Chapter 7
CHAPTER 7
E verything was going exactly as Lucius had hoped. Really. He had nothing to complain about. Truly. The scheme could not be progressing in a more satisfactory fashion.
His mother greeted him after the walk with a wink and a knowing smile, so gratified by his excursion with Lady Isobel that she even forgot to wail over Cassie’s dress.
The following morning, he overheard Georgiana pestering Isobel with a series of ill-disguised enquiries about just how well do you know my brother?
His father had a spring in his step which even the cane and the wound could not subdue. The wretched hunger in his eyes had subsided. He had not even voiced a single objection to giving Lucius free rein to go over the family accounts.
And, most important of all, no one had spoken the name Lord Henry to Evie in a week. She was even beginning to regain some of the old colour in her cheeks. More than once, he’d seen her smile.
There was very little Lucius would not do to bring that smile back to his sister’s face, and apparently that included watching Isobel reel Lord Randall in like a fat trout on the end of her line. While Lucius stood beside her, laughing and instructing her on the finer points of gamesmanship.
Yes. It was all going perfectly according to plan. And even if Lucius was exhausted, disappointed, and fearful for the future as he’d never been before, at least he had one small pleasure to spur him on.
His mornings began before dawn, poring by candlelight over his father’s accounts, desperately searching for a solution and finding only more debt. The long hours of playing the charming host, chatting and joking with Bell and Sir Ivor and Randall, sapped his energy still further. And that left only the late evenings, the quiet midnight hours after the guests had at last retired and every other candle in the house had been snuffed out, for him to study his horticultural texts and compile the data from his stolen moments in the orangery. That blasted orchid had still not flowered. What more did it require? An adjustment in the angle of the glasshouse roof – a drop in humidity – a better-draining substrate – if he only had the space to think, he would solve it.
But each night, just before the revelation came, Clarkson was shaking him awake at his desk with fresh coffee and a candle in the pre-dawn darkness, and it was time to begin all over again.
In the face of all that, escaping to Isobel’s side was not the chore he had feared it would be.
In fact, it was all the one remaining guiltless pleasure he had.
“Whitby?” Bell’s sharp elbow in his ribs jerked Lucius back to the present moment. “We’re waiting on you, old boy.”
Lucius glanced down at the cards in his hands, the sound of Isobel’s laughter more vivid in his ears from across the room than the gentlemanly chatter around the card table.
“I fold,” he said, setting them down. Bell frowned.
“But we’re playing whist –”
Lucius had already risen to go and investigate the cause of that laughter. His arrival was forestalled by a loud whisper from Georgiana.
“Enough, enough! Here comes my brother.”
Georgiana, Isobel and Evie all turned to greet Lucius with expressions that were rather too innocent. He raised an eyebrow, assuming a stern expression for his sisters’ benefit, and pretending he had not seen the slip of paper adorned with painted forget-me-nots that Georgiana was hiding beneath her needlework.
“I cannot imagine you have any secrets from me, Georgie.”
She raised a hand to cover her mouth and stifled a mischievous giggle. Evie rolled her eyes and settled back in her armchair, gathering up the embroidery she had set aside to listen to Georgiana’s whispers. “She will never have any secrets, Lucius – she doesn’t have the knack for keeping them.”
Georgiana composed her features into a sweet smile. “Evie makes that sound like a fault, but I know it is one of my finest qualities. There is no need for secrets in our family, is there, dear brother?”
Lucius bent to let her kiss his cheek. “No need for secrets at all.” He was surprised at how easily the lie came. Only a week ago his innards had twisted into knots over the knowledge he was keeping hidden from his sisters. Now, the guilt was no more than a gentle pang.
He was not sure he approved of the man he was becoming.
Isobel had bent her head over the writing desk, taking the opportunity to scribble a few more words – No, now that he looked closer, he saw they were not words. She was writing music.
The absorption in her face was so absolute that he was loath to disturb her.
“Miss Georgiana!” called Lord Bell, as uproarious laughter sounded from the card table. “I am lacking a partner!”
“Lordy, Bell, you know I have no head for whist!” Georgiana responded gaily, but she trotted off to join him regardless.
