The Baron Next Door (Prelude to a Kiss) (3 page)

She took two grand steps toward the door, her head held high, before Sophie sprang forward to stop her. “I have an idea!” she said, her face suddenly alight. She whipped her head back to look at the clerk. “Mr. Green, you may indeed leave Miss Bradford’s name right where it is. But do please add Miss Effington and me to her slot.”

The man tilted his head like a confused spaniel. “I don’t follow, Miss Wembley. Adding your names to the slot solves nothing.”

Sophie smiled broadly before turning her attention first to Charity and then to Miss Bradford, mischief lifting her brow. “Of course it does, kind sir. How else is a trio to perform if not together?”

*   *   *

God, but he was a jackass
.

Not that this was a new revelation; it was half the reason Hugh was here in the first place, really. But it was something he could see with uncomfortable clarity now that the fog of pain and exhaustion had lifted somewhat.

Sighing, Hugh pulled his shirt over his head and tucked the tails into his breeches. The fine lawn soaked up the remaining moisture from his skin as he pulled a comb through his still-damp hair. There—he was halfway human again.

As much as he disliked soaking in hot, murky water with a bunch of gouty septuagenarians, he had to admit that the Baths actually seemed to help. His body seemed looser, his mind somewhat clear. He tossed down the comb and regarded his clear-eyed reflection in the wall-mounted mirror of his private dressing room. Perhaps Felicity was right about the healing properties of the mineral-laced spring. And if what she said was true, then he fully intended to stay put for the next couple of weeks, at least—no matter how obnoxious the festival was. Or his neighbors, for that matter.

Which brought him back to being an ass.

Yes, the girl had prodded him beyond reason, but, to be fair, she had no idea of his condition this morning. Of course, to be fair to
him
, no neighbor should have to endure music of such volume and verve. God, the world would be a lot better off if debutantes were taught to be more than empty-headed twits focused on naught but ribbons, embroidery, and the damned pianoforte. Sure, they could be very pretty, with their auburn hair and blue-gray eyes, but the moment they opened their mouths or put fingers to keys, it was nothing but noise.

And noise had no place in his life right now. Not since hitting the blood-soaked battlefield headfirst, when his mount was shot from beneath him four years earlier. The scars were ugly, but the chronic head and neck pain was far worse.

He bent to retrieve his waistcoat, and shrugged into it with quite a bit more ease than when he had shed the thing an hour earlier. It was amazing what an hour’s soak in the healing waters could do for his neck. More than all the quackery he’d endured from the past four years combined. Pity he couldn’t submerge for an hour or so and do his head the same service. Damn need to breathe.

After tying his cravat in a simple but serviceable knot—a skill any officer was able to do in a pinch—he exited the room and headed for home. Traffic was utterly ridiculous, and there were just as many people walking as were on the road. The place would be a bloody circus in no time. He avoided making eye contact with any of the dozens of people he passed on the pavement.

Once in his townhouse, he shrugged out of his jacket, dragged his shirtsleeve across his forehead to wipe away the fine sheen of sweat that had formed during his walk, and made his way to the study. Pulling out a fresh sheet of foolscap, he penned a quick note to the landlord, informing him of Hugh’s intention to visit at the man’s earliest convenience. God willing, Mr. Sanburne would have another property that Hugh could transfer to.

As he dashed some sand over the letter, his batman, Jacobson, appeared in the doorway, a bemused expression lifting the unscarred side of his face. “Do I even want to know what happened this morning?”

Hugh raised an eyebrow before shaking his head. “Probably not. I’m back to my normal delightful self now, however.”

Jacobson approached the desk, his hands clasped behind his back as he shook his head. His willowy, slender frame was a far cry from the hardened soldier’s physique he’d had while serving by Hugh’s side in the army, but his posture was as straight and proud as ever. “As delightful as a summer peach, I’m sure,” he said with a wry twist of his lips. “However, within minutes of your hasty departure this morning, I found myself enjoying the redoubled efforts of the pianoforte-playing lady next door. For
an hour
,”
he emphasized, his brow creasing above the black strap of his eye patch. “What the bloody hell did you say to the girl?”

Clearly not enough if she had taken it upon herself to torture his staff in his absence. Apparently,
cease and desist
meant “play all the more aggressively” to the chit. “What do you think? She might as well have moved the damn thing into my bedchambers, for all the noise abatement the walls provide. I told her to cease the racket.”

Amusement flickered in Jacobson’s eye. “Is that so? Imagine her defying such an order. After all, I’m certain you asked so nicely.”

