The Duke's Indiscretion (16 page)

“Yes, you do,” he charged, his tone low and firm. “If you didn't, you'd be shaken by this. As it is now, you don't even seem surprised.”

She faltered, her expression going blank as she clutched the music she'd brought with her against her chest like a shield.

“No more evasiveness,” he said, his gaze locked with hers. “Tell me what you're hiding.”

His insistence made her mad. He could see it in her flattened lips, her pinkening cheeks. She'd been caught, and she knew it.

“I want the truth,” he continued, starting a slow saunter toward her. “Now.”

Flustered, she wiped a palm across her forehead and looked away, as if she couldn't decide where to start. He waited, walking past her to stand once more in front of the closed door, preventing her untimely
departure should she try to avoid him. With that, she moved away from him and walked to her vanity, then placed the sheets she still had clutched in one arm gently on top of it.

After a few silent seconds, she inhaled deeply and stood erect, her hands clasped behind her, and faced him fully.

“I have something someone wants,” she said hesitantly.

He cocked his head to the side a little and crossed his arms over his chest. “What is it? Music?”

“Yes,” she replied at once.

He'd been more or less sarcastic with his question, assuming, naturally, that music wasn't worth stealing or risking a life for, but he could tell simply by looking at her across a darkened room that she spoke the truth.

Taking a step toward her, he asked, “What kind of music would someone go to such great extremes to acquire?”

She looked at him oddly. “Music worth a lot of money, your grace.”

“Of course,” he replied, his mouth curving into a sly smile. “Very expensive music.”

She drew her hands forward and crossed her arms over her breasts defensively as he approached. But her gaze never wavered.

“I didn't say it was expensive, sir, I said it was worth a lot of money.”

He paused, glancing around, then said, “Well they obviously didn't find it, or you'd be a bit more distraught.”

She almost smiled. “It's not here.”

He leaned toward her and enunciated, “Where is it?”

“Hidden.”

Standing directly in front of her now, his anger roused, he leaned over so that his face nearly touched hers. “Charlotte, darling, tell me what the devil is going on. Now.”

The intensity in his quiet tone made her blink. Then in one smooth action, she plopped her bottom down in the vanity chair behind her, ignoring her twisted and bunched skirts.

He waited, saying nothing, knowing the moment of truth was at hand.

“Can I trust you, Colin?” she asked in a deep murmur.

Perplexed, his brows furrowed minutely. “I'm not sure how to answer that.”

She fidgeted in the chair, wringing her hands together in her lap. “Before I can tell you anything, I need to know that I can trust you.”

He leaned to his side and rested his shoulder on the gilt-framed mirror, his arms crossed over his chest, his frank gaze locked with hers. “If you're asking me to trust what you say, then I will. If, instead, you're asking me to trust your judgement, I don't honestly know, Charlotte. Up to this point, you haven't made it easy.”

It was the most candid answer he could give her, and even with its vagueness, the words seemed to have the desired effect.

“My first vocal tutor was the great baritone Sir Randolph Hillman. I began my singing career when I was only eleven years old, and he trained me as if I
were the best. I was fatherless, as well, and over the years we grew very close, as would a proud father of his talented daughter.”

Although not surprised, it occurred to Colin how small the world was when learning her vocal coach of many years was a man he'd known, had spoken to on occasion at social events, and had even seen many times on the stage. But he didn't want to discuss it now when he needed her to get to the point. “Go on,” he said after a moment's pause.

She inhaled a deep breath and relaxed into her stays, resting the full of her body against the back of the small vanity chair, her gaze lowered.

“When I turned seventeen, my brother, who was my guardian at that point, decided it was time for me to stop my singing nonsense and put my efforts into finding a husband. As you might expect, I didn't take to the idea all that well. I wanted time before I had to give up my dream of the stage, but Charles was quite impatient. He more or less forced me to stop my tutoring sessions with Sir Randolph, regardless of my feelings.”

“That had to be difficult for you,” Colin interjected, his tone sincere.

She gave him a vague smile. “It was. But I was also very determined,” she continued. “It was about this same time that Sir Randolph succumbed to years of a weakened heart and fell ill. As my luck would have it, Charles felt sorry enough for me he allowed me to visit. After all, my brother assumed I couldn't spend my time practicing my ‘singing nonsense' when the man was bedridden.”

Colin continued to watch her, rather engrossed and
trying not to smile from her sarcasm. She really became dramatic, and quite adorable, when she was irritated.

“I only got to see him twice in the long week he lay abed,” she continued, subdued. “The first time he made me promise I would never stop singing. I made him that promise, but I didn't mention the fact that I couldn't, of course, afford any kind of tour, or sing on the stage as a leading soprano. My brother would never allow it, would never fund it, even if he could, and he was insistent that I marry well, settle down, and have children to better occupy my time.” She grinned crookedly. “But Sir Randolph knew this.”

“Because you'd told him,” Colin remarked.

“No, because Charles told him,” she corrected with a lift of her brows. “And because my brother is so insensitive, the day before he died—the last time I saw the great baritone—Sir Randolph gave me something that would make my dreams come true, if I ever had the nerve to leave Charles and actually begin a music career.”

Colin scratched the hairline at his neck, a little confused. “Sir Randolph gave you priceless music?”

Charlotte leaned toward him, her eyes shining, a smile of genuine excitement gently tugging at her lips. “Exactly. Charles made Sir Randolph so angry, he gave me the one thing that would assure I could sing professionally, if that was my choice, for the rest of my life.”

“What music is so valuable it would finance you for years?” he asked. He grinned slyly to add, “I'm aching to know.”

Her features turned serious once more as she re
plied, “What I'm about to tell you stays between us, Colin. Is that clear?”

He shrugged lightly. “If you have secrets, Charlotte, I will do my best to keep them—provided it doesn't put you in danger.”

