Prelude for a Lord (16 page)

He did not care about these people, yet it galled him that their opinion had the power to wound his family. It also frustrated him that their whispers stung him. He did not want their gossiping to make him feel anything at all, but he could not seem to subject his emotions to his will.

He forced himself to continue walking toward the Crescent. Things were going according to plan, if he could solve the mystery of Alethea’s violin.

He remembered their conversation while dancing. Her outrageous words about Miss Herrington-Smythe, that shrug of her shoulder, the fearlessness in her expression. She was strong, confident.

And thinking about her seemed to pour a drop of her confidence into him. The tightness in his chest eased as he turned the corner into the Crescent.

He immediately saw Clare accompanied by her abigail, walking toward him, several yards away. He couldn’t miss her, for her pelisse was a bright yellow trimmed with green ribbons. She smiled and waved. As they drew closer, she said, “I am going to the bookstore.”

“Porter’s?” It had the largest selection of music.

She nodded.

“I’ll accompany you.” He turned to walk with her. “I need more of the paper I use for music compositions.”

He saw a flash of grey behind him. Cold seeped into his bones. His embarrassment at Miss Nanstone’s words had made him forget his grey shadow.
God, help me to protect my sister
.

“You have been writing a great deal of music in the past several months,” Clare said. “Is it for your concert?”

“Yes. I had no time to write music while I was fighting Boney, you know.” He reached over to tweak her nose as he used to when they were younger.

She swatted his hand away. “Have you set a date yet?”

“Yes, in three weeks.”

They walked to Green Street and the small bookstore that, in addition to books, specialized in selling music and parchment. Bayard deliberately did not look for the grey man, but at the door of Porter’s, he said to Clare, “Go inside and I shall join you directly.”

He strolled up Green Street past two more stores before turning round. The grey man was behind him, and it seemed he had just flicked his eyes away.

Bayard surged toward him, avoiding the occasional shopper ambling along the cobbled street. The grey man froze, blinked once, then turned into the doorway of a fruit shop.

Bayard stepped around a large matron before he could follow him into the shop. The man was discussing the price of a pineapple with the shopkeeper. He glanced up casually at Bayard, then went back to haggling.

“I demand to know what you are about,” Bayard said.

He regarded Bayard from almost colourless eyes. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.” His voice floated like a spiderweb on the breeze.

“I saw you on Lansdown Road and the Crescent, and now here. You have followed me across all of Bath.”

“ ’Ere now,” the shopkeeper said. “I don’t know where you might have seen this gen’lman, but he had an appointment with me about this pineapple. Set it up earlier this morning.” The shopkeeper frowned at Bayard, and the grey man did not look smug or sly, simply bewildered.

Bayard swallowed. Was this not the same man? Had this all been pure coincidence?

Had he suspected something more because he was going mad again?

The thought propelled him backward. “I beg your pardon,” he muttered and strode from the shop.

He didn’t know where he was going. His hands shook. He clenched his fists and walked quickly, keeping his head down lest someone look into his eyes and see his fear, his desperation.

It could not be happening again. He still remembered the living nightmares of summer last year, when reality and memory had exploded together in his mind. He had been able to walk through an English countryside directly onto the shores of Corunna, hearing the crack of gunfire and the keening moans as his friends died. He had smelled the briny scent of the sea, the metallic tang of blood, the screaming of injured horses. And then days, minutes, seconds later, he had returned to the drizzle of English rain, the scent of English earth, the chill of an English wind. He had descended into a pit of chaos and suffering that had been his life back from war.

He had to reassert control over himself. If he did not, he could not take care of his family. It was entirely up to him.

“Lord Dommick.”

Alethea. The last person in the world he wanted to meet. He propelled his eyes upward—skimming the brown patterned gown and beaded burgundy spencer to her face.

Her polite expression melted into alarm and concern. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but then her eyes slid sideways
to her maid. “Sally, why don’t you go home? Lord Dommick will escort me from here.”

