me through all those years of music lessons. You were right—no bit of learning is ever wasted. This one is for you.
Chapter One
London, September 1889
“Follow that carriage,” Kathryn Wainwright ordered as her coachman folded up the steps and closed the door. “Make certain the driver doesn’t notice. When he gets where he’s going, drive on by without stopping. All I want is his destination.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the man answered, climbing up to his seat.
Two hours later, they passed through a tatty, run-down village. A mile past the outskirts, the carriage ahead turned off onto a small side road through the trees. Kathryn knew she couldn’t follow it without revealing her presence, and probably her purpose, if the rutted track was no through road.
She tapped on the inside roof and stuck her head out the window. “Drive on up that rise, Thorn, and see if we can look down and see where that road leads.”
When the carriage reached the top, she could indeed see quite clearly, with her father’s old field glass to one eye. In the moonlight, an old manor house rose out of the summit of the adjoining hill.
No welcoming lights shone in the windows, nor could she see anyone about the place. She watched until she saw his carriage pull up to the wide circular drive. Jonathan Chadwick alighted, spoke with the driver, and then strode into the dark house. Kathryn collapsed the spyglass and clapped her hands in glee. So this was his lair.
She had followed him before, always to a modest set of rooms near the theater district. And she knew from trying to bribe her way past the landlady that he rarely stayed there, except on the nights when he was performing somewhere in town. He disappeared for days on end, sometimes a week or more, the woman had said. Now Kathryn knew where he had gone.
This must be his family home, she guessed. From the deserted look of the place, he must live alone.
Kathryn smelled a fine story here. Perhaps there was something to the gossip that he was of some impoverished noble family. No one seemed to know very much about him, except that he had once been a child prodigy, traveling Europe since he was in short coats. Then, on reaching manhood, he had dropped out of sight. He had returned this summer with a vengeance. London’s drawing rooms and concert halls fought to book him, while he stubbornly played hard to get. The ploy had worked nicely for him. He accepted only the plummiest offers.
Even if his music was not as marvelous as it was, the man’s mystique would have put him in demand. Yes, there was a grand old mystery about Jonathan Chadwick and she meant to uncover it.
Excited by the prospect, Kathryn knew exactly what she had to do. “Turn around, Thom, and let’s make for the village. We’ll see if they have an inn.”
They did indeed, a squalid little two-story hovel that barely deserved the name. Its sign, vaguely resembling a starving rabbit, swung precariously from uneven chains. The Hare’s Foot Inn.
Kathryn quickly dismounted, went inside, and secured a room—the only private one available.
Thomas Boddie, her driver, protested in a loud whisper, “Ye can’t be stayin’ here, Miss Kathryn. Look at th’ place! More ’n likely got bugs.” He glanced around again, tsking and scratching his head to emphasize the warning.
“Buck up, Boddie. You’re getting soft in your old age.” Kathryn giggled when he looked indignant and a sight younger than his twenty-four years.
She waited until the innkeeper disappeared upstairs to change the linen before she spoke again. “I want you to bring one of the coach horses around after they’re fed and rested. Oh, and get me your breeches.”
“Breeches, miss?” he squeaked.
“Yes, and the shirt, too. I know you keep a change in the boot for when you stash your livery. We’re about the same size, don’t you think?”
“Ye can’t wear me breeches! That’s scan’lous! Indecent!”
Kathryn smiled at his outrage. “No, it’s necessary. I need to get to that house and do some snooping if I’m to get this story. I can’t ride bareback in an evening frock.” She swatted behind her at her cumbersome bustle.
Thorn groaned and rolled his eyes. “Oh, Lord save us. Your uncle Roop will skin us both. I’ll have t’ come, too.”
“No. You’ll wait here with the coach.” When he started to argue, she placed a hand on his skinny arm to silence him. “If I should get caught, somebody has to get me out of this. Agreed?”
“Might as well,” he grumbled. “You’ll sack me if I don’t.”
“Precisely,” she admitted cheerfully. Then she punched him playfully on the shoulder. “Ah, c’mon, Thom. Where’s your sense of adventure? You used to dare me to do things like this!”
“We was children then, Miss Kathryn. Yer father—God rest ‘im—was a sight more understandin’ about yer pranks than yer uncle will be. Stealin’ round a strange man’s home ain’t no game. He’ll have th’ law on ye. Worse yet, shoot ye fer a thief.”
“That prissy wretch wouldn’t know one end of a pistol from the other.” Kathryn hoped he didn’t, anyway. Somehow, the composer didn’t strike her as the type to wield a firearm. In the only duel that she knew anything about, Chadwick had used a sword. Apparently he’d been rather young when it happened, but a French immigrant attending the last concert evening had resurrected the story. Probably embellished it, as well. He’d said Chadwick was the best swordsman in France at the time.
Well, the silly rogue wasn’t likely to run her through without getting close enough to notice she was a woman.
“Calm down, Thorn. He won’t even know I’m there, and I’ll be back before you can blink. All I want is a look around.”
“Lord save us,” Thomas groaned, and went for the breeches.
Kathryn decided the third time would be the charm. Twice before tonight she had attended Chadwick’s performances. And twice she had failed to find out a thing about him other than how well he could compose and play.
He was a genius, and an odd duck all around. Everyone said so. And everyone came to see, as well as to listen. His appearance intrigued his audience as much as the music. The cream of London society talked of little else these days, when the subject of music arose. He could do no wrong, no matter how hard he tried. And, no mistaking it, he certainly did try. Tonight he had been haughty to the point of obnoxiousness. Arrogant, even insulting.
The social scale apparently meant nothing to the man. Kathryn wondered whether she might have been the only one in attendance tonight without a title. Certainly she was the only member of the press, though no one admitted knowing what she did to earn her keep. They did know, of course. If the hostess, Lady Ballinger, was not an intimate friend of Uncle Rupert’s, Kathryn knew she’d have been snubbed at the door. Even then, her welcome had felt distinctly cool. Female news writers, even those who published discreetly under a male