Evie glanced up, caught Lucius’s eye with an expression that was far too knowing, and rearranged herself so that she was curled up in the armchair with her back to him and Isobel, and her face to the window.
He took a seat in the chair Georgiana had just vacated. Isobel’s eyes flicked up to him, brief and warm, before returning to her work.
And he would have been content merely to watch her, with her hair pinned up in a sensible bun, and her lower lip half pulled between her teeth to aid her concentration, and the rise and fall of inner music playing across her face, had Randall’s eyes not landed on them from the fireplace where he stood talking quietly with Lucius’s father.
“Give me your hand,” said Lucius urgently. Isobel was in the middle of a section that required her full concentration. She indicated she had heard him by extending her left hand with her eyes still on the page, a faint wrinkle forming between her eyebrows.
Lucius caught it, forced himself not to stare Randall down, and pressed Isobel’s bare fingers to his lips. Not the way he’d done in the woods – possessive and full of arrogant posturing. No, this time he kissed her hand the way he really wanted to. Softly and reverently, offering those clever fingers the tribute they deserved.
He could practically see the shock of heat travel down her arm, chasing her blood from her fingertips to her beating heart. Her eyes widened. The bitten lower lip was relinquished, plumper and redder from the pressure.
It was immensely gratifying.
Isobel tore her attention from her music with a look of alarm, and Lucius let his head incline the slightest bit towards Randall.
“That wasn’t for my benefit,” he said. Though that, he supposed, was another little deviation from the truth.
Isobel didn’t bother turning to see the effect on Randall. She snapped her hand back from his, her movements tight and irritated. “I am busy, Mr Whitby. You must seek amusement elsewhere.”
He leaned an elbow on the desk and settled in to watch her. “May I stay if I’m quiet?”
She rolled her eyes without raising them from her music. “I can hardly force you to vacate your own drawing room.”
“What is it you’re writing? An exercise?”
“A composition.” Her hand moved across the page as she spoke, etching out the shape of the music with dizzying speed.
“You compose?”
The shoulder nearest him lifted, as though she were defending herself from an incoming blow. “I know. Isobel ‘Bluestocking’ Balfour. Try to contain your despair.”
“May I hear it?”
“This one?” She looked up, only then realising how closely he was watching her, and pulled a blank sheet of paper to cover her work. As though he had any hope of understanding the music simply by reading it on the page. “No,” she said. “This one isn't ready yet.”
“Another, then,” he suggested, leaning closer. “I should very much like to hear your music.”
Isobel gave him a sceptical look. “You didn't list musical appreciation as one of your preferred pastimes, Mr. Whitby.”
Lucius couldn't argue with that. It wasn't the music he was interested in. Not really. It was the insight it might offer into Isobel Balfour’s inner workings.
“I attended a few concerts here and there on the Continent,” he said, painfully aware of how pathetic he was in his lack of expertise.
Isobel perked up. “Really? I never pictured you as a concert-goer.”
“He is not,” interjected Evie. Lucius gave a guilty start, feeling as though he had been caught discussing something too intimate.
Isobel gave Evie a knowing smile. “You are always quick to uncover everybody's hidden motives,” she said. “Pray tell me, why does your brother attend concerts, if not for the music?”
Evie fixed Lucius with a look designed to put fear into his heart, but which only gladdened him, for he saw her old sparkle returning. “For the same reason he does everything else,” she said. “Because, at one time or another, it must have seemed to him an amusing way to pass the time. My brother Lucius is the epitome of a modern gentleman. That is to say, he is an expert in pleasing himself.”
Isobel was watching Lucius try to maintain his composure and, apparently, taking great pleasure in his struggle. “Well, Mr. Whitby,” she said, resting her chin keenly on her hand. “Did the concerts please you?”
Lucius fought back urge to throttle his grinning sister.
“I'm sure the company pleased him,” said Evie, enjoying his discomfort all the more. “Test him, Isobel. See if he can tell you the first thing about the music he heard. We will soon find him out. I'm sure he remembers every detail of who cadged a ride in his carriage and who flirted with whom in the interval. And which fine fellow invited him back for a snifter of brandy once the dreary business of listening to the music was done. Our Lucius is a pragmatic fellow, you see. Art for art’s sake is not his philosophy. He will have found a way to make the music work for him.”
