Six

Looking around the front hall of Langford House, with its soaring stair and rich marble floor, Verity judged it the grandest house she’d ever entered. Light poured down from high windows, glittered in a huge crystal chandelier, and gleamed in the gold stripes of the wallpaper. A hint of potpourri scented the air, along with beeswax and lemon. The clatter of the London streets didn’t penetrate the gracious silence. “Goodness,” murmured her mother. Verity was determined not to be intimidated.

A liveried footman led them through two beautiful reception rooms to the back of the house. He opened a door and stood back. Verity and her mother stepped over the threshold into a perfectly splendid music room. For a moment Verity forgot everything else as she took in the fine instruments waiting to be played, the older ones adorning the walls, and the piles of expensive sheet music. She could spend hours in a place like this and be blissfully happy, she thought.

And then a tall, stately woman came forward to greet them, and Verity was making her curtsy to the duchess, as well as wondering where Lord Randolph could be.

He hurried in on the heels of that thought. “I beg your pardon,” he said. “I was just… Mama, this is Mrs. Sinclair and Miss Verity Sinclair. Ladies, my mother.”

“Your Grace,” they murmured.

The duchess said, “Welcome to Langford House.” And with the warmth in her blue eyes and the ease of her smile, Verity felt the atmosphere in the room change from grandiose to relaxed. Or perhaps it was simply her own mood that had shifted. As they sat down and exchanged remarks about the weather and the season, she found she could talk to Lord Randolph’s mother with surprising ease.

“I know you have musical matters to discuss,” said the duchess after a while. She rose. “I will leave you to it. But I wanted to make sure you have all you need, Mrs. Sinclair.”

“You’re very kind.”

“I’ve seen to the arrangements, Mama,” said Lord Randolph.

“Sponge cakes and macaroons?” she asked.

“What else?”

The humorous look they exchanged gave Verity a glimpse into the Gresham family, which seemed a pleasant place. The door opened, and a maid came in with several sturdy working candles. “You said you’d bring some embroidery,” said Lord Randolph to Verity’s mother. “I wanted to make certain you had good light.”

The duchess gave him an approving nod and went out. Lord Randolph made a great production of getting Verity’s mother settled with the candles set just so and a cushion for her back and offers of tea or other refreshment. “So kind,” she murmured as she was settled in the front corner of the room.

Verity noticed that it was the corner farthest from the pianoforte. And that the special candles and cushions—which a less observant person might dismiss as finicky items for a man to consider—effectively rooted Mama at a distance. It was unlikely that she would overhear much of what they said, unless they started shouting. Which she might, if Lord Randolph tried to maneuver her in a similar way. And where had he acquired such skill at diverting chaperones?

“I’ve pulled out piles of music,” he said when they were at last free to begin. He led the way over to the table where the sheets were displayed. “I was thinking we should choose popular pieces rather than anything too complicated. Perhaps even repeat the song we did at Lady Tolland’s.”

Their eyes met, mirroring memories of that astonishing experience. Verity’s cheeks grew hot. A self-conscious silence stretched out. She could actually hear her mother’s needle prick the embroidery canvas.

Lord Randolph cleared his throat. “Ah, our audience at Carleton House will be varied,” he went on. “Not all will be particularly musical. But I’m eager to hear your opinion about the program, of course.”

He stopped and waited for her to speak. He gazed at her as if he actually wanted to know her views, and wasn’t just pausing to give the appearance of listening before telling her what to do. It was a point in his favor. “What about some Italian songs, varied with Scots or Irish ballads?” she suggested. “How long need we sing, do you think?”

“Long enough to satisfy the prince’s wounded vanity,” he responded wryly.

Verity looked down to hide a smile. “That sounds rather difficult to measure. An hour?”

“No more, certainly. We are doing a favor, not putting on a full concert. Shall we say six pieces? With one in reserve in case they insist on more?”

