The Diabolical Baron (18 page)

In the modern wing he began hearing an ethereal
wisp of music. At first it seemed imaginary, but it
strengthened and led him to a thick oak door in the rear
corner of the building. Opening the door, he paused in
pure wonder.

Richard’s first thought was that she was an angel.
However, no wings were in evidence, and he didn’t suppose angels needed sheet music. The girl was
seated on a bench before a window, backlit by a flood
of sunshine that burnished her hair to gold. A few
silken curls hung around the exquisitely delicate face
as her head bent over a small Celtic harp.

The tune was familiar to him, but he had never heard
it done with such feeling or virtuosity. Seeing her rapt
in a world of radiant sound, he thought of a pagan
priestess playing to her gods on a moonlit mountain.
The bell-like notes throbbed and pulsed, the echoes res
onating from the ancient roots of Britain.

He had forgotten the sound of joy. When had he last
seen or felt such a passionate intensity of being? These
last months had held little but pain and stoic determination. Hearing that triumphant musical celebration,
he could almost feel the blood begin to sing in his
veins. The world took on added dimension and color—
weightless motes of dust suspended in the sun, pol
ished wood glowing with inner light, and the vision
before him impressed irrevocably on his brain. He wanted to laugh out loud as he remembered what it
was to live.

The music ended in a shower of golden notes, leav
ing a richly silent peace. As he was irresistibly drawn across the room toward the girl, she looked up at him
with a complete lack of self-consciousness.

“It was you, wasn’t it?” she said in a voice as pure
and musical as that of the harp.

“I’m sorry, what was me? Or would it be ‘what was
I?’”

She gave an enchanting chuckle. “That didn’t make
sense, did it? I thought I was imagining the sound of a
pipe harmonizing with the harp. It blended and
counter-pointed with the main theme so perfectly, I
didn’t believe it was real. Were you whistling?”

He returned her smile. “I’m afraid I probably was.
Whistling is my besetting sin—I often don’t know I am
doing it. My friends have threatened to throw shoes at
me as if I were a back-alley cat.”

“But you whistle so very well,” she said seriously.
“Surely you must have known this piece of music.”

He nodded. “Yes, it is by Turlough O’Carolan.”

“Oh, you’ve heard of him! I never have. Who was
he?”

“A superb composer who lived in Ireland about a
hundred years ago. His work was in the folk tradition but has Italian elements as well. It’s unfortunate he is
not better known outside his own country. But how did
you learn to play a Celtic harp so well in England?”

She looked pleased at the praise. “The box that con
tained the scores also had notes on the kinds of ornamentation an Irish harper would improvise. I’ve been
working on this all day. Was it correct?”

“I have never heard it played better.” He gazed in
tently at her for a moment, then looked around. “What
is this place?”

“I think of it as heaven,” she confided, “but perhaps
it would be more correct to call it the ultimate music
room.”

Richard suppressed an inward laugh as he turned to investigate. Where else would an angel belong but in
heaven?

The wall opposite the broad windows held a spe
cially built cabinet with an incredible array of stringed
and wind instruments. To his left were shelves of verti
cal boxes shaped like large books. He pulled one out at
random and read the label on the spine: Johann Christ
ian Bach,
Music for Strings and Chamber Orchestra.
A list
of individual pieces followed, and inside were the
sheets of music described. As he looked further, he saw that it was a completely cataloged music library, classi
fied by title, instrument, composer, and date.

The young woman had followed him. “Is it not in
credible?” she asked eagerly. “I have never seen such a
wealth of music. I’m told the last countess was a fine
musician—she collected all these instruments and com
positions. It must have been her life’s work. The instru
ments are all of superb quality, and the composers are
wonderful. Some are men I never heard of, but all I
have tried are more than worthy.”

Richard looked around the room. It had the high
molded ceiling and proportions of a fine library, and
there was ample space for several standing instru
ments. A raised platform at the far end seemed de
signed for chamber concerts. “I see two dulcimers, a
harpsichord, virginals, a clavichord, and a pianoforte. The only thing missing is a pipe organ.”

The girl laughed. “It is a sad lack, but I’m told the
countess had a very fine organ built in the parish
church. Perhaps the earl objected to having plaster
shaken loose from the ceilings.”

“How very unhandsome of him.”

“Perhaps the poor man had no ear for the finer
things of life,” she said charitably.

Richard was gazing at the pianoforte with a longing expression on his face. “I haven’t been
near a pianoforte in over a year.” He limped over and
seated himself on the long bench, running some experimental scales. “It has a lovely tone. A pity I am so out
of practice.”

He started to play a Mozart sonata, forgetting he was
not alone. For someone who hadn’t played for many
months, it was a remarkably fine performance. A few
notes might go astray, but great feeling and skill were
apparent.

Caroline listened in appreciation for a few
minutes, then walked to the instrument and seated her
self next to him on the bench. With her right hand she
started improvising a descant that blended with the
main sonata. Richard accepted her presence without
missing a note, and they continued through the piece in perfect harmony.

