They were not expecting James Campbell, the Duke of Durham, to call on Monday morning.

James was not well-versed in the proper times to call. He’d vaguely gone along with others on such missions but had paid no mind to the time, and so showed up, probably when was not proper. Why else would he be bid to wait so long in the receiving room just beside the doorway?

Of course, it was Monday, not Tuesday, so he had no true cause to call at all. Certainly not without a note or arrangement to gain entry. Perhaps the family was not at home, creating a whole new set of worries that had heretofore not occurred to him.

I should have waited. It would have been better to come when expected.

But it seemed odd all the same when he had been in the house only last night at dinner. It was all so different now by the light of day. Servants bustled past the room with purposeful steps. One came in and lit the fire for him as if to underscore how little he was expected. Not that he complained about it, the warmth was appreciated after his ride over through the bitter cold.

The servant disappeared as quickly as he had arrived, closing the door behind him with the care of one who had been well-trained in the art of being unobtrusive.

James had stood when the man had entered, half-thinking to ask how long he must wait; the very fact that the fire was laid told him to expect some time to pass before the household reacted to his presence. But the man gave him no room for questioning and likely would not have told him anything all the same.

So, it was that James stood near the door as it closed and heard the first strains of music from somewhere deep within the house.

A harp? James caught the door, to keep it from closing all the way. The servant on the other side looked askance at him. James stood for a moment, framed within the doorway, tilting his head to one side as he listened.

“Would that be Lady Barrington?” he asked, listening to a trill played with some skill, realizing that he not only knew the piece, but that whoever played the piece did so with enjoyment and even emotion.

“Yes, Your Grace. If that will be all?” The servant asked the question with a finality that did not leave room for further inquiries.

“Yes, thank you.” James watched the man depart, making no move to close the door and retreat back into his parlor to wait as a good guest ought to. No, he was not good at this entire act of making a call upon a lady. So long as she played, he had no intention of moving at all.

But the music was too faint, and he found that his feet had their own resolve, which was to carry him nearer that he might hear better. He moved without thinking into the hall, finding the room that must need be parlor and music room both. The music changed, a tempest raging, a piece he did not know. The music grew wilder, more untamed. Passionate.

James felt the stirring within, the answering call that he could not have explained if he’d tried. This was a piece that spoke of yearning. He wanted to go to her but could not. It was not proper. This entire visit was not proper.

In frustration and agony of indecision, James leaned against the wall next to the door. She was there, just on the other side. Had she been informed that he was waiting and not cared? Or had the message gone elsewhere to another member of the household?

Footsteps above him drew his attention to the staircase. A woman descended; he could see the bottom hem of her skirts first. A moment later, Miss Barlowe came into view, a bundle of green fabric draped over one arm.

She stopped when she saw him, her face suffused with pleasure. “Your Grace! I was not expecting to see you there!” She came down the remaining steps much lighter than she had trod the previous ones, nearly to dancing in delight as she paused at the foot, one hand still on the bannister. “Are you waiting on Lord Barrington?”

“Actually, I had rather hoped I might speak with his daughter. I know she was not feeling well last night, and it seemed the polite thing to do to call today and see how she fared.”

Some look that he could not interpret crossed Miss Barlowe’s face as she shifted the bundle in her arms. Regret? Anger? Sorrow? Her eyes narrowed a little as she studied him, as though she were testing her words in her mind before answering. “I am afraid that Lady Barrington is not receiving callers today,” she said finally, her tone cold and sure.

“But is that not her playing just beyond that door?” he asked, for the music had not ceased once since he had come to stand there.

Miss Barlowe’s lips tightened. “She finds that when she is not feeling well that, sometimes, playing her harp gives her comfort. I have tried to dissuade her in the past but to no avail. She absolutely refuses to rest herself, though I have begged her to.”

James frowned at this information. “She is not well often then?” he asked, thinking how quickly she had left the table last night. Her cheek had seemed rather pale now that he thought about it. Had she been escaping his company, or had she been ill after all?

His eye caught on the fabric that was bunched in Miss Barlowe’s arm. It took him a minute to place it, the soft green with the pale embroidery seemed at odds with the violent streaks of dark rust within the folds.

“Is that Lady Barrington’s dress?” he asked, reaching out to finger the cloth.

She whipped it away from his fingers. “Your Grace, it is hardly proper…”

But he had seen in that movement what he had been unsure of before. He reached and took the object from her arms, shaking out the folds and seeing the streaks that had been crimson, but dried darker. “‘Tis blood!” he exclaimed, shock making his hands lax, allowing her to take back her prize.

“It is nothing. A trifle. The maid should have seen to it last night though I suppose the dress itself is ruined now.”

“What has happened to her?”

