he needed to save Lady Falconbridge. The revealing of Madame de Badeau’s plot had led to her ultimate disgrace and gained for Marianne the Falconbridge family’s appreciation and undying dedication.
Marianne shifted on her feet. Lord Falconbridge’s gratitude made her as uncomfortable as the hug. A notorious rake she’d once thought as hard as Madame de Badeau, love had changed Lord Falconbridge. What might it do for her? She wasn’t likely to find out. No man worth his salt was going to push past the rumours and gossip to ever get to know her.
‘Marianne, guess what? Theresa is expecting again. Some time in the spring,’ Lady Falconbridge announced.
‘How marvellous.’ Despite Theresa being one of Marianne’s only friends, the good news stung. It illustrated once again the love and happiness Marianne would never enjoy. ‘I’ll write to her at once with my congratulations.’
She fled the room before the envy and heartache found its way to the surface. She made for the sitting room downstairs near the back of the house, eager to reach the pianoforte and the smooth black-and-white keys. Once inside the room, the view of Lady Ellington’s prized rose garden through the far window didn’t calm her as it usually did. She withdrew a red-brocade composition book from the piano bench. The spine creaked when she opened it. She flipped through the pages and the notes bounced up and down on the staffs, punctuated every few lines by a smudge of ink or her fingerprint. It was her music. It had comforted her during the long, lonely hours at Madame de Badeau’s, and afterwards, before her life had settled into the even cadence of Lady Ellington’s dower house.
Selecting her most recent composition, she propped the book up on the music stand and lifted the cover over the keys. Wiggling her fingers, she rested them on the ivory until it warmed. Then she pressed down and began the first chords, wincing at each wrong note until she settled into the sweet and mournful piece. Through the adagio, she concentrated on the shift of the foot pedal and the strength with which she struck each key and how long she held it until sweeping on to the next. The black notes tripped along in her mind, memorised from hours of practice.
Finally, the piece reached its slow, wailing end and she raised her hands. The last notes vibrated along the wires until they faded away. Blinking through wet lashes, her cheeks and neck cold with moisture, she studied her hands. They were smooth and limber now, but some day they’d be wrinkled and stiff and here she’d be, with any luck, living under the protection of the Falconbridge family, the scandals as forgotten as she.
She wiped the tears from beneath her chin and turned the page to one of her slightly less sombre compositions. Crying wouldn’t do any good. If Lady Ellington didn’t think it was hopeless, then perhaps it wasn’t. If nothing else, there was always Lord Bolton.
* * *
‘There’s a fortune to be made here, Warren, can’t you see it?’ Rupert Hirst, Warren’s brother-in-law, paced back and forth across the rug in front of Warren’s desk. A little wrinkle rose up in the patterned carpet where his heel dug in to make the turn.
Warren frowned. If Rupert paced long enough, he’d wear a hole in the thing and then it would be another repair for Warren to pay for. The workers were behind enough already, despite the rush to finish before the good weather ended, and the costs were increasing by the day. If Warren didn’t write this book and get it to William Berkshire, his publisher, and collect the remainder of his advance, there’d still be holes in the roof come the first snow.
Lancelot, Warren’s red Irish setter who chased sleep more than he did birds, watched from where he lay on the hearthrug, not bothering to rise.
‘I can see the potential. I can also see myself losing a great deal of money if your optimism proves unfounded.’ Which wouldn’t be the first time. Despite his brother-in-law’s best efforts, Rupert hadn’t made a go of his last venture and it had faltered. Even his love for Leticia had proved destructive in the end.
Warren twirled his pen in his fingers. It wasn’t fair to blame Rupert. He’d loved Warren’s sister. If only Mother Nature had been so enamoured. The cruel witch had turned her back on Leticia and her poor little babe, failing to answer even Warren’s entreaties for help as he’d struggled to save them both.
‘I’m committing most of my small inheritance to hiring the best captains and ships to import the tobacco, and securing the crops of numerous farmers, so it can’t fail. I won’t let it,’ Rupert protested, frustration and desperation giving his voice an unappealing lilt. ‘I need your backing, not just financially, but your name. It will attract others and once they’ve invested or become buyers, the risk to you will be minimal.’
‘But not non-existent.’ Warren gathered up a small stack of books from the corner of the desk and carried them to the dark wood bookshelves lining the lower floor of the study. He examined the spines in the bright daylight filling the room from the row of leaded glass windows behind his desk. At least the sun saved him the expense of lighting candles. ‘The repairs to Priorton are proving expensive. I can’t afford to risk money on a business venture.’
Warren climbed the curving staircase to the balcony and opened a glass case and deposited a thick medieval text inside. If he could write the next damned book he might be able to take a chance. The manuscript was already months overdue. Mr Berkshire was a friend and a patient man, willing to wait for the next great sensation from Sir Warren Stevens, but he wouldn’t wait for ever. Neither would Warren’s readers. They’d move on to another emerging novelist if he didn’t produce something soon.
‘If my plan to import the new tobacco succeeds, you’ll have plenty of money,’ Rupert persisted.
‘And if it doesn’t, it will ruin my financial standing and my reputation.’ Warren looked over the polished wood banister at Rupert. His company was tolerable enough and his vices non-existent, but there was nothing special about him. He still couldn’t understand what Leticia had seen in him. ‘I have no wish to go from celebrated author to hated hawker of bad investments.’
‘But I need your support. I think it’s the least you can do, considering.’ The words came out low with the edge of a growl. Even Lancelot raised his head at the sound.
‘Careful, Rupert.’ Warren gripped the banister, setting hard on his arms as he leaned forward, staring the man down. ‘She was as much my sister as she was your wife.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply anything or to sound desperate, but some days I feel so lost without her.’ He hung his head, raking one hand through his thinning dark hair, the simple gold wedding band glowing on his finger. ‘If she were here, I’d have her support and it would make it easier to deal with the setbacks and disappointments.’
Warren eased his grip on the banister at the anguish in Rupert’s words. Warren had lost his greatest supporter, too, when Leticia had died. She’d edited and read all of his manuscripts, telling him where they were best and what could be improved, and she’d believed in them, and him, even when he hadn’t. Not even Mr Berkshire had matched her enthusiasm for his work and now she was gone.
He slid his hand over the banister, then took the spiral staircase step by slow step. He could almost hear Leticia begging him to help Rupert. She’d begged Warren to invest in Rupert’s first business after they were engaged so he could make enough to allow them to marry. Warren had been as wary of that venture as he was this one, but Leticia had stood in front of his desk, like Rupert did now, pleading with him to change his mind, to help Rupert and to make her happy.
He approached his brother-in-law, the differences in their height making Warren look down on the slender man. Whatever Rupert’s shortcomings, Warren had
