He blinked, shook his head, and picked up his pen again to get the notes down before they escaped him. They ran through his head like a string of crystal beads, tinkling against each other, winding around full circle, twisting playfully here and there. They’d been doing that ever since he arrived home.
He stopped scribbling to test their possibilities on the violin. Pleased with the results, he laid the instrument aside. Ink-dotted paper crinkled under his bare legs and feet as he wriggled out a comfortable spot. Stretching out full-length, his head on a threadbare cushion, Jon closed his eyes and let the music in his mind flow through him.
Last scene. The tenor returns.... Soprano greets him. Ahhh, a lyrical tease, a sly, dark-eyed cat... Dark-eyed? That woman’s face flashed through his mind, likely because she was the last one he’d seen. Jon lifted one hand toward the cracked ceiling plaster and waved in time with the imagined aria. Sforzando, now. Tenor offers final tribute to his lady. Now up, swiftly, like a cock...pounding, surging, reaching...
Jon’s voice joined in the process, using only pure sounds instead of words, bel canto, now rising in volume to return, almost unrecognizable, to his ears. Ah, yes... Slowly, on a burst of feeling that reached a crescendo, Jon rose to a sitting position and lifted the Stradivarius to repeat himself.
Then it came, profound as a lover’s cry, powerful as the urge itself, the whole of it sweeping over and through him, ending like the little death. Culmination, climax, ecstasy! Done!
He had finished! All but the finale with the entire ensemble, a mere repeat of the overture, with a few adjustments. At last!
Jon spared but a moment to savor the exhilaration, then laid down the violin and located his pen. He scratched madly with the pen, humming with his bottom lip caught between his teeth.
The ink trail crawled left to right in a wavy line, broken by myriad squiggles and curlicues. When it reached the right edge of the paper, it curved down and tracked right to left in a continuous scroll to the bottom of the page. Jon’s code, as Maman had laughingly called it, had developed when he was only five and untutored in the intricacies of the music staff and individual notes. She had quickly taught him to put down the music correctly, but suggested he keep to his own invented method for the first drafts when he wrote. No one could decipher the childish chicken tracks but himself, when he translated them later.
Poking a hole in the paper at the excitement of penning the last sound in his head, Jon sailed the pen across the room and boomed, “Bravo!”
A sharp “Ouch” jerked him off his cloud of euphoria. The shock of reality struck him dumb, and he stared, disbelieving, at the shadows surrounding the old grand piano. Out of the semidarkness crept a small figure nursing an ink-stained cheek.
“How did you know I was there?” she asked, rubbing the spot and smearing the black fluid down the side of her face.
Jon still stared, his mouth open. Good God, it was her! For a long moment, he feared he had conjured her up out of his imagination. How the hell had she gotten in? He looked around, seeing the open casement, feeling the cold night air for the first time. The candles in the broken candelabra next to him threw their wavering shadows on the peeling wallpaper.
He looked down in horror. He was sitting on the floor in his short flannel drawers, surrounded by a mountainous tangle of ink-scribbled papers. His lute, an ancient lyre and the Stradivarius lay about like scattered bodies on a battlefield. Frantically he snatched up the violin, worried she might step on it.
Hair tumbled across half his face, several frazzled strands caught on his lips. Jon winced, thinking how wild he must appear in this condition. Sweat from God knew how many hours of work wafted its scent upward from his body. He cringed. What a story this would make. Nasty, mad musician assaults female reporter with inky nib pen. He felt sick, and swallowed hard.
“Don’t be afraid,” she said softly, inching toward him. “I’m a friend. It’s all right now. Just be calm.” He recoiled as she crouched down and gently touched his bare foot.
Jon made himself meet her eyes. They held no sign of recognition, only compassionate warmth. Well, except for his size, he couldn’t possibly bear any resemblance to the man she had watched perform. The dark wig, nothing like his own light hair, was safely tucked in the armoire with his suit. He recalled scrubbing off the itchy powder and shucking his clothes to go to bed. But then the “ladies” had called him downstairs. At the memory, he stroked the Strad’s strings—it was his treasure of treasures, his most inventive lady, the most beautiful of his harem.
Maybe the woman thought him an interloper like her. She might take him for a village lad who’d broken into the main house to play with the instruments. Hope flared. He swallowed heavily again and nodded like an imbecile.
“You poor fellow. He keeps you here, doesn’t he?” Her voice held a wealth of pity as she patted his ankle.
Jon wiggled his foot, sniffed loudly and looked away. The dust from his hair made him sneeze. So, she thought he was mad. He fully agreed with her.
“You’re the one who makes up the music, aren’t you? I listened to you singing and playing. It’s all right to tell me about it. I know you have to be the one who creates it. No one, even Chadwick, can match what you just did.”
What a hypnotic voice she had. And she looked even lovelier than he had realized when he was trying to intimidate her. Her hair, loose from its pins, rippled over her shoulders like a mass of fine gold filament. She had very wide, dark-fringed eyes that reminded him of rich Dutch chocolate. He licked his lips at the thought. The eyes held such pity, though, that it was hard to meet them for any length of time. Her skin gleamed like porcelain, just the right amount of sheen to it. Her small breasts heaved with indignation now—for him, he realized—or at least for who she thought he was.
Jon shook his head to break the spell, but it didn’t work very well. When he squeezed his eyes shut, all he could see were the slender curves of her hips and legs in those too-tight breeches as she crouched beside him.
“No need to pretend with me,” she said sweetly. “What is your name, dear? Can you tell me your name?”
“Pip,” Jon answered reluctantly. It was the first thing that popped into his mind, his father’s childhood name for him, one he hadn’t heard since he was eight years old.
The woman obviously believed him some sort of idiot, from the way she spoke to him. Small wonder. If he had come upon somebody wallowing in the middle of a cavernous ballroom, dressed—no, undressed—the way he was, and in the throes of a musical stupor, he would have thought so, too.
Oh, God, how was he going to get out of this?
No recourse now but to play out the scenario and hope to hell her sympathy was genuine. First, he had to find out how much she had already uncovered about the public Chadwick’s background. This could be tricky, but the alternative of a full admission would definitely be disastrous.
He plucked idly at the Strad’s strings with two fingers. “Where’s Jon?” he mumbled.
She looked vastly relieved that he could string two words together. “Gone again,” she said. “At least his coach was gone when I got here. The place looked deserted, but then I heard you playing, so I came in.”
Ah, so she’d seen the hired conveyance leave, he mused. She’d braved his den believing the bear had left. He wondered for a moment if she might be after more than his life story. The only thing of great value here was his collection of instruments. Only a few
