Guilty Series (31 page)

Dylan paused at the first floor, his hand on the polished rosewood cap of the wrought-iron stair rail as he turned to stare down at the servant who had halted several steps below him. This insistence was impertinent in the extreme, and Osgoode was never impertinent.

“Indeed?” Dylan murmured and started back down the stairs. “Your insistence makes me curious. What is it this nun has brought me?”

The butler waited until they were back down in the foyer before he answered. “It is a rather difficult thing to describe, but the nun called it a gift, sir. Although she also said it is something that has always belonged to you.”

Riddles amused him. “You intrigue me, Osgoode. Bring it at once, then.”

“Yes, sir.”

The butler turned to go toward the back of the house, and Dylan crossed the wide foyer to open the pair of doors that led into the music room. He walked to the piano and pushed back the walnut lid to reveal the ivory keys beneath. It had been so long since he had even attempted to play a piece of music. Almost hesitantly, he placed his hand on the keys and pressed half a dozen of them in slow succession. That was it, he thought, a bit stunned. That was what he had heard from her.

He did not know why, when he looked at that woman, he heard these notes, or why there was a black void after them where a melody should be. He did not know why that woman seemed to bring him the only hint of music he had heard in five years. But there was one thing he did know. This time, he was not going to let her get away.

A slight cough broke into his thoughts, but Dylan did not glance up from the musical instrument before him. “Well, what is this gift a nun has brought me, Osgoode?” he asked as he played those notes again.

The butler did not answer, and Dylan looked up to find that the servant was not there. Instead, he saw a much smaller figure standing in the doorway. It was a little girl.

He straightened from the piano, staring at the child. Though not very familiar with children, he figured her to be about eight or nine years old. She was dressed in a blue-and-green plaid dress with a white collar and stockings, and there was a woolen bundle clutched in her arms. He knew he had never seen this child before in his life, but her long braids and big, round eyes were as black as his own. Dylan let out a curse worthy of a sailor.

The girl came into the room. “I don't think I want a father who swears.”

Father? He swore again.

The child's black brows knitted in a dubious frown, making it clear to Dylan that he wasn't quite up to snuff in her opinion. “Since you are rich, am I going to have my own room?”

Dylan did not reply. Instead, he stepped around the girl and out of the music room to find his butler hovering nearby. “Osgoode, come with me.”

The butler closed the doors of the music room, shutting the little girl inside, and followed his master across the foyer to the drawing room opposite. “Yes, sir?”

Dylan heard a squeaking sound, and he looked across the foyer to see that the doors to the music room were once again open. The child's face was peering at them from around one of the doors, her small fingers curled over the wooden edge. He closed the drawing room door to shut out her curious gaze, then turned to his butler. “Who in Hades is that?” he asked, jerking one thumb over his shoulder.

“I believe her name is Isabel, sir.”

“I don't care about her name! I want to know what she is doing here. Have you lost your sense, man, to be accepting stray children brought to my door by nuns?”

His rising voice caused Osgoode to give him an apologetic look. “Sister Agnes said Isabel was your daughter, and the child would be living here with you from now on. She spoke as if it had all been arranged in advance.”

“What? I have made no such arrangement.”

“I tried to convince the good sister of that,” Osgoode hastened to assure him, “knowing if it were true, you would have told me of Isabel's arrival. But the sister explained she had come all the way from St. Catherine's Orphanage in Metz to bring your daughter to you. Her ship returning her to the Continent was leaving within the hour and she had no time to wait—”

“I don't care if she joined the British Navy and was bound for the West Indies. I have never seen this child before, nor even heard of her, and you are correct that if I had made such an arrangement, I would have told you of it. Good God, what were you thinking? Any woman could dress up as a nun, wait until I am not at home, and drop her child here for me to care for. I would not be the first gentleman in such a circumstance.”

“Isabel does look like you, sir.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“I am sorry if I have given offense,” the butler said, looking pained at the very idea, “but I did not know what else I could do. Sister Agnes refused to take the little girl away with her, nor would she wait until you returned. I could not shove such a little thing outside into the London street, could I, sir? To be at the mercy of all manner of ruffians and villains? Not your daughter.”

“She is not mine!” Dylan roared. “Did this nun provide any proof of my paternity? Any proof at all?”

Osgoode gave one of those irritating little coughs butlers always use when they are about to impart news their masters do not wish to hear. “She left a letter and asked that it be given to you.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of parchment. “I assume the proof is mentioned there.”

Dylan took the letter from the servant's hand, broke the wax seal, and unfolded it. It was from the Mother Superior of the Order of St. Catherine, a convent and orphanage in Metz. The Reverend Mother stated that the child, Isabel, born in 1824, was the daughter of a French woman named Vivienne Moreau who had died of scarlet fever six weeks before. On her deathbed, Miss Moreau had sworn an oath to Mary, Holy Mother of God, that the father of her child was Dylan Moore, the English composer. Since the young woman was making her final confession to God, the Reverend Mother had added, she would not lie.

“Of course not,” Dylan murmured at that sly line, thinking that nuns must be starting to cultivate a sense of humor, a twisted one at that.

He continued to read. Miss Moreau had also assured the Reverend Mother that Moore was a wealthy man who would take full responsibility for his child's upbringing and care. She had also provided enough money for passage to England so that Sister Agnes could deliver Isabel directly into his hands. That was all. There was no offered proof or connection to him whatsoever.

Dylan folded the letter and shoved it into his pocket, then turned away from Osgoode and began to pace, repeating the woman's name in his mind.