For a second or two she stared at him skeptically, as if trying to decide if his answer was fair enough. But he wouldn't budge on this, and she knew it.

Leaning forward, she placed her elbows on her thighs and clasped her palms together in front of her. In a barely heard whisper, she announced, “Sir Randolph gave me an original piece, never published, by the great George Frideric Handel.”

Colin just stared at her, at first dazed, then growing cold with understanding as the meaning of her words began to sink in. The look on his face must have been as priceless as the music she claimed to own, for she suddenly started giggling, covering her mouth to keep it silent.

After a long moment of speechlessness, he mumbled, “You're not joking, are you?”

She dropped her hand and pulled back, appalled. “Of course I'm not joking. Just look at this mess.”

He glanced at the floor as he ran his fingers through his hair. “If it's not here, where is it?” he asked, his throat dry.

She gazed at him curiously, her head tilted to one side, and replied, “It's safe.”

Recovering himself, he pulled away from the mirror and took a step toward her, his nerves catching fire. “Safe? That's not an answer, Charlotte. I want to see it.”

“It's not here,” she reiterated flatly.

“Yes, you've made that clear,” he returned as patiently as he could. “But I still want to see it. I
need
to see it. Where is it?”

For several long, lingering, silent seconds, she held back, biting down on her bottom lip in obvious doubt as he studied her.

“If you trust me,” he said softly, “you have to trust me completely, Charlotte.”

At last, she swallowed and said, “Frankly, because we're married, I'm a little afraid—”

“I have no intention of selling it,” he interjected with a sudden understanding of her fear. “But I might be able to help you if you trust me.”

She glanced once to her reflection in the mirror at her side, then lowered her lashes to her lap. “It's at home.”

He blinked. “At home? At
our
home?”

She nodded.

He closed his eyes and raised his arms, interlacing his fingers behind his head.

Jesus. He'd been living under the same roof as an original Handel, probably since they'd married, and he had yet to have a look at it because she didn't trust him not to sell it. At that moment, in a rush of sheer frustration, Colin wished he'd told her of his profession when they'd met. If she only knew what he could do…

“Have you had the piece authenticated?” he asked gruffly as the thought suddenly occurred to him.

“I don't have to,” she replied a bit defensively.

He dropped his arms, and chuckled as he looked
at her again. “You don't have to?” He shook his head. “Charlotte, it may be worth nothing. It may be a forgery—”

“Then tell me, sir,” she cut in, irritated, “why would someone keep trying to steal it?”

Before he could respond, a sharp burst of female laughter floated in from beyond the dressing room door, startling them both.

“Sadie and Anne are here,” she whispered. “They'll be looking for me.”

He didn't care. His mind was still on the precious, priceless piece now sitting somewhere in his home. “We need to get it, lock it in a vault.” He sighed within. “And I suppose you won't tell me where to look so I can return and get it myself.”

“Absolutely not. Besides, you'll never find it, never know where to look, even if I told you,” she said, standing to meet his gaze and smoothing her skirts. “And I obviously can't leave now. Everyone would question my absence.”

“Including the person who did this,” he speculated, drawing conclusions as his mind began to organize a plan. Abruptly, he said, “Help me clean this up.”

Without argument, she stooped down and started collecting the scattered music. “What are you thinking?”

“I'm thinking we need to keep this a secret for the time being,” Colin said as he began to help gather the scattered paper. “The person who did this is trying to scare you, Charlotte, or he or she would have been far more discreet, wouldn't have left a mess for you to clean.”

She glanced up and frowned. “But that makes no
sense. Why try to frighten me? Why would someone want me to
know
that they want to steal my work?”

His eyes narrowed in thought as he placed the remaining sheets into a loose stack. “I don't know. How many people know you own it?”

“I didn't think anyone knew,” she murmured. “I haven't told anyone aside from you, today.”

“Then Sir Randolph must have mentioned it to someone,” he maintained.

“Impossible,” she insisted again, standing alongside him and surveying the dressing room. “According to him, nobody even knew he owned it, and he made me promise not to tell a soul until I was ready to make it public and sell it myself.”

Colin grasped her elbow and turned her to face him. “
Somebody
knows, Charlotte.”

He watched her brows furrow in confusion, but she just shook her head, perplexed.

Seconds later, he added, “I really do need to see the music.”

“You will,” she replied, annoyed at his insistence, “though I have no idea what you think you'll discover.”

You're right. You have no idea…

With a grin, he released her elbow and handed her his pile of music, which she added to her own. Then she walked to the wardrobe and opened one side of it, placing all the music on a shelf within before closing the door tightly.

Colin watched her as she turned back to him, her lovely eyes sparkling, her expression only slightly troubled by all that had just happened between them,
and he found himself caught up in an intense rush of excitement he hadn't felt in ages.

“I need to get to work,” she said, smoothing her sleeves down with her palms. “We can discuss this later.”

Suddenly, another thought occurred to him, one that first bewildered, then made him stagger back a foot or two to block her exit from the door.

She stopped in front of him. “What are you doing?”

He eyed her strangely, a half-smile on his lips as a shred of clarity pulsed through him and understanding dawned. “You didn't have to marry me, did you, Charlotte?”

His whispered words, and probably the look of mischief on his face seemed to catch her off guard. She wavered and took a step back, looking him up and down. “What are you talking about?”

He couldn't help himself as a wide, satisfied grin graced his mouth. “I think you know.”

“Know what?” she asked with exasperation.

He slowly shook his head. “You could have brought the music to the public's attention at any time, sold it, and lived comfortably for the rest of your life,
touring
on stage anywhere in the world. Instead, you came to me.” He reached out and ran a finger down her neck and across her shoulder, making her shiver. “Why is that?”