The Diabolical Baron (21 page)

Caroline nodded. “Yes, he played some of the music
earlier. I would love to see how one dances to it.
Would you be able to give a demonstration?”

Her aunt cocked her head and considered. “I re
member them well enough, but one really needs the
right costume. Our gowns haven’t enough whoosh. Still, it would
be great fun to dance them again.”

She stood, kicking off her shoes and loosening her
hair, the auburn coils falling past her shoulders. With a
theatrical gesture she raised her arms above her head,
arched her back, and tilted her chin.

While Caroline watched in fascination, Richard was
reaching for the guitarra. With his first crashing chord,
Jessica came to whirling life. She looked a different
person, not really English and certainly not a lady. The
panther-like power and grace of her movements
brought the passionate music to dazzling life as her
veils of hair swirled about, revealing and concealing.

It
was a breathtaking performance. If Caroline felt a
pang at how well her aunt worked with her accompa
nist, she suppressed it.

Walking back to Wildehaven later, Jessica was still
exhilarated. She seldom referred to her time in Spain,
but today she was in a mood to talk. “I’m sorry to chat
ter on like this, Caro.”

She broke off apologetically.
“But it was so good to see an old friend again. For the last four years I have locked that whole part of my life away. Now I am ready to remember again.”

She stooped to pick a white field rose, inhaling the
delicate scent before she walked on. “I am so glad it
was Richard Dalton. He is the loveliest man. In many
ways he is like my John—kind, steady, and won
derfully comfortable. And yet he had the most impres
sive military reputation.”

Having seen the kindness, Caroline was curious
about Richard’s martial accomplishments. “What did
they say of him?”

“He had already been mentioned in dispatches for out
standing valor when I knew him.
He must have been no more than four-
or five-and-twenty at the time.”

Her eyes distant, she went on, “He had a reputation
for imperturbability, always being in complete com
mand of himself and his men. But his colonel told me of two exceptions to that.”

“Yes?” her niece prompted when her aunt showed
signs of disappearing into her memories.

“The first time, he was just a boy, only a few months in the field. He came across two of his men about to
ravish a French girl. She was a camp follower, left be
hind in childbed when the troops she was traveling
with had to retreat suddenly. They say young Dalton
gave them a tongue-lashing that nearly removed their
leathery hides. Told them they were a disgrace to hu
manity, asked them how they would feel if it was their sister or sweetheart or daughter. I was told
that when he finished, they were wishing he had
flogged them instead.”

“What was the other occasion?” Caroline asked curi
ously.

“That was only a few months before John ... before I left Spain. Captain Dalton was leading a patrol over
disputed ground when they were trapped in a ravine
by French sharpshooters. Four of his men fell
wounded in the open, bleeding to death in front of
their comrades.

“Apparently Richard went into a cold fury and
crawled across the field of fire, working his way around and above the sharpshooters. One of them put
a bullet through his upper arm and he was bleeding
badly, but even so he was able to pick them off and free
his patrol. I’m told that it was an incredible feat of
marksmanship, and he certainly saved the lives of the wounded soldiers. They say his men worshiped him.”

“I can see why,” Caroline murmured. It was a very
different view of the man she had met, yet it sounded
oddly right. He would be loyal to those in his charge,
and would inspire a similar loyalty in those around
him.

As they were entering Wildehaven, she realized she
had left her music case at Wargrave Park. Engrossed in her thoughts, she shrugged it off. She would retrieve it back tomorrow.

* * * *

Josiah Chelmsford said his farewells the next morn
ing at breakfast. Richard would miss him but looked forward to being on his own without the lawyer’s un
spoken hopes in the background.

The talk was casual until the two men were on their
final cup of tea. Chelmsford considered subtly sound
ing out Richard’s feelings about his inheritance, but
decided the direct approach would work better; the captain was quite capable of ignoring subtlety if he
didn’t want to answer. “Have you made your mind up, my boy?”

“No,” Richard said baldly.

The lawyer sighed.  The direct approach didn’t work, either.
“I’ve instructed
Somers and Hain, the agent, to help you in any way
they can. If you have any questions they can’t answer,
write to me in London. I can be here in two days if nec
essary.”

Richard stood and offered his hand. “I want to thank
you for all your help. Regardless of what I decide, I ap
preciate your efforts on my behalf.”

The lawyer said gruffly, “You needn’t thank me. I
would have done as much for any child of Julius Dav
enport. Just see you don’t vanish without a word.”

Richard smiled and shook his head. “You won’t be
thanked and I won’t be an earl. We make a pretty pair.
I am a long way from knowing my own mind, but I
promise you I won’t disappear without telling you.”

After seeing Chelmsford on his way, Richard con
templated the office with a shudder, then went to the
music room to work on his calluses instead. After
playing the guitarra for half an hour, he decided to ex
plore the music room further while giving his finger
tips a rest.

It was then he noticed the flat leather music
case. He thought it must be Caroline’s, but opened it
to see if there was any identification. The sheet music
he drew out was handwritten on printed score lines,
with brief notes written in a light but firm hand. At the
top it said, “Sonata in E Major, by C. L. Hanscombe.”