Vivienne Moreau. The name sparked no sense of recognition. He tried to think back nine years. Two years after Cambridge, and he'd been on the Continent, touring the European capitals to perform his piano pieces and conduct his symphonies. He'd been twenty-three then, cocky with the phenomenal success of his third symphony, randy as hell, and swimming in women. These days, he always provided himself with a supply of French letters, but back then, he had been too young and careless to bother with the protection such sheaths afforded. He could have fathered a child and never known about it. He had probably fathered several.

On the other hand, he might never have known this Vivienne at all. If he had, why would the woman wait so long to claim his paternity for her daughter? It could all be the fabrication of a woman desperate to ensure her child's future. He was famous throughout Britain and Europe. Knowing his wealth and his success—and his reputation, he was forced to admit—any woman could decide to claim him as the father of her child and demand his support.

The Reverend Mother had made no reference to a place, date, or meeting. Nor had she mentioned any objects or letters that would establish a connection. In fact, with the exception of her coloring, there was nothing to prove this child was his. Without proof and with no memory of the woman, he had no intention of taking on this obligation. He would arrange for the adoption of the girl to some family in the country, but that was all.

His decision made, Dylan started out of the drawing room. The moment Osgoode opened the door for him, Dylan discovered that the child was no longer peering around the door across the foyer. Instead, both doors to the music room were wide open, and she was seated at his immense piano, playing an unusual piece he had never heard before. The music flowed from the instrument beneath her fingers with an ease and ability far beyond her years.

Dylan walked to the music room and paused in the doorway, listening until she had played the final note. When she turned and looked at him as if waiting for his judgement on her ability, he gave it. “You play exceedingly well for a little girl.”

“I play exceedingly well for an adult,” Isabel answered, not one for false modesty. He almost wanted to smile. Impudent, this child.

“You speak excellent English,” he told her.

“You are English. Mama thought I should learn to speak it well, since you are my father.”

She fell silent, and the pause was awkward. She spoke of his paternity with absolute conviction. Unlike her, he was not so certain. Could a man ever be certain?

He glanced at the woolen bundle she had opened on the carpet and its contents—a pile of sheet music. “I do not recognize that piece you just played,” he said, “but it is unique and quite beautiful. Who composed it?”

The child looked up at him, her big, black eyes unblinking. “I did.”

 

For the wealthy and privileged, making a morning call meant arriving after three o'clock in the afternoon. Dylan, however, had never been a man thwarted in his objectives by something as trivial as convention, and there was a call he needed to make as soon as possible.

Leaving the pint-sized version of his own musical gifts to Osgoode because he didn't know what else to do with her, Dylan bathed, shaved, changed into fresh linen and a morning suit of clothes—black, as his perverse fashion sense always dictated—and departed the house, leaving instructions with the butler to put the child in the suite of rooms on the third floor that had once been a nursery, and to have the cook get her something to eat.

Just past eleven, he arrived at Enderby, the estate of Lord and Lady Hammond just outside London. The viscountess was at home, he was told, though she might not be receiving just now. This last bit of information was imparted with a tactful, but pointed, glance at the grandfather clock in the foyer and a gesture toward the calling card tray, but Dylan had no intention of simply leaving his card. He said he would wait to see if she would receive him.

The servant knew the composer was a friend of Lady Hammond and her brother, the Duke of Tremore, and that they considered Dylan to be almost a member of their family. He accepted Dylan's cloak, hat, and gloves, which he handed off to a maid before leading the other man up an immense staircase and into the drawing room.

The drawing room at Enderby was a wholly feminine affair. Its upholstery and draperies in delicate pastels of pink and celadon, its intricate white plasterwork and floral trompe l'oeil, proclaimed more loudly than any words printed in the scandal sheets that Lord Hammond was seldom in residence here, or anywhere else his wife happened to be. Viola's estrangement from her husband was in its eighth year now, and no one even discussed it anymore. Her brother had often commented that if he had his way, Hammond's head would be on a spike on London Bridge. Dylan had never admitted either to Anthony or Viola that he was well acquainted with the renegade viscount. Birds of a feather, and all that. They'd shared tables and consumed a great deal of brandy at many gaming hells over the past few years. Viola was a topic they had never discussed.

Dylan flung himself into a striped brocade chair and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. The whine was loud this morning, so loud that it was like a white-hot pain through his skull. Headaches were a malady to which he had long ago become accustomed. He lowered his hand and reached into the inner pocket of his jacket for the small, blue vial that he always kept with him. Pulling out the cork, he took a swallow of laudanum, then recorked the bottle and put it back in his pocket. That would help until he could get some sleep.

One day, even the opiate would no longer work, nor would the women, the brandy, the hashish, or the gaming hells. A day would come when all the reckless things he did just for the hell of it would no longer divert his attention from the unwavering noise. That was when he would go insane.

Unless the music could save him. He had not written a single new piece in five long years. To keep down the gossip, he published an old composition every once in awhile, but that was all.

If he could only compose, his life would once again have purpose. That woman, Grace, held the key, though he did not know why. He had never believed in muses before. He had never needed one before. All Dylan knew was that he had to find her. More than that, he had to keep her with him until he could write the composition she had inspired. Always ambitious, he hoped for a symphony, although a sonata or concerto was a more likely possibility. At this point, anything he could manage to write would be a miracle.

Thoughts of music brought to mind the piece played by the child, Isabel. Quick and tricky, it would have been quite difficult for most people to play. If indeed the girl had composed it, then perhaps his blood did flow in her veins.

With that thought, Dylan raked back his hair with a sigh. There was no perhaps about it. He might not remember the mother, but the child was his. Though everything in him wanted to deny it, he knew the truth. He had known it from the moment he had heard her play, from the moment he had looked into her proud, imperious black eyes as she had claimed the piece her own. He felt a wave of pity for her. With him for a father, God help her. He was no sort of man for such a role. He could barely take care of himself.