Verity agreed, and they looked through Mozart’s and Haydn’s arrangements of popular tunes and sheets of songs by Robert Burns and Thomas Moore. Langford House appeared to possess any piece one could desire, and Verity envied the bounty. She had to ration her purchases of sheet music on her allowance. The money her grandfather had left her was in trust until she married. And why was she thinking of that now? “‘Robin Adair’ would make a lovely base for a set of variations,” she said.

They bent over the music together. “It would indeed,” said Lord Randolph. He sat at the pianoforte and began to play the simple melody, and then to embellish it. Verity hummed along, following his elaborations. “Just here,” he said, playing intricate series of notes. She caught the idea at once. Spontaneously they sang a verse with the new adornments, their voices blending in a twining harmony. By the end they were staring at each other, mutually astonished.

“Very pretty,” said Verity’s mother from the corner.

It was as if he could predict exactly what she meant to sing, Verity thought. Or, perhaps, his musical impulses ran in precisely the same direction. The phrase in tune took on a whole new meaning as they ran through the entire song, consulted briefly, and then tried it again. The result was equally lovely and interesting, but different with the varying choices of the moment. This must be what it was like to be intoxicated, she thought, as she fell into the music and a give and take with this man she barely knew—except that somehow they vibrated to the same pitch.

They chose three other songs and experimented with variations and harmonies. Verity was aware that they were taking more trouble than was required for a simple evening’s performance. But the process was so delightful. Lord Randolph obviously felt the same way. “What about a change of key here?” she said.

“Perfect,” he replied. And when he smiled at her—that devastating smile—Verity thought he meant more than simply a musical variation.

The next time she surfaced, at her mother’s behest, Verity discovered that two hours had passed. How was that possible?

“Verity,” said her mother again.

She had put aside her fancywork, Verity saw. A maid was setting out tea and an array of cakes. It was time to stop. Her sharp pang of regret seemed to be echoed in Lord Randolph’s intense blue gaze. He didn’t have any trouble devouring several macaroons, however.

“We’ve made good progress,” he said between confectionaries. “Don’t you think so, Mrs. Sinclair?”

Watching the boredom on her mother’s face shift, Verity understood why he addressed the question to her. Not that understanding always helped anything.

“It all sounded pretty,” her mother replied. “I don’t know why you need to sing a tune over and over though, when it was fine the first time. But then I’ve never been musical. Verity gets that from her father.”

“Indeed? The dean is a musician?”

“Oh yes. He selects all the music for cathedral services. The organist is so happy to have his guidance.”

And if you believe that, Verity thought, you’ve never heard one of their planning sessions. Papa was more a manager of music than a musician, in her view. But of course she never said so. He thought of the two things as the same.

“It’s too bad he won’t be there to hear us,” said their host.

“Oh, well…”

Verity met her mother’s eyes. For once, they were in perfect sympathy. Beyond Papa’s likely disapproval of the event, he had a tendency to exalt his taste over everyone else’s. There had been a few testy moments with the bishop. Would he hesitate to correct the prince? Verity suppressed a shudder. “He’s far too busy,” she said. “Is your family coming?”

“All of them who are in town,” Lord Randolph replied promptly. He turned to her mother. “Perhaps we could rehearse again on Thursday afternoon?”

It was all well and good to include Mama, Verity thought. But she was the one doing the singing. “I’ve promised to visit my friend Olivia Thursday afternoon,” she declared.

“Olivia Townsend?”

He’d met Olivia in Northumberland. Verity had forgotten that. “Yes.”

“Perhaps you might go another day?”

“Oh, no, it’s a set thing.” He might have a glorious voice, but she wouldn’t be…herded.

“Friday then?”

Verity allowed her mother to consider and agree. They chatted for a bit longer. Verity resisted a second cake, and soon after, they took their leave.

* * *

“You seem a thousand miles away,” said Sebastian that evening as they prepared to go in to dinner at his house.

“Not so far as that,” Randolph responded. His thoughts had strayed only a few blocks away, in fact, to the music room of Langford House and the hours he’d spent there this afternoon. How did such harmony of taste come about, he wondered, in two people with quite different histories? He’d met any number of individuals with fine voices, but when he sang with Miss Verity Sinclair, an unseen hand seemed to pluck the strings of his being. He lost himself in the music they created together; he felt as if his spirit expanded. And this with a young lady whose first reaction had been to reject him out of hand! She still glanced at him, now and then, as if he seriously annoyed her. It made no sense.

