Mary Blayney - [Pennistan 03] (5 page)

“That is hardly a compliment.” She took a step back. “William, I imagine at least a thousand people arrived in London the same week I did. Dozens of them probably have some grudge against Bendas. Why not question them?”

“Do sit down. I am sorry. I should have trusted my first instincts and not even mentioned it. But there is another reason you should know what is happening. You may hear some of it when you join the party. Someone went out to find the cartoon and it is being passed around.” He sat down after she did and explained the caricature, ending with, “Obviously someone wishes the ton to believe that Bendas’s faculties are failing.”

“I assure you, William, that I have not said a word to anyone about the Duke of Bendas. No one even expects me to know him. Tell me that you believe me and will no longer consider me the rumormonger.”

“Of course I believe you.”

“Thank you, William, and I will thank you even more if you never bring the subject up again.”

“Never. My apologies for mentioning it at all.”

“Yes, well, I have read Machiavelli, and I have lived in Italy most of my life. I suppose you had to ask, but let us leave it at that.”

“Como lo desidera, signora.”
He stood up, bowed to her and kissed her hand.

“Thank you again. My wish is to be known as Elena Verano.” She kissed his head. “As enlightening as this interlude has been, my twenty minutes has dwindled to a few.” She stood up. “I need privacy so I can practice for a few moments.”

“Have I upset you too much? How thoughtless of me.” William slapped his head.

“Not at all. A bit of temper will make my singing better.”

“Good. Good,” he said with real relief. “I will go to the ballroom and find the perfect vantage point.” He hurried to the door.

“I would think you would be looking for a woman who is not married.”

“As would Grandfather. But I do so enjoy defying him even in absentia.” With a wave he left the room before she could comment, which was just as well as there was nothing to say that would change the truth that his grandfather found him an embarrassment. It made as little sense as her father’s unreasonable anger over a piece of music.

Elena dismissed worries from the trivial to the significant and began the exercises that were as much a part of her performance as the songs she sang. When she finished, she opened her mind. To her dismay it was the shadowed stranger she thought of first, the unknown man
who had shared his hurt and his heart and the sweetest of kisses.

It happened sometimes that someone other than Edward would be her inspiration. With a
“Ti amo sempre”
to her husband, Elena left the room to make her first singing appearance in England.

W
ALKING PURPOSEFULLY
down the passage, intent on leaving, Meryon did his best to control his annoyance at being dragged into such a personal discussion with the woman. And to kiss her!

Meryon could not lie to himself. He knew how that had happened. When she looked at him, her eyes filled with tears, a voice begging for comfort, he could not resist the invitation. It was definitely time to find a mistress.

Once he crossed the back of the ballroom, Meryon had to slow his pace. As usual, people clustered near the entrance. Besides The Gossips, every guest paused after they were announced, some to look for acquaintances, others to wait for a spouse.

Meryon could not make his way to the door without stopping to greet people. Even as he listened to their welcome and their worries, he realized that his inclination to
leave immediately was misguided. He should wait until he could identify his companion in the dark, only because it made sense to know in whom he had confided.

Her rose perfume, her soft mouth, her lovely voice tickled his memory. All right, Meryon admitted to himself. There was more than one reason he would wait to see what she looked like.

If she did not return to the ballroom he could always ask Letty to name her.

As he listened to concerns about the state of agriculture, the general unrest, and a number of other subjects that were less than cheerful, Meryon watched the passage. He counted four ladies come into the ballroom, none of them tall or elegant enough to be his companion.

Twice, he was drawn into meaningful discussion. Everyone had an opinion, some better voiced than others. But none of them had solutions. Apparently they counted on Parliament to come up with a way to solve the problem they considered most urgent. Each left him with a bow and an expression of appreciation for his consideration. One annoyed him.

“How is it, Your Grace, that Parliament agreed to the suspension of habeas corpus, and, in less than a year, removed the suspension?” DeBora spoke in a loud voice, deliberately, to attract notice.

“I was absent from London last year and away from the country for the last six months, Mr. DeBora. I cannot speak for the actions of Parliament.” Meryon spoke with a cordiality that took some effort. It occurred to him that DeBora served as Bendas’s second in more than dueling.

“Yes, and we understand your bereavement.” DeBora’s perfunctory words pushed Meryon’s temper up a notch. “You were absent, but half the seats from Derbyshire are under your control. Surely you still consider violent dissent a real threat.”

“I did and I still do.” Meryon had explained his stand a dozen times at least. “But that is no reason, nor has it ever been, to deny men their rights.” He could speak on, but then he would sound too much like a Jacobin. He held his temper and made to turn away.

“Your Grace, that is easy to say when you live in a castle and are protected night and day.”

There was gasp from a woman nearby who had been eavesdropping.

DeBora was trying to insult him, to make him lose his temper. Meryon knew exactly who was behind that.

“The only protection I need is from fools like you. What do you know of threats to your safety?” He ignored DeBora and addressed the people who were listening. “Would you have us behave like the French, who do not think that you need a reason to put a man in prison? Believe me when I tell you that you can pay too high a price for security.” He gave them all a curt nod and the group dispersed, as he intended.

