The Diabolical Baron (29 page)

Even if she were free to love as she chose, she had no
reason to believe he felt anything stronger than friend
ship for her. She suspected he and Jessica were half in
love with each other; she had seen how happy they were to meet again.

Jess had mourned her husband
long enough and was ready to move into a new life,
while Richard had once told her that every officer in Spain had been expiring of love for the magnificent
Mrs. Sterling. She had been a symbol for them of the
best of English womanhood, not just beautiful and
brimming with vital charm, but patently loving and
faithful to her husband. The major had been the most envied man on the Peninsula.

She hoped they would make a match of it; better to
have Richard in her life that way than not at all. And
they were the two people that she loved best in the
world; she thought she had enough generosity to wish
them happy.

Uncle Richard
? Her heart twisted a little at
the thought. If that happened, she hoped it wouldn’t
be too soon—she wasn’t quite ready for that yet.

After she married Jason, she would be busy pre
tending to be a lady. And there would be children—
another subject that she had never much considered, but found more appealing now. She no longer feared
or hated Jason—might she someday feel a kind of love
for him? Perhaps it would be best if she didn’t; he
showed no desire for a doting wife. He wanted a pre
sentable and undemanding partner; she wasn’t sure if he even knew what love was. She hadn’t known her
self.

Her musings were interrupted by a soft knock at the door, and her maid, Betsy, came in. “Excuse me, Miss
Hanscombe. I know you said you didn’t wish to be
disturbed, but the gentleman said it was important.”

Caroline looked up in surprise. It couldn’t be Jason;
the maid would never apologize for bringing a sum
mons from the master of the house. “Who is calling,
Betsy?”

“It’s the military gentleman staying at Wargrave,
miss. Captain Dalton.”

Caroline felt her face draining of color. She had been
sitting here, pleased with her calm resignation, and
now it was shattered at the mere thought of seeing him
again. How could she look at him normally when her
whole world had irrevocably changed? Forcing herself
to reply steadily, she said, “Tell him I will be down in a few minutes. Is he waiting in the small parlor?”

The maid nodded and left the room with the mes
sage. Caroline stood and gave a despairing glance in
the mirror. It was another irony that she who had
never cared for her appearance was now as anxious as
any other love-struck maiden. Fortunately all her new dresses were flattering; the soft peach-colored morn
ing gown she wore looked well enough to disguise her
slight pallor. Her hair had been dressed simply that
morning, and it required only a touch with the comb.
Unconsciously squaring her shoulders, she went
down to the small parlor.

Richard was looking grave as she entered, but his
face softened to a warm smile at her entrance. She of
fered him her hand, saying, “This is an unexpected
pleasure. It is your first visit to Wildehaven, is it not?”

He nodded. “Yes. The house is splendid and the
land is in good heart. Lord Radford has earned his rep
utation as a good landowner. But I didn’t come here to
talk about Wildehaven.” He stopped, apparently un
sure how to continue.

“Yes?” Caroline prompted, seating herself on one of
the brocade-covered chairs while her visitor chose an
other.

“I’ve taken a great liberty, Caroline. It is not irrevo
cable, but you may well be angry with me.”

She raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Indeed?”

He gave her a rueful smile. “It might be easiest if
you read this.” He pulled a letter from inside his coat and handed it to her.

She opened it curiously. The paper was headed with
the style and address of London’s largest music pub
lisher. Her eyes widened as she read:

Dear Mr. Dalton,

We are delighted to be chosen as publishers of the compositions you submitted. They are works of stunning power and virtuosity, equal to the very best of the modern European composers. I am particularly pleased that the man you represent is English-born; our island has produced few musicians of the top rank. We will be happy to comply with your principal’s desire for anonymity; simply let us know what name or initials he wishes to use.

I think I can say with confidence that we will be honored to publish any future compositions. I hope you will be able to come to London soon to discuss the financial arrangements.

Your most obedient servant, Silas Winford

“What does this mean?” she breathed, hardly be
lieving.

“I copied the works you had left at Wargrave and
sent them to Winford, saying only that they were by a
wellborn person who desired privacy. If you truly do
not wish them to be published, I can retrieve them for
you. Though Mr. Winford would be sadly disap
pointed.”

He looked at her earnestly, saying, “I understand
your shyness, Caro, but your work deserves to be
heard. The beauty of it can bring such joy to others. It
need never affect your privacy. I know you will not
need the money, but I hoped it would please you to
share your work with others.”

She looked at him, too moved to find the right
words. “I can’t believe someone would wish to pub
lish my music. My friends have admired it, but of
course they would feel bound to. I just can’t be
lieve ...” She stopped and bent her head, feeling tears
beginning to run down her cheeks. Her thoughts were jumbled in broken fragments; her father’s anger, Sig
nore Ferrante’s encouragement, the nights when she
lay awake with melodies dancing in her head, fitting
themselves together in different patterns. It seemed in
credible that an unknown expert really valued her
work so much.

Ever practical, Richard handed her a clean handkerchief. She thought she felt a feather-light touch on her
head as his hand withdrew, but wasn’t sure. She
wiped her eyes and looked up apologetically. “I’m
sorry to be such a watering pot. I can never think what to say when I feel something strongly.”