“You look like someone has hit you with a rock,” said Lady Hilda Stane. “Not too hard, just enough to muddle your senses.”

The youngest Stane sister had probably calibrated blows to the head exactly, Randolph thought. She had enough effrontery for three girls. He gathered his wits and smiled at the smirking blond. He suspected he’d been invited tonight to help Hilda feel she was enjoying a taste of society while Emma was out with friends. Sebastian had mentioned rumblings in his household as Hilda watched her older sisters go off to party after party. The fact that she was only fifteen years old, and not nearly out, didn’t weigh with Hilda, and Sebastian feared some revolution was brewing.

Randolph watched his brother settle his wife into her chair at the dinner table, full of tender solicitude. Randolph was reconciled to his fate, but it seemed unfair that he should be burdened with so many blissfully married brothers. Taking the seat at his hostess’s right, he addressed himself to the soup.

“We were wondering,” said Georgina quietly after a few spoonfuls, “if you might be able to take Hilda about a bit.”

Randolph choked on a mouthful of broth. This was far worse than he’d expected. He shot Sebastian an indignant glance. Cannily, his brother wasn’t looking at him. He was keeping Hilda occupied at the other end of the table.

“I’m so busy squiring Emma about that Hilda’s being left to herself a good deal. And with Miss Byngham gone—”

“Where?” Randolph couldn’t help asking. Hilda’s former governess had revealed a deep vein of eccentricity during the summer.

Georgina shrugged. “I’m not sure. But Hilda’s becoming rather lonely.”

It was hard to see the girl that way, but Randolph supposed her sister was a better judge. “Sebastian knows London better than I do,” Randolph tried. The girl was Sebastian’s sister-in-law, after all.

“He has a stretch of duty coming up. He can’t get away.”

Randolph sometimes thought that Sebastian’s cavalry regiment took his time when he wished it to and not when he didn’t. But that was unjust.

“I know you’re busy as well,” added his brother’s wife with her lovely smile. “But it would be so kind of you.”

Had Sebastian coached her on just how to appeal to him? That seemed too subtle for his military brother.

“You could take her to visit in Russell Square,” Georgina continued. “She likes Flora.”

“Really?” Randolph gazed at Hilda, who was trying to persuade Sebastian to buy her a sword stick. “She hates books, and Flora nearly always has her head in one.”

“I know. I think Hilda is interested in Flora’s charitable work with street children.”

Randolph was assailed by a vision of Hilda at the head of a gang of grubby urchins, careening through the streets of London bent on mischief. He said as much to Georgina.

She laughed uneasily. “Flora’s charges aren’t grubby. And she wouldn’t let Hilda… The thing is, Hilda’s already sneaked out of the house once, with one of the maids, to visit Astley’s Amphitheatre. She won’t be shut in.”

Randolph couldn’t resist the appeal in his sister-in-law’s gaze. “Oh, very well. I’ll escort her to Russell Square.” Perhaps Robert could overawe the girl.

“And perhaps to the menagerie at the Exeter Exchange?”

“The—?”

But the phrase had caught Hilda’s ear. She leaned forward eagerly. “Are you talking of the animals? They have a lion and a tiger. As well as monkeys, a hippopotamus, an elephant…oh, all sort of creatures. I simply must see them.”

“Lord Randolph might take you there,” said Georgina, evading his reproachful look. “If you behave with some degree of propriety.”

* * *

That was how Randolph found himself in one of his father’s carriages the following morning, shepherding Lady Hilda Stane and a young housemaid to his brother Robert’s home in Russell Square. Hilda had argued forcefully that the menagerie should come first, but Randolph had not been moved.

When they were ushered into the drawing room, they found two callers already present. Robert and Flora seemed glad to welcome newcomers. “You remember Miss Olivia Townsend,” Robert said.