After completing the concerto, he turned and looked
down at her. “Thank you. I don’t know when I have en
joyed anything more.”

There was a brief silence before she said rather breath
lessly, “Do you know any of the other Mozart sonatas?”
He turned wordlessly and began to play again.

Caroline joined in readily but she felt curiously off-
balance. When he looked at her with those warm,
golden-flecked hazel eyes, she abruptly realized they
were nearly touching. She could feel a calm strength ra
diating from his body; it was disquieting, but not in the
way Jason was. She felt no anger in him, but rather a
deep and abiding kindness. She shivered slightly, then
let herself be absorbed by the music.

He took liberties with the tempo but she seemed able
to read his mind and followed his playing effortlessly.
They passed the next half-hour in complete harmony,
taking turns choosing the music and letting the other
recognize and join in.

That was how Josiah Chelmsford found them. He lis
tened at the door for a few minutes, enjoying the rare
quality of the performance. He had had no idea
Richard was so talented, but it shouldn’t have sur
prised him—both sides of the boy’s family had been
musically inclined. The lawyer was loath to end the
performance but finally intervened after a Mozart
sonata.

“That was a treat for these old ears. Will you intro
duce me to your charming companion, Captain Dal
ton?”

The two young people looked at each other in sur
prise, then started laughing. “I’m sorry, sir, I have
no idea. We haven’t gotten to names yet. If you will
permit me to introduce myself, I am Richard Dalton,
here at Mr. Chelmsford’s behest to take inventory of the property. Do you live here? I was told only a small staff
was present.” Dressed as she was, the girl couldn’t pos
sibly be a servant.

She looked up at him, shyer with another person pre
sent. “My name is Caroline Hanscombe. I am staying
nearby and
...
it was arranged that I could practice
here.”

Chelmsford looked at her keenly. “Caroline
Hanscombe—then you would be Lord Radford’s fia
ncée. I saw the notice in the newspaper. Delighted to make your acquaintance. Radford is held in very high
esteem.”

Richard watched as she cast her eyes down
ward. visibly withdrawing. “Yes, he has been everything that is kind. I am most fortunate.”

The lawyer observed with interest as Richard re
sumed his usual calm, controlled expression. The girl was a taking little thing. Pity she was engaged; he had
never seen the boy look so carefree. Still, it was best he
understood the situation; Radford wasn’t the man to let
another poach on his preserves.

* * * *

Having tracked Richard to the music room, Josiah
decided to use the fine summer day to show him some
of the property. As they walked to the stables, the gen
eral air of shabby neglect that was faintly obvious in
the house became much more pronounced. It was clear
that the estate had suffered from mismanagement or a
shortage of funds or both.

The captain noted it without comment, but Chelmsford found himself saying apolo
getically, “I’ve done all I could to bring it about this last
year, but the income isn’t sufficient to do all that is required in such a short time.”

By this time they had reached the main stable block.
While many of the stalls were empty, six or eight good
horses remained. No grooms were in evidence so
Richard took a saddle from the tack room.

“This should be interesting,” he said. “I haven’t been on a horse in a year.”

The lawyer’s eyes shot to the injured leg, ashamed
for having forgotten. Much as Richard might be deter
mined to ignore his handicap, he would still run into
problems controlling a horse. “Do you think you can
manage?” Chelmsford said, reluctant to demur openly.

“There’s only one way to find out.”

Chelmsford was alarmed to find the captain heading for the largest and liveliest of the horses, a beast with a
wicked gleam in its eye and the unpromising name
“Rakehell” on a plaque above its door.

“If it has been so long, perhaps a quieter animal?”
the lawyer said with a hint of desperation.

“We wouldn’t want to make it too easy, now, would we?”

Chelmsford was stilled by the mischievous spark in the captain’s eye. Resigning himself to the inevitable,
he saddled a peaceful-looking mare called Daisy. If the
French hadn’t killed the boy in seven years, a horse
probably wouldn’t do it.

After mounting, the lawyer turned to see Richard
nose to nose in earnest conversation with Rakehell.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Asking him to take pity on a broken-down soldier.”

“In Spanish?”

“Horses seem to like it.” With this unanswerable
statement, the captain swung up to the saddle. Rake
hell fidgeted a bit but refrained from the wild acrobat
ics his appearance and name had suggested. As the
lawyer stared, Richard said cheerfully, “Now, what was
it you wanted to show me?”

Shaking his head, Josiah reminded himself once
again not to underestimate Richard Davenport.

* * * *

Three hours later they drew up on a hill overlooking
the pretty village of Wargrave. It was about a mile
away from the house, and its gray stone cottages were
scattered casually along the banks of a small river.

Richard had been surprised at how large the estate
was; seeing was quite different from hearing about it in
London. There were a dozen tenant properties as well
as the home farm, with sheep and cattle, plus a variety of crops. The estate itself was a complete community with dairy, laundries, succession houses, forge, brew-
house, dovecote, fishpond, and everything else needed
for self-sufficiency.

Now many buildings were closed
or little-used. In its heyday Wargrave Park had bustled
like a beehive; now it more nearly resembled a ghost town.