If it hadn’t been for the name, he would have returned the music to the case, but he found himself
studying it. After a few minutes he released his breath sharply, then went to the piano and began to play.

He lost track of time as he worked his way through the first three compositions. He was just finishing the
third sonata when a sudden movement in the door
caught his eye. He looked up to see Caroline poised
like a terrified fawn ready for flight, her slight figure
rigid and a stricken expression on her face. Realizing
she was observed, she came reluctantly into the room.

“Good . .. good day,” she said nervously. “I’m sorry to interrupt you. I will not stay. If
...
I could have my
music case, I’ll be off.”

Under Richard’s searching gaze she was trembling.
“Please, can I have my music case?”

Richard got up and moved swiftly around the in
strument. “I didn’t mean to upset you. Is it because I
was playing the sonata?”

She nodded without meeting his eyes.

“You wrote it, didn’t you?”

She cried out in agitation, “You had no right to play
it! Please, give it to me so I can leave!”

He reached a hand out and gently lifted her chin so
she had to look at him. The deep blue eyes were
drowning in tears. “I would never knowingly hurt
you,” he said gently. “Why are you so frightened of
someone playing your work?”

“It was the way you looked at me, as if I were a freak.
Please, just give it to me and don’t tell anyone and I
won’t ever bother you again. There is no harm in it!”

By this time the tears were pouring down her face
and she was shaking all over. Richard led her to a sofa,
sat her down next to him, and handed her his hand
kerchief. As she cried, he put an arm around her and
she turned to bury both face and handkerchief against
his shirt. After a few minutes her sobs abated and he
asked, “Can you talk now?”

She sniffed through her reddened nose and nodded.

“My dear girl, I didn’t mean to stare rudely, but I re
ally didn’t know what to say. If Mozart or Handel had
walked into the room I would have felt much the
same. What does one do when confronted by genius? Make a deep bow? Kneel? Lay my jacket down for you
to walk on?”

Seeing that Richard didn’t appear angry with her,
Caroline tried to give a shaky smile. “If Mozart walked in, summoning a priest or a journalist might be more
appropriate. After all, he’s been dead for twenty-five
years.”

He smiled encouragingly. “That’s much better. I
didn’t mean to invade your privacy, but I came across
the scores and couldn’t put them down. Your work
is ...”

He paused, searching for a word. “Remarkable.
It has something of Mozart’s lyricism, of Beethoven’s
originality, but with a quality that is yours alone. You
cover the full emotional spectrum, from joy to anguish
to laughter. It is the equal of anything I have ever
heard.”

She looked at him with a mixture of shyness, embar
rassment, and pleasure. “Do you truly think so?” He
nodded. “And .. . you don’t think it dreadful for a fe
male to do such a thing?”

He said curiously, “Who has been frightening you?
What could be wrong with an artist practicing her
art?”

She looked down at the handkerchief she was twist
ing in her hands. “I’m sorry to be such a watering pot,”
she said haltingly. “My mother told me it was very un
ladylike and never to let people know or they would
conceive a disgust for me. She said there has never
been a female composer, that females were incapable
of it.

“And ... and my father found me composing once and
...
he became furious. He ripped up what I was
working on and threw it at me. He said I was a cursed bluestocking and forbade me ever to do it again. But I didn’t say I wouldn’t,” she said with an earnest glance.
“I didn’t make any promises.”

She stared at her hands
again. “I knew I would end up breaking them, so I didn’t say anything. It never occurred to my
father that he might be disobeyed. I have been very
careful to keep my work hidden since then.”

Richard clamped iron control on the anger that welled up at her explanation. How could anyone be
have so cruelly to such a lovely, talented girl? But he
kept his quiet manner; she had been upset too much
already. “Does anyone else know about your composi
tions?”

“Jessica does. She says there is no reason she can
think of why a woman can’t be a composer. And my music teacher, Signore Ferrante. He thought I should
publish some of my work, but of course I couldn’t.”

“Why not? If you are shy or don’t want to be judged
as an oddity, you could use another name. It
seems a pity to deprive others of the beauty of your
work.”

She glanced at him sideways. “Do you truly think
my work is good? Signore Ferrante always said it was,
but he was too kind to say anything that would hurt
me.”

Richard said seriously, “The sonatas are splendid
and could hold their own against the finest composers of Europe. I can’t play the quartets by myself, but they appear to have the same freshness and power. I would like to copy some of your work for my own use.”

He smiled at her starry-eyed look; he had seen the
same expression on the face of a mother whose child
had been sincerely praised. “There is a spot in the sec
ond movement of the D Minor Sonata I had trouble
with—I’m not sure what cadence you intended. Could
you be persuaded to demonstrate?”

His diversion worked perfectly. All the tears were
gone and she looked happier and more confident than he had yet seen her. “I would love to.”

As she played the composition in question,
Richard’s attention was divided between the glorious
music and the sight of her performing. As he had sus
pected from their duets, she was an extraordinary pi
anist. For all her look of small-boned fragility, her long
slim fingers had unusual strength and dexterity. H
e rather thought no one else could bring quite the
same feeling to a work as its composer.