The maid bobbed a curtsey and headed away.

As soon as she was out of earshot, Alethea stepped close. “Give me your arm. Let us walk.” Her voice was low and calm, and as she laid her hand on his arm, he smelled the scent of . . . roses in the rain. Her composure soothed him, and he was able to walk slowly with her beside him. His heartbeat gradually slowed to the pace of their steps.

Still in that low voice, Alethea said, “May I assist you in any way?”

He was about to say no, but took a breath or two instead. “You have already done so.”

“Please tell me what has upset you.”

“It is nothing.”

“Dommick, I did not think you a man who would lie to me.”

The use of his name on her lips in that familiar manner eased something inside of him that had been painfully tight, which he had not noticed until it unwound. “I thought I saw a man following me, but I was mistaken.”

Her fingers on his arm clenched. “A man? Is he still behind you?” Her head jerked to the side as she almost turned to look.

He had expected soothing platitudes, not this immediate belief. “I . . . do not think so. I haven’t looked.”

“What did he look like? Thin? Dirty-faced? Grey?”

He stopped to stare at her. She faced him, her burgundy bonnet framing her oval face, almond-shaped eyes, full red lips. She was completely serious.

“You have been followed as well,” he said.

“Twice.”

The concise answer and clipped tone revealed more than a multitude of words. He moved closer to her. “You did not tell me.”

“I didn’t think to. I wasn’t certain if it had anything to do with the violin. And you . . .” She turned her head until her profile was partially screened by the side of her bonnet. “You didn’t appear to seriously consider someone was trying to steal the violin.”

He didn’t know how to answer her, so he continued walking. She kept pace beside him, but he missed being able to see her eyes, hidden by the dip of her bonnet. He only saw the smooth curve of her cheek and chin.

He had not believed her, yet she had believed him immediately without knowing what the man had looked like. It shamed him. For the past year, everyone around him told him that what he saw was not real.

Alethea was different. Perhaps God had been trying to show this to him all along and he had been too stubborn to see it.

“I am sorry,” he said.

“It is understandable. Although to be sure, I could not have said that to you a week ago. I do hope you will be escorting me home, since I have dismissed my maid.”

“Of course.” It was not mere gallantry. If someone were indeed following her, he would not allow her to walk anywhere alone. “We must first stop by Porter’s bookshop. My sister is there.” He directed their steps back to Green Street.

“Excellent. I had wanted to look for new music.”

“Clare will convince you to purchase Beethoven.”

Alethea laughed, a rich sound that reminded him of the velvety lower tones of her violin.

However, just as they turned the corner to Green Street, Bayard caught sight of Mr. Morrish, looking smug as he adjusted his high-pointed collar and entered Porter’s bookshop.

Alethea recognized him also. “Is that . . . ?”

“Hurry.” Bayard pulled her with him. He had to protect Clare. There was no one else who would care for her as he did.

It seemed the street was suddenly full of people blocking their way. He did not want to move too quickly lest it bring more attention to himself, but he could not seem to politely dodge as nimbly as he wished.

“Surely he will not harm her in the time it takes us to reach them,” Alethea said as they waited for a rumbling vegetable cart to move out of the way.

“No, you are right.” But he still felt alarm at the sight of the man’s confident, sly face. Bayard was certain Mr. Morrish knew Clare would be in the shop. Also, Mr. Morrish was not musical, and while Porter’s sold books, there were other, larger bookstores frequented by the fashionable set in Bath.

They finally reached the shop door and entered. The first thing Bayard saw was Clare’s maid near the front of the store, flirting with a shop boy.

“Betty, where is your mistress?” Bayard demanded.

The girl went pink, her eyes wide, but she managed to answer in a sulky voice, “I’m sure I don’t know, milord. She bid me stay here.”

The shop boy frowned at her. “She did?”