Lucius rose to his feet. Isobel's laughter was as enchanting as it had been when he sat at the card table, but now that it was directed at him, he found it had lost its allure. “You have the measure of me all right, Evie,” he said, making her a stiff bow. “Lady Isobel.”
Isobel held up a hand to stop him leaving. “Peace, Mr. Whitby! I have faith in your artistic soul where Evie does not. I will play something for you if you truly care to hear it.”
Lucius folded his arms, glancing from Isobel to Evie, unsure if he was still being teased. “I have no artistic soul,” he admitted. “But I’d be honoured to hear you play, all the same.”
Isobel led him to the piano. Lucius made a point of ignoring Evie’s waggling eyebrows as he followed her, hands thrust into his pockets, his usual careless demeanour now growing mysteriously difficult to maintain.
Isobel’s fingers hovered above the ivory keys, poised and graceful, ten tiny birds about to take flight. That was her sole concession to showmanship; there was nothing in her of pride or need for attention. She did not fuss and complain and strike wrong notes on purpose to spoil the tune, like Cassie, and neither did she simper and gaze about the room to see who was listening, as Georgiana did. She simply gazed ahead, her face lit with an inner glow, as though the music that flowed from her fingers took physical form before her.
And as that music began… As those ten skilful fingers began to caress the keys…
Lucius closed his eyes and let the sweet melody move through him. Isobel’s piece began soft and gentle, delicate tinkling notes that descended slowly from the highest reaches of the piano, underpinned with mournful minor chords from her left hand that hinted at a sadness beneath all that sweetness. For the first time in his life, Lucius wished he’d bothered studying music. Oh, he knew how to plunk out Rondo alla Turca, certainly, and he could just about tell his Bach from his Schubert, but he was utterly ignorant of the meaning behind it all, the patterns and methods that underlay the melody.
Isobel’s tempo quickened, her left hand now bouncing merrily from one bass note to the next. She’d somehow transformed that tinkling right-hand tune into a rich celebration of the sounds and scents of summer. It was birdsong. It was green leaves rustling in the wind. It was the pressure of her hand on his arm as they sauntered through the heat of a summer’s day.
And still, beneath it all, that elusive minor melody. A sadness that even the sunlight could not chase away.
Lucius opened his eyes. To his amazement, Isobel was smiling at him, bright and cheerful, as she played. As though creating that music were nothing more complicated than fastening a bonnet or picking a flower.
“I wrote this just the other day,” she said. “When we were –”
“When we were walking through the forest,” Lucius finished for her. “Did you really?”
Isobel narrowed her eyes. “How did you know that?”
He opened his mouth, but realised he had no answer to give. He only knew that it had seemed obvious. All he could offer Isobel was a shrug and an embarrassed half smile.
The piece drew to a close. Lucius was surprised to feel a distinct pang of loss as Isobel lifted her hands from the keys.
“Is that all?” he asked. “There’s nothing more?”
Isobel rubbed a hand diffidently over the back of her neck. “I thought I’d stop before Cassie fell from the tree,” she said. “That would not really be in keeping with the rest of the piece. I know it’s very simple –”
“No, no,” said Lucius. “I only meant that – well, it was wonderful. I was sorry when it ended. I’d love to hear more.”
“It’s a frivolous little tune,” said Isobel. “I doubt I could sustain it any longer. But I thought you might like to hear it, since you were there when I wrote it.”
“You were really composing that in your head all the while walking through the woods?” Lucius asked, amazed. “With no instrument at hand?”
“Oh!” Isobel shrugged, feigning carelessness, but Lucius saw a hidden pleasure turn the tips of her ears pink. “That’s nothing. I hear the music in my head. That’s all I need.”
“That’s marvellous,” said Lucius. “ You are marvellous.”
She gave him a shy smile. “It’s kind of you to say so. But I can claim no real credit for it. It’s a talent I was born with; not the result of any special study or diligence.”