“Jacobson?”

“My lord?”

“Shut the hell up.”

Just as he anticipated, his batman chuckled at the mildly spoken reprimand. “As you wish. What time would you like to change for the dinner with Lady Cadgwith’s cousin?”

Hugh’s spirits collapsed in a heap.
Damnation
. He had forgotten all about the promised evening with his sister-in-law’s family. It was to be a quiet evening to welcome him to the area, now that he was settled. He would have turned down the invitation, but he knew it meant a lot to Felicity that he be friendly with them, and he had no doubt that her family was eager to hear all about the baby. He sighed, raking a hand through his hair. “Make it nine o’clock.”

Jacobson offered a crisp nod before turning to leave.

“One more thing,” Hugh said, stopping him in his tracks. He quickly folded and sealed the missive before holding it out. “Please see that this makes it to Mr. Sanburne’s office before it closes.”

Accepting the note, the batman lifted his brow in question. “The estate agent?”

“The very one. If I’ve any luck at all, the man will have another house we can move to. Preferably as far away from this location as possible.”

The good side of Jacobson’s face lifted in a grin. “Very good, my lord.”

“I
’m sorry. You play
what
instrument?”

Charity felt just as shocked as Sophie looked when she blurted the question to Miss Bradford. Thankfully, they were far from any prying eyes or ears, walking on a wooded footpath along the River Avon, just a few blocks from the Assembly Rooms.

Or at least they
had
been walking. Miss Bradford’s answer to Charity’s simple question of what instrument she played had caused an abrupt stop to their little victory promenade.

Miss Bradford took a few steps back to where they stood, her expression an odd mix of apologetic cringe and wry humor. “Perhaps I should have mentioned that
before
we made our grand exit?”

“Yes, perhaps,” Sophie said. One dark eyebrow was raised as she delivered the quip, but her tone was lighthearted enough to elicit a smile of relief from Miss Bradford. “What the devil is a goo . . . chin, anyway? It sounds terribly exotic. Well,
terribly
as in ‘exceedingly,’ not ‘terribly bad,’ of course.”

“Guzheng,” she corrected, her blue eyes twinkling with amusement. “It is a Chinese zither. And I am still getting used to the fact that it is an unusual instrument to you English.”

“‘
You
English’?” Charity repeated, reassessing the fair, thoroughly English-rose-looking girl. She spoke the King’s proper English, looked as though she had stepped out of one of Sir Frederick Tate’s masterpieces, and was summering in Bath, for goodness’ sake. “I must say, you are not very convincing as a foreigner.”

“Would it help if I told you my Christian name is Mei-li?”

Sophie’s jaw dropped open. “No! How extraordinary. My goodness, you must be the single most interesting person I have ever met. And we shall have the single most unique trio in all of England. Let us hope that what Mama has always said is correct.”

“About?” Charity prompted, still stuck on the fact that this blonde before her clearly had more to her than met the eye.

“The more unique the instrument, the more memorable the musician.” Sophie said the words as though reciting from a long-memorized book. “It is how I came to play the oboe, and my older sister the bassoon. My younger sisters play the recorder and the viola. You know, because the flute and violin are so dreadfully overrated.” She rolled her eyes dramatically.

“The viola? But . . .” Charity trailed off, not wanting to offend Sophie by pointing out that the instrument, considerably larger than the violin, was much better suited to men.

But Sophie seemed to know exactly what she had been thinking. “Yes, I know. Pippa is quite stout, I’m afraid. Mama is convinced the large size of the viola will make her look more delicate.

“Ah, I see.” It wasn’t entirely flawed thinking, really. Still, the poor girl. Charity did not envy her when she debuted in a few years. Deciding to change the subject, Charity turned her attention back to Miss Bradford. “Well, now that we are to be the most notorious trio ever to have lived, I find I must know how it is you came to be here in the first place with us English folk.”

“The usual, I’m sure. Father works for the East India Company, daughter is raised in various places in the East before mother contracts exotic illness and dies. Father overreacts and sends furious daughter to live with stuffy aunt in a faraway land that she is suddenly supposed to call home. Aunt is intent on ‘improving’ her heathen niece and thus proceeds to make her life miserable. Luckily for niece, music is her one escape, so her new home becomes slightly less horrid.” She shrugged with a breezy sort of negligence. “I’m certain you’ve heard the story before.”

