her attention to her soup.
When the company adjourned en masse to the music-room, set at the rear of the house, Lenore found Eversleigh by her side. “Invite the Melton sisters to play.” Together, they strolled into the large room. “I take it you play the pianoforte yourself?”
“Yes,” Lenore replied, wariness echoing in her voice. “But I don’t sing.” Her escort merely smiled his charming smile and escorted her to a seat in the front row. To her surprise, he sat beside her, stretching his long legs before him, giving every evidence of honouring the proceeding with his full attention. Lenore eyed him suspiciously.
His plan turned out to be simplicity itself. At his urging, Lenore invited one after another of the more youthful of the ladies to play or sing. Lady Henslaw, a matron with a distinctly racy reputation, followed Lady Hattersley. Under Eversleigh’s gaze, Lady Henslaw preened, then gave a surprisingly pure rendition of an old country air. The applause, led by Eversleigh, left her ladyship with a smile on her face. Mrs. Ellis followed, with a predictably innocent song. She was supplanted by Mrs. Cronwell, who, not to be outdone in maidenly accomplishment, played a stately minuet with real flair.
From the corner of her eye, Lenore saw her brother Harry shift in his seat. Jason saw it too. “Harry next.”
Lenore turned to him, consternation in her eyes. “I do not think that would be wise, Your Grace.”
Jason dropped his gaze to her face. He smiled, confidence lighting his eyes. “Trust me, Miss Lester.”
With a sigh, Lenore turned and summoned Harry. Her brother stood and strolled forward, his walk just short of a swagger. Taking his stance in front of the audience, he drew breath, his eyes scanning the expectant faces before him. Harry blinked. Shifting his stance, he swept the audience again, then, with a slight frown, he waved at Amelia. “Come accompany me, coz.”
Without fuss, Amelia went to the piano stool. The song Harry chose was a jaunty shanty, boisterous but in no way ineligible.
To Lenore’s relief, her brother appeared gratified by the thunderous applause that crowned his performance.
“Ask Frederick Marshall.” Lenore turned at the whispered command. Raising her brows in question, she was treated to a look of bland innocence. “He sings very well,” was all the explanation she received.
That proved to be no more than the truth. With Amelia at the keys, Mr. Marshall’s light baritone wended its harmonious way through one of the bardic tales, holding the audience enthralled. The tumultuous applause at the end of the piece was entirely spontaneous. The performers exchanged a delighted smile.
“Try Miss Whitticombe next.”
Lenore reacted immediately, no longer doubting her mentor’s wisdom. Miss Whitticombe held the dubious distinction of being the only unmarried female guest. A plain girl, she had accompanied her mother, a dashing widow. Miss Whitticombe opted for the harp, proving to be more competent than inspired. Nevertheless, her effort was well received.
“Now Jack.”
Lenore had to turn in her seat to locate her eldest brother. He stood at the back of the room, shoulders propped against the wall, a look of thinly disguised boredom on his face. Lenore waved to attract his attention. “Jack?” Even from across the room, she saw his eyes narrow as he straightened, then flick from her to Eversleigh and back again.
“No, no, my dear. It’s you who should do the honours of the house.” A smile Lenore knew boded her no good appeared on her sibling’s face. “I suggest a duet. The gentleman beside you will no doubt be happy to join you.”
Stunned but far too experienced to show it, Lenore turned to Eversleigh. He met her wide eyes with a charming smile and a graceful gesture to the piano. “Are you game, Miss Lester?”
There was no escape, Lenore saw that instantly. Not sure whose neck she wished to wring, Eversleigh’s or Jack’s, she allowed Eversleigh to draw her to her feet and escort her to the instrument. A sotto voce conference decided the piece, a gentle ballad she felt confident she could manage. Fingers nimble on the keys, Lenore commenced the introduction, distractedly aware of the odd beat of her heart and of Eversleigh standing close behind her.
Afterwards, she could remember little of their performance, but she knew she sang well, her voice lifting easily over Eversleigh’s bass. Her contralto was not as well tutored as Amelia’s sweet soprano, but, against Eversleigh’s powerful voice, it struck the right chord. The final note resonated through the room, their voices in perfect harmony. Clapping burst forth. Eversleigh’s fingers closed about her hand. He raised her to stand beside him, his eyes, clear grey, smiling into hers.
“A most memorable moment, my dear. Thank you.”
For one long instant, Lenore stared up into his eyes, sure he was going to kiss her fingertips, as he had once before. Instead, his gaze shifted to the watching crowd. Still smiling, he placed her hand on his sleeve.
Deflated, then troubled by the sudden sinking of her spirits, Lenore sighted Smithers with the tea-trolley. She excused herself to Eversleigh, murmuring her thanks for her relief, then forged a determined path through her guests to the relative safety of the teacups. She was grateful to Eversleigh for his assistance, but, in the interests of her own peace of mind, she would be wise to spend much less time in his company.
THE NEXT DAY, Wednesday, dawned bright and clear, with just a touch of mist about the lake. To Lenore’s surprise the mild entertainment of the previous evening had engendered a milder attitude among the guests. Everyone seemed more relaxed, ready to trade easy smiles and light conversation in place of the artfully pointed banter and arch looks of the preceding days.
The majority of the ladies had made a pact to attend breakfast in the sunny downstairs parlour. While their appearance initially raised a good many male brows, surprise rapidly faded as the company settled into informal groups about the long board, the ladies, sipping tea and nibbling thin slices of toast, interspersed with the gentlemen, most of whom had made extensive forays among the covered dishes on the sideboard. The talk revolved around possible excursions to fill the afternoon. The gentlemen had already decided on an inspection of the Hall’s closer coverts while the morning air was still crisp.
Hovering by the laden side-table, Lenore kept a watchful eye on her charges, ensuring that the younger, less confident ladies encountered no difficulties. Thus far, no contretemps had marred the pleasantry; her hopes were rising that, despite her brothers’ inventiveness, the week would pass off more smoothly than she had thought. Assured that all was well, she picked up a plate and helped herself to an assortment of delicacies from beneath the silver domes.
As she was turning away, Amelia came to the sideboard, Frederick Marshall by her side. Her cousin was a picture in a peach-coloured morning gown, her cheeks aglow, her manner slightly flustered. Lenore hesitated, then, with a gracious smile, she nodded her good mornings and left them.
She turned to find a place at the table and was immediately conscious of Eversleigh’s grey gaze. He was seated on the opposite side of the table, one long-fingered hand draped over the back of the vacant chair beside him. He was talking to Lord Holyoake but his eyes were on her.
The compulsion to round the table and take the seat she knew would be instantly offered her was strong. With determined calm, Lenore opted to fill the empty place at the foot of the table, smiling at Mrs. Whitticombe and Lady Henslaw on her left, smoothly joining in their conversation. She studiously avoided looking Eversleigh’s way but she could feel his gaze, amused, she was