“Does this please you?” he said, watching her
keenly.

She nodded. “Yes. I don’t want my name on the
music. Having people talk about me, criticize me for composing—that would be dreadful. I don’t like to be
noticed; indeed, it makes me very uncomfortable. I
shan’t make a very good peeress, I fear. But it means a
great deal to me that others should care for my work.”

Richard broke into a relieved smile. “Then I am for
given?”

“Of course.” She gave him a shining look as she
started to feel the first tendrils of excitement. “I am just
beginning to believe it.” She stood up suddenly, then
whirled in a circle, throwing her arms wide in an unla
dylike gesture. “In fact, I feel wonderful!”

Richard stood also, saying, “I will be going to Lon
don tomorrow for two or three days to complete the
transaction. Mr. Chelmsford can accompany me to en
sure that your interests are protected. I will contact
you when I return.”

Caroline stopped, her exhilaration dimming. “Wait
for a moment. There is something I wish to give you.”
She hurried from the parlor and upstairs to her bedchamber. When she returned, she carried the sonata
she had just written. Looking up at him shyly, she said,
“This is not for publishing. I wrote it for you only.” She
turned and fled the room, unwilling to stay and see his
reaction.

When Richard returned to Wargrave, he went immediately to the pianoforte to play the composition.
The message came through as clearly as if it had been
written in English, the gentle opening melody devel
oping richer themes of great complexity, from inno
cence to love, with darker stirrings of lambent passion.
There were joy and pain together, discovery and won
der, and the sonata ended in haunting echoes of loss. He sat at the instrument long after the final notes had
faded into memory. When he finally rose, he knew
what needed to be done. It only remained to discover
how.

Chapter 12

There were two arrivals at Wildehaven that after
noon, both demanding Jason’s reluctant attention.
The first was Caroline’s pianoforte, accompanied by a
high-strung Italian gentleman who refused to consign
it into the hands of a mere butler. It was a magnificent
instrument, made by the great Broadwood himself,
and its escort insisted on seeing that it would be prop
erly appreciated. Faintly amused even through his
black depression, Jason had Caroline summoned to
oversee the installation and tuning.

While the Italian gentleman chattered delightedly to
this satisfactorily musical lady, Jason was observing
her very carefully. He was forced to admit that Jessica might be correct in her assessment of her niece’s emo
tions. This was not the same shy child he had met at Almack’s a bare two months before. She had a grave dignity about her, a confident womanly beauty. And
she no longer shrank from him.

He was turning to quietly withdraw from the salon
when Caroline began to play. He had heard the piece before at some musicale, but this time its lyrical pas
sion affected him as music had never done before.
When she had finished, the Italian, for once bereft of
words, kissed her hand in genuine awe. Jason quietly
asked, “What was that, Caroline?”

The deep blue eyes had looked directly into his. “It’s a piano sonata by Ludwig van Beethoven.
Did you enjoy it?”

He nodded, unwilling to describe how deeply it had resonated within his newly lacerated heart. Moved in
spite of himself, he had an insight into what music
meant to Caroline.

Ironic that such understanding
came at the same moment he was wishing her at Jericho. The world was entirely too complicated, he
thought glumly as he retreated once more to his study.

The second intrusion of his privacy was occasioned
by the long-awaited arrival of his Aunt Honoria. Lady Edgeware, after a token diatribe against the roads and
a few acid comments on changes made in Wildehaven
since her last visit, retreated to her chamber to rest be
fore dinner.

Jason could only be grateful, though he ex
pected she was sharpening her tongue so she could do justice to dismembering his houseguests. The evening was to prove him correct.

* * * *

The vicious ache at Jessica’s temples gave her ample
reason to avoid dinner, but she chose to go down. She
had decided to leave Wildehaven as soon as the
Hanscombes arrived, but would be unable to avoid
seeing Jason a few more times.

Dressing for dinner, she found herself regretting her love of clothes: her heavy heart could not begin to live
up to the dashing image in the mirror. The dark teal-
blue evening dress was the most subdued one she
owned; unfortunately, it had an extremely low-cut dé
colletage, and the color enhanced the brilliance of her
auburn tresses while turning her green eyes to
turquoise. But no other gown would be better, so she
resigned herself and went next door to collect her
niece.

As they joined the two men in the small salon, she
couldn’t help noticing what a dour party they were.
Jason was at his most sardonic, Caroline was with
drawn in distant silence, and Jessica thought she her
self must look cold and forbidding.

Only George Fitzwilliam showed a semblance of
normality, manfully searching for topics that would
draw some response from his companions. His struggles ended when the dowager Lady Edgeware swept in, resplendent in a purple turban with three nodding
ostrich plumes. She had obviously recovered from her
journey and was eager for victims. Jason hadn’t mentioned her arrival and now took an unholy pleasure in watching his guests girding themselves for battle.

George blanched as she looked at him dismissively
and said, “I’ll never understand what you see in this
nodcock, nevvy. All the Fitzwilliams have attics to let.”