the corner of his lips. Was the young woman about to cry over such a simple offer? “But there will be conditions,” he continued, lest her hopes get too high.
The flush faded from her cheeks in a rush. Bronwyn stared hard at Ceridwen, some unspoken words passing between the sisters.
“You will live at the manor for the duration of our arrangement—until midwinter,” he finished.
A sharp gasp cut through the room. From the housekeeper or one of the sisters, he could not say.
Mr. Kinsley frowned and shook his head. “It would not be proper for an unmarried woman to live in a man’s house, even yours, my lord.”
“That is my condition.” He couldn’t have her coming and going, spreading who knew what kind of gossip to the ladies of the city. “Further, Ceridwen shall not leave the manor grounds.”
Mr. Kinsley stood, swaying slightly with his weight supported by the cane. Low fury simmered from the man, his once calm and pleasant expression suddenly hard and foreboding. He was moments away from denying him.
“How much?” Ceridwen’s voice cut through the tension in the room.
“Ceridwen?” Bronwyn stared at her sister askance.
“How much would you pay for my services?” Ceridwen asked again, her voice stronger this time.
The housekeeper swayed on her feet. “But your reputation—”
Ceridwen shook her head as if such a thing were meaningless, yet it was anything but in their society. That’s why he planned to pay her, and generously. Drystan knew the delicate situation his offer created.
Drystan sought another sack of coins hidden by his cloak and dropped it on the table. The family’s full attention snagged on that little sack as he wagered it would. “Consider this your first payment. Assuming you accept.”
“Ceridwen, we should talk about this,” Mr. Kinsley began.
But it wasn’t him who Drystan focused the full weight of his regard on. Ceridwen was curious, eager. He could see it in the steady resolve with which she regarded him now.
Bronwyn grabbed her arm, stealing her attention and mouthing what could only be “No.”
Ceridwen shook her off. “I accept.”
“Very good,” Drystan replied at length, trying to keep the pleasure from his voice. He expected her agreement—they needed the money after all. He hadn’t expected how it would affect him, how he would relish hearing those words from her, or the eagerness that sprang up in him to take her back to the manor that very moment. “I’ll send a carriage in the morning,” he continued before he could change his mind. It would be proper, and it would give the young woman time to prepare and say her farewells. He turned to the woman’s father. “Thank you for your hospitality, Mr. Kinsley. I shall not soon forget it.”
The man opened and closed his mouth like a fish, but whatever words he failed to find mattered not. The thing was done. Agreed to.
Drystan hastened across the room, Jackoby and Kent on his heels. He stopped once in front of Ceridwen, hoping that she would look up at him, maybe hazard a glance at his face now that they were so close and his hood would not limit her view if she looked up, but she did not. Instead, she focused on his feet again and gave a delicate curtsy.
Perhaps he could coerce her to be less demure once she joined him at the manor, but that would have to wait. “Until tomorrow,” he said and left without another backward glance.