Miss Barlowe folded the fabric over her arm again, smoothing the skirts down. “Can you not hear her playing? Lady Barrington is well and hale. This is nothing that should concern Your Grace.”

James glanced toward the door, wanting nothing more than to see for himself. “A moment ago, you said she was not well. Which is it?”

“She was not well last night, she is better today, though she still needs rest to recover.” Miss Barlowe met his gaze steadily as she finished saying this, as though daring him to question her further.

“From what? What injury would stain the dress? What are you hiding from me?” James made as if to throw open the door and see for himself what lay beyond.

Miss Barlowe darted out and grasped his arm, drawing him back and away, toward the small parlor he had so abandoned only a few moments before. So startled was he by the unexpected touch, especially from one of her station, he found himself following out of sheer curiosity. “Perhaps if we talked privately for a minute.”

But he dug his heels in and refused to go another step. “I would feel better if I could see her for myself.”

Her chin came up, and her eyes glittered darkly as she looked at him. “I would advise against it.”

James was beyond the point of listening. He pushed past her, going to the door he had stood against so longingly. Had it only been a few minutes? His world had changed in that time. The only thing he could think was how much he needed to see Lady Barrington, to reassure himself that she was all right. It was foolishness, he knew. Someone who was ill could not play like that.

Still, his hand hesitated on the knob. What if she had no desire to see him? What if she was still ill as her aunt suggested?

I am being foolish.

Foolishness or not, by this point he had to know. His mouth was dry as he grasped the knob firmly and opened the door.

Lady Barrington was, indeed, the player of the harp. She sat at the window, head tilted back, eyes closed, her fingers moving across the strings of the instrument bringing out the most wild and wonderful of melodies. Her lips were parted as though at any moment she would burst out into song, matching voice to the wild keening of the strings.

She was playing winter, he realized. The ice and snow and the storms that shook their town upon the bay. He could almost see it in the melody that filled the air and captured him to where he found he wanted nothing more than to tilt his own head back and close his eyes, the better to savor the experience.

Only the music stopped with a sudden crescendo, the final notes hanging in the air long after her hands had stilled. He followed their movement down from the strings, seeing for the first time the gloves bunched on the table beside her, the bare fingers. The bandaged wrist.

“Your Grace?” Her eyes were wide, questioning.

The bandage on her wrist gleamed white against the dark velvet of her dress.

“I…I truly am sorry. I should not have intruded.” The words stumbled over each other as he backed from the room, closing the door carefully and turning to lean on it, trying to breathe, to catch his breath.

Understanding what Miss Barlowe had been trying to say.

“She is unused to the strain of guests,” Miss Barlowe said quietly, coming to stand next to him, her eyes full of sadness. Pity. Concern. The dress, the damnable dress lay over her forearm still. He wished to God she would lay it down somewhere. Burn it. Anything, lest he be reminded of the blood spilled, HER blood spilled by the very virtue of him being there.

“She arranged this. These meetings. I cannot begin to fathom…”

Miss Barlowe’s eyes widened so quickly he almost missed it. When she spoke, her tone was calm. Even harsh. “She does not know what is good for her. The condition she carries affects her very mind. She is prone to deep bouts of depression. I would not take it personally, Your Grace.”

Not take it personally when she left the table, left his teasing, and went and performed something unspeakable upon herself. It was all he could do to stand. He pushed away from the wall, stumbling a little, trying to control the sob that threatened. He made it as far as the front door, fumbling a little with this knob too, wondering why they were all made so hard to grasp in this house.

“I should…I need to…HERE.” He reached into his waistcoat and brought out the pin, that blasted brooch that had haunted him for near two weeks now. “Give this back to her. Tell her…tell her that I cannot honor our agreement. That I am sorry to have caused her distress. That I am sorry…”

Miss Barlowe took it from him, no concealing the way her eyes widened this time or the way her lips parted in a look of intense surprise and a hint of wonder. “Helena’s brooch?”

“She will understand. Or…you will make her understand.” James looked at the woman hopefully, recognizing that this was Lady Barrington’s aunt after all, for all her youth, that it was her job to protect her mistress and make these things right.

Miss Barlowe’s fingers closed around the jewelry. “I will make her understand.”

“Thank you. I am most indebted to you.” James bowed shortly and finally the door yielded under his fingers, just as the footman approached from the inner recesses of the house, who should have been there to manage this ridiculous door for him all along.

“No…thank you, Your Grace,” Miss Barlowe called after him as he stepped out into the cold. From behind her there came another call, a different voice, high-pitched and panicked. Lady Barrington was calling him back.

James let the door slam shut behind him, let the wind carry him to his waiting carriage and all the way home. The sight of that bandaged wrist traveled with him all the way there.