“We met in Northumberland,” said the slender young lady on the sofa. “Well, not precisely met. I don’t believe we were introduced. But I know who you are, of course. This is my sister, Beatrice.”

Randolph made his bow. Miss Townsend’s wide cheeks and pointed chin reminded him of a fox, if one could envision a fox with crimped brown hair, stylish apparel, and shining half boots.

Her sister, who looked to be of an age with Hilda, had to resemble a different parent. She was already taller than Olivia, sturdy and square shouldered, with dark-brown hair and slightly protuberant hazel eyes. Randolph barely had time to introduce Hilda before Miss Beatrice Townsend was chattering.

“Mama was very sorry not to accompany us,” she said. “But my brother Peter broke his arm falling from the chandelier in the front hall.” At the others’ exclamations, she added, “He was very fortunate to escape with only that small injury. He brought down the chandelier with him—a positive blizzard of crystal. We thought the house was collapsing around our ears.”

“It was very expensive,” Beatrice added.

Her older sister nodded. “We decided to take ourselves off until the shouting was over.” The Townsend sisters exchanged a laughing look. “And Beatrice so wanted to meet you because of your success on the stage,” Olivia said to Flora.

“My—” Robert’s wife looked startled.

“I told her how everyone praised your performance as Mrs. Malaprop at our amateur theatricals at the house party last autumn.”

Hilda gazed at Flora with new interest as she shook her head.

“I would be glad to hear any advice you could give me,” said Beatrice. She was uncommonly assured for her age. “I am dedicated to the stage. Particularly the comic roles. I was named for a character in Shakespeare’s Much Ado about Nothing, you know.”

“Not Dante?” murmured Flora.

Only Robert and Randolph appeared to hear.

“Does your family let you act?” asked Hilda.

“However would they stop me?”

“Lock you in your room?”

Beatrice met Hilda’s eyes. Randolph watched the two girls exchange a wealth of silent information. An instant alliance seemed to form, and Hilda went to sit beside Beatrice on the sofa. They soon had their heads together in an intense, inaudible conversation. Randolph was struck by an elusive resemblance between them. He couldn’t put his finger on it at first. Hilda was blond and green-eyed and Beatrice dark, with the stockier figure. Then he got it. They had the same stubborn set to their chins.

Miss Townsend chattered on about Lady Victoria Moreton’s December wedding, in which she had served as a bridesmaid. The topic appeared to amuse Robert and Flora more than Randolph would have expected. He barely listened, straining to overhear what Hilda and Beatrice were plotting. Because they clearly were plotting. They weren’t sophisticated enough to disguise it.

“So Miss Reynolds is also in London,” Olivia said. “Do you have her direction? I should call, of course.”

Flora looked surprised, then pleased. She readily gave the address. A few minutes later, Olivia rose to go. The grins that Hilda and Beatrice exchanged as the Townsend sisters departed only confirmed Randolph’s suspicions. Those two would bear watching.

“A pair of slightly…fatiguing young ladies,” Robert said when they were gone. Hilda frowned at him.

“Their father’s a nabob,” Flora replied. “Positively dripping with oriental jewels.”

At Robert’s raised eyebrow, she looked self-conscious. Indeed, the remark wasn’t like her, Randolph thought.

“I’m quoting an acquaintance,” Flora added. “Their mother is a relation of the Duke of Devonshire.”

“Cavendish or Boyle?”

“I don’t know.” Flora turned away, dismissing the topic with a turn of her shoulder. “Are you enjoying London, Hilda?” she asked.

“I think I shall,” said Hilda, who’d obviously been filing this information away. “Even more than I expected. Miss Beatrice Townsend invited me to call on her.”

“You must ask your sister for permission,” Randolph said.

“Of course I will. But she’ll be happy. She was saying just the other day that it was too bad I hadn’t any friends of my own in London.”

Perhaps he should drop a word about Miss Townsend in Georgina’s ear, Randolph thought. He became certain of it when he mentioned the menagerie on their drive home, and Hilda said, “Oh, never mind.”