Betty’s mouth pinched as she glared at him. “A’course she did.”

Bayard gave her a hard look, then moved past her deeper into the busy shop. Alethea followed. They wound their way through the bookcases and around tables laden with stacked leather-bound books and paper booklets of music.

“Dommick.” Alethea moved toward the far corner of the shop, where he caught a flash of yellow. He also heard the sound of Clare’s voice in a low, harsh whisper.

“I demand that you release me.” There was anger and fear in her tone.

Bayard rushed forward. He heard the sounds of a scuffle, some books falling, the rocking of a bookcase that had been knocked into. Was she being attacked?

Then Mr. Morrish’s loud, smooth voice saying, “Oh, Mrs. Herrington-Smythe, I fear you have caught us out.” And Clare’s loud gasp.

They turned the corner and came upon the short, beady-eyed matron looking avidly upon the sight of Mr. Morrish with his arms around Clare, who was obviously trying to push him away. It looked like a lover’s tryst had Clare not been glaring daggers at Mr. Morrish, and had the young man not looked so triumphant.

Clare would be ruined.

CHAPTER SEVEN

B
ayard froze, unable to think quickly enough of something to do to curb Mrs. Herrington-Smythe’s gossiping tongue. He was helpless again, as he had been this past spring, to stop the storytelling that would spread like a disease.

“Mr. Morrish!” Alethea said in tragic tones quite unlike her normal sensible voice. She crushed her hand to her chest. “I am ashamed of you!”

Mrs. Herrington-Smythe now turned to Alethea with curious, bulging eyes. She looked rather like a pug dog anxious for a treat.

Alethea continued, “And after you had assured me last night that you were anxious to confer your attentions upon Miss Herrington-Smythe!”

Bayard thought back to last night. Actually, Mr. Morrish had said something like that while being gallant about asking Miss Herrington-Smythe to dance.

Mrs. Herrington-Smythe started, making the fruit dangling from her hat jump and sway. The woman regarded first Alethea, then Mr. Morrish with narrow eyes.

The young man stiffened, giving Clare the opportunity to shove him away and hurry to Bayard’s side.

Alethea marched up to Mr. Morrish. “Miss Herrington-Smythe will be most upset.” She turned to Mrs. Herrington-Smythe. “Ma’am, I shall be sure to tell
everyone
of this man’s dastardly conduct in regards to your lovely daughter.”

At Alethea’s words, the pink circles of rouge on the older woman’s cheeks stood out against her pale skin. There was silence among them all, and Bayard could almost see Mrs. Herrington-Smythe debating her course of action. Would the whisper of scandal spread by Lady Alethea Sutherton about her daughter outweigh the whisper of scandal she could spread about Miss Clare Terralton?

She cleared her throat and said with reluctance, “Surely, Lady Alethea, my daughter does not deserve to be exposed to more pain.”

Alethea affected contrition. “You are right. Forgive me, ma’am. I allowed my righteous anger for your daughter’s sake to overrule my good sense. We must not speak of this, in order to spare her feelings.”

Mrs. Herrington-Smythe pressed her lips together. Alethea had outwitted her. The gossipy matron would not speak of this incident about Clare for fear Alethea would then speak about her daughter. Checkmate.

Mrs. Herrington-Smythe cast them all a disdainful glance, then said through tight lips, “I bid you all good day.” She swept away.

“He did this on purpose, Bay,” Clare whispered. “He cornered me. He was simply talking until he heard someone approaching. Then he embraced me before I could see what he was about.”

“I did no such thing.” Mr. Morrish’s voice was full of injury. “I steadied Miss Terralton when she stumbled.”

“I did stumble as I tried to get away from you,” Clare hissed.

“Miss Terralton, what happened to your maid?” Alethea’s voice was soft with a root of iron.

Clare hesitated. “She was with me, but when Mr. Morrish arrived, she had disappeared and I hadn’t noticed.”