“Let me compliment you,” said Lucius, smiling. “There’s no harm in a little flattery, whether it’s deserved or not. Besides, I’ve a feeling you’d rather hear me praise your genius than your beauty or your sweet disposition.”
“I make no claims for either genius or beauty,” said Isobel. “As for my disposition, I shall have to accept your judgement.” She closed the piano.
“No, no,” called an imperious voice from behind Lucius. He saw the flush rise in Isobel’s cheeks and knew before he turned that Lord Randall was standing behind him.
“Play a little more,” said Randall. There was a glittering in his eyes as he watched Isobel that Lucius didn’t quite like. “Your compositions are always so delightful.”
Lucius cast his mind about for any excuse to call Isobel from the piano. It wasn’t that he didn’t wish to hear more of her music – on the contrary, he’d have happily listened for hours, regardless of the motives Evie ascribed to him.
It was the meek obedience with which Isobel returned to the piano that appalled him. When Randall was near, all her fire was dimmed. She’d sooner argue with a gorgon than with him. And Randall had done so little to earn Isobel’s obedience that Lucius could hardly stand to see it.
But when she began to play, he was instantly mollified. Lucius recognised the tune at once. He couldn’t recall quite where he’d heard it, but it was one of those popular pieces of music that works its way into the brain via the ears and stays there, repeating long into the midnight hours.
Randall had demanded one of Isobel’s compositions, and without saying anything about it she was declining to share one with him. It was foolish, perhaps, but Lucius could not resist crowing over it.
“I know this one!” he cried. “It was all the rage in Prague last year.”
Randall gave him an infuriatingly pitying smile. “Whitby, you are no musician. You cannot have heard this in Prague. I was present when Lady Isobel composed it in Brighton three years ago. It is her own piece. I am quite sure of it.”
Lucius was amazed. Was Randall really so jealous of his sometime connection with Isobel that he would tell an outright lie?
“I do recognise it,” he insisted. He began to hum along with the tune, tapping out the rhythm on the back of the piano for emphasis.
Isobel stopped playing abruptly. “How embarrassing,” she said. “I am no original when it comes to music. This is my own piece – or at least, I thought it was. It seems I inadvertently mimicked an existing composition when I wrote it.” She stood, inclined her head politely to Lucius and Randall, and abruptly turned on her heel to return to Evie.
Lucius met Randall’s gaze coolly. “You have a rather good memory for music,” he said. “I’m not sure I could pick out the tune I had only heard once or twice, three years ago, in Brighton. Not unless the memory held a special significance for me.”
“I am quite familiar with Lady Isobel’s musical style,” said Randall, with a smile Lucius wanted to punch. “I could not mistake it anywhere. And I assure you, you did not hear that music in Prague.”
Lucius bowed, smiling outwardly, seething inwardly.
He should, of course, have been delighted. Here was clear evidence that Randall’s memories of Isobel in Brighton were uppermost in his mind. Here was certain proof that Randall had noticed Lucius and Isobel’s flirtation and wished to interrupt it.
And wasn’t that what Lucius wanted, after all? To help Isobel secure Randall’s affection – this time, for good.
The only trouble was that it was all moving too quickly. Evie was not yet out of danger. Lucius’s study of his father’s accounts had confirmed his worst fears. He had not yet found a way to avert financial catastrophe. If Randall fell for Isobel too soon, the game would be up, and Mr Whitby would embark on his reckless scheme of selling Evie to Lord Henry.
He had no desire to stay in Randall’s company any longer. “Excuse me. That is my father calling.” He left Randall at the piano, well aware that the other gentleman had not heard Lucius’s father say anything at all.
It was becoming ever more obvious that Lucius had underestimated Isobel’s powers of attraction. If they continued at this pace, Randall would be in love with her again by the end of the week, and down on one knee in a fortnight.
And Lucius had to stop him. Not for ever. Only until Evie was safe – only until he had patched the holes leaking money from his family life raft. Once he had done that, Randall would be Isobel’s to do with as she wished. And if she wished to marry him, that was none of Lucius’s concern. Really .