Charity couldn’t help but be impressed with the plainness of her answer. She didn’t seem to have even a moment’s pause in revealing such details of her private life. It was rather liberating to think someone could be so frank. “And you almost relinquished your place for us?”

“Music is my passion, with or without an audience. My aunt has been nagging me to show some interest in the city, so this was my attempt. It turned out better than I could have hoped, thanks to you two.” She paused, sliding a smile to Sophie. “Although I feel I must point out, you, Miss Wembley, are mad. Quite, quite mad.”

Charity grinned at the joking comment. Sophie’s solution had been completely inspired, but brazen and presumptuous as well. The three of them exchanged collusive glances before bursting out with laughter. The sound echoed gaily through the woods.

“Oh, Miss Bradford, you don’t know the half of it,” Sophie replied, winking good-naturedly. “I shall warn you now that you may not wish to befriend me, as I do tend to get myself in trouble. Mama claims my mouth always moves faster than my brain.”

Brushing aside a low-hanging branch, Miss Bradford grinned. “I must say, despite the fact I have known you both for all of an hour, I think you have earned the right to call me May. And fear not: My father raised me to always align myself with the outspoken, for their thoughts are rarely hidden. It’s the quiet ones that one must worry about.”

“Hold on,” Charity said, putting her hands to her hips. “Are you saying I am not to be trusted?”

May lifted a shoulder. “It does rather make you suspect. I recommend tossing aside any introversion while in our little trio.”

It was such fun to tease with these women—it felt like honest friendship. While Charity was growing up, her father had disapproved of her mingling with those beneath their family’s status. A rather inconvenient stance when he outranked everyone in a thirty-mile radius. She counted the Moore family as friends, but after ending the betrothal with Richard last year, it had felt a bit awkward to visit his sisters. They were wonderful, of course, but the broken engagement always felt like an invisible curtain between them and Charity.

She smiled easily at her new friend and nodded. “Very well. I hereby promise to chatter like a magpie when it is just the three of us.”

“I’m not altogether certain it would be a good idea to have
two
magpies in the group,” Sophie said, her tone wry. “Heaven knows no one would get a word in edgewise.”

“Excellent point,” Charity conceded. “A sparrow, then. And, May, what shall you be?”

“Why, a malkoha, of course.”

“A mal-what?”

“My mother used to call me her little malkoha because my eyes are so blue.” A flash of sadness passed over her features, but she quickly rallied. “They’re funny little birds in the East Indies with bright chestnut breasts and blue-green wings. Mama simply overlooked the fact that the males were the ones with the blue eyes.” She paused, tilting her head. “What?”

Charity exchanged glances with Sophie. “It’s just so very . . .
foreign
. I thought I was quite adventurous to have traveled from Durham to Bath.”

A delighted smile brightened May’s entire face. “Oh, there is just so much to see beyond the borders of this soggy little island. I’ve spent almost my entire life in the warmth of the tropics. Brightly colored birds, lush tropical landscapes, and the heavy scent of spices define my idea of home. Being here in Bath is such a culture shock, I hardly know what to do with myself.”

Sophie just shook her head. “I can’t imagine how different it must be. I mean, what on earth does one do in the East Indies? Other than play the zither, of course. Are there as many dangerous animals there as I’ve read? And are the natives really as scantily dressed as I heard? Not that I blame them, if the rumors of the intensity of the sun there are to be believed.”

If Charity had known Sophie was this outrageous, she would have made a better effort to befriend her during the Season. Charity never had the nerve to say such things, which made being around people who did that much more fun. Chuckling, she said, “Perhaps we should start with one question.”

“One question is not nearly enough. Do please tell us
everything
, my dear.”

May laughed with delight, clearly making no effort to temper her enthusiasm. “As you wish. But first I have one question for you.”

Sophie cocked her head, allowing dappled sunlight to kiss her cheeks. “Yes?”

“What on earth will we play for the recital?”

An excellent question. Charity had almost forgotten their whole reason for being together. She didn’t even attempt to search her brain for a composition tailored for a pianoforte, oboe, and zither trio; she was positive such a thing didn’t exist. And for good reason. An odder pairing, she couldn’t imagine.

She closed her eyes, heedless of what the others would think of her, and listened for the music that came to her when she was quiet. It had always been her gift. She composed because the music wanted her to write it, not because she wished to capture it. It couldn’t be created, only heard—recognized and recorded as it came to her.

As she listened, soft strains teased the back of her mind, but nothing distinct enough to capture. It was like trying to look at a dim star. Sometimes one had to focus on something else before it would come clearly into view.

“I think Charity may have given up on us,” Sophie teased in a stage whisper. “But I have no doubt something brilliant will come to us—or, rather,
her.
She’s quite a marvelous composer.”

Charity’s eyes popped open. “You know?” Her compositions were little known to others. Mama believed it very ill-bred for her to think herself better than the masters. It was so frustrating because it had nothing to do with her feelings toward the masters, and everything to do with giving voice to the music inside her. So for years, Charity pretended to play from the music books her mother supplied her, all the while playing her own creations. Fortunately for her, Mama couldn’t read music, and Charity sprinkled in just enough of the boring songs to avoid suspicion.

Sophie put a hand to her hip. “Yes, of course. I’m a musician, after all. I may not play as masterfully as you, but I am exceedingly well educated in the art. I daresay I could recognize your pieces no matter who was performing them—you have a very developed personality, musically speaking.”

“I think,” May said, grinning broadly, “that I am very lucky to have fallen in with you two prodigies. I just know we shall come up with something inspired.”

Charity wasn’t nearly so confident. The thought of having the committee laugh at them was daunting indeed. Her music was the one thing for which she could always count on a positive response. She pursed her lips, weighing the need to do well with the desire to embrace the chance to truly befriend these women. “I certainly hope so.”

“Just you wait,” May said, her voice entirely confident. “We shall be absolutely brilliant. If for no other reason than to prove that dreadful clerk wrong for ever trying to repress the pair of you.”

Charity straightened her spine, drawing on the strength of the women beside her. She was done with people trying to repress her. Be it the gossips, her parents, the clerk, or the awful Baron Cadgwith, this was her summer and she would
not
be talked down to.

She pursed her lips, once again distracted by the man that would be her neighbor for the next few months. He clearly thought himself above her. Men like that were little more than bullies. She looked at the other two women, with their confident smiles and clear ability to attract trouble. They would be the perfect allies this summer.

“Right you are, May,” she said with a decisive nod. “And I’d be more than happy to offer up my house as a place to practice.”

*   *   *

Promptly at ten, Hugh stood outside one of nearly two dozen identical white doors that dotted the curving row of homes on Lansdown Crescent. Surely he had the wrong address. He double-checked the brass numbers glinting in the flickering lamplight. It was definitely the address provided.

He glanced again to the brightly lit second-story windows, where the sounds of conversation and music could clearly be heard, and muttered a curse. Damn it all—this was no intimate gathering. Felicity’s cousins had specifically assured him that it would be a small dinner with a handful of their close friends. Judging by the noise, there were likely twenty or more present.

He reached a hand up to massage the growing stiffness of his left shoulder, tilting his head away in order to stretch the tight muscles bunching at his neck. The familiar build of tension had him closing his eyes and exhaling deeply. The night air was unusually warm and humid, and he suddenly wished he could yank off his bloody cravat and the restrictive wool coat that Jacobson had insisted he wear.

This was ridiculous. He didn’t need to subject himself to the pointless frivolity of a party he had not agreed to with people he didn’t know or care about, all because his sister-in-law thought it would do him good to socialize.

Turning abruptly on his heel, he started toward the street when a carriage came to a stop just in front of him. He stepped back several paces as the tiger quickly disembarked and pulled open the door. A rustle of fabric, a feminine murmur, and then one delicate silk and pearl slipper found the step outside the carriage door. A glimpse of a white stocking, and then billowing pale pink skirts were adjusted to obscure the wearer’s trim ankle. He lifted a brow.
Very nice.

The lady emerged into the lamplight, her face averted as she kept her gaze on the ground. She bent to clear the doorway, allowing him the perfect view of the tops of her breasts above her lace-trimmed bodice.
Very nice, indeed.
He may not be in the mood, but he sure as hell wasn’t dead.

Once on the ground, she released the servant’s hand, smoothed her skirts a moment, and finally raised her head. In an instant, all thoughts of appreciation for the woman’s form evaporated to dust.

Bloody hell, he knew that face. Even in the golden light of the lamp, he could see the freckles dotting the bridge of her nose and the tops of her cheeks. Her hair was arranged in a waterfall of curls, mostly secured at the crown of her head before cascading down over one slender shoulder and resting against the pale skin at the hollow of her collarbone. In this light, it looked much darker than it had in the daylight, but the hint of red was unmistakable. Almost immediately, she seemed to sense his presence and her gaze flitted to where he stood a few paces back. Her eyes narrowed and her mouth thinned as all pleasure leached from her face.