Meryon then gave this Bendas lackey his full attention, speaking in a voice so quiet that no one but a complete idiot would miss the challenge in it. “Tell Bendas that he is a coward to send you to do his work.” Meryon relaxed his fist. “I am not that easily gulled. Leave my sight, or I will find you at Jackson’s and we will fight with our fists. I guarantee it will hurt more than words.”

Even the goddess of all beauty and grace was not worth conversation with DeBora. Without waiting for an answer and determined to ask Letty to name a guest who had lived in Italy until recently, Meryon turned and found his friend Kyle looking anxious.

“DeBora is a fool.” Meryon loosed some of his temper with those words. “He wouldn’t be allowed in the room if he hadn’t married the daughter of a marquis. Bendas put him up to this. DeBora cares no more about habeas corpus than I care about women’s shoes.”

“You and Bendas?” Kyle shook his head. “When will this feud end, for God’s sake?”

“This ‘feud,’ as you call it, will end when Bendas is ruined.” Meryon had never said that aloud before, but Kyle needed to understand there was no halfway.

“Ruined?” Kyle’s expression showed more confusion than distress. “The duel was supposed to end your retribution.”

“Bendas fired early and admitted that he wanted me to die. The duel, as defined in the Code Duello, never happened.” Before Kyle could answer, Meryon went on. “I know you live to debate any issue, my friend, but you cannot sway me on this. Not tonight. Or tomorrow.”

“The thing is, Lyn”—Lord Kyle tugged at his cravat as though it were choking him, keeping him from speaking—“to seek revenge is unworthy of your rank. Revenge diminishes you as a gentleman.”

“You misspeak when you call it revenge. I want justice for Kepless and his family.” Meryon gave Kyle a deliberately intent stare.

“I’ve always hated that ‘off with your head’ look.”

Meryon could not help but laugh at Kyle’s impertinence. “There are times when your French heritage shows through. The guillotine is not used in England.”

“Madame might be ghastly, but the blade is quicker and cleaner than what you are doing.” Kyle raised his hand when Meryon’s smile faded. “Never fear. I’ll protect your back. I always will.”

“I never doubted you would.” Did Kyle give any thought to how this vendetta would affect him if it played out badly? He would save that discussion for another day. “Will you be at Jackson’s tomorrow?”

“I’ve been there when you allow yourself to lose your control.” Kyle patted his shoulder. “I will be no more than a spectator.”

“The Gossips are trying to determine what we are so intense about. Laugh, or they will begin to weave a story worthy of one of Georges’s melodramas.”

“Georges’s plays are beyond belief.” Kyle did laugh. “At least The Gossips almost always have some bit of truth buried in their tales.”

“You’ve been to a performance.”

“My sisters insisted they must go see one.” Kyle leaned closer as though ready to confess. “Frankly, Georges’s fables are amazing tales. I have seen three and each one is more incredible than the one before it. And the actresses are quite, quite lovely. Georges knows how to attract an audience. If Bonnie were not bright, beautiful, and so sweetly generous, I would know where to look for a new mistress.”

“I’ll take that as a hint and see if I can make up a party to attend.”

The music stopped and the dancers began to drift to the edges of the floor, ending their private conversation and now effectively trapping them between ballroom and hall.

“I am determined to have a word with Mrs. Harbison and be off before the next set forms or someone insists on talking politics again. Tell me, Kyle, if we come to these galas to escape the pressures of Parliament, why do so many want to talk about what goes on there?”

With a laughing slap on the back, Kyle bid him farewell and Meryon searched the area for his hostess.

“Good evening, Your Grace.”

Meryon looked to his right and then down at Viscount William Bendasbrook, a strange little man of wit and intelligence. Meryon liked him, but he did not trust him. Lord William’s grandfather was the Duke of Bendas.

“Lord William.” Meryon acknowledged him and began to move on. At that moment, the orchestra played a chord, demanding their attention, and the viscount grabbed his arm, keeping it in a bruising hold.

“You cannot leave, Your Grace. You must hear this woman. She is amazing.”

“I am not interested in hearing anyone sing.” Meryon jerked his arm, but Lord William would
not
release it. The duke turned his sharpest gaze on him.

The viscount remained unfazed. “I will not let go, and think how ridiculous it would look for you to be seen dragging me out of the room behind you. Trust me, Your Grace, you will enjoy this.”

Harbison’s announcement precluded further discussion, much less an escape.

“This evening I will introduce to you a lady whose reputation is not yet fully appreciated here in England. None other than the renowned concertmaster and teacher, Signor Ponto, has declared her voice to be one of the finest in all of Europe.” With a gesture to the woman standing below him, Harbison announced, “Signora Elena Verano.”

The viscount had not let go of Meryon’s arm, but Lord William could not stand still, constantly bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet. Meryon caught his eye and Lord William stilled, dropped his hand, and climbed onto a nearby chair for a clear view over the crowd.

The silence lengthened. Meryon turned toward the stage, where he found the Signora looking at the crowd, smiling, waiting for complete attention.

She had his. Before him stood the woman he had just met and already kissed, one of the loveliest women he had ever seen.

Even though she stood on the other side of a noisy, crowded room he could not take his eyes off her any more than he could stop watching a beautiful sunrise.

Of course, her husband, Edward, must be Eduardo Verano. His mastery of the violin was legendary. Meryon had heard him years ago, before the war, when youth had kept him from fully appreciating Verano’s talent.

Leave. Leave now
. Meryon did not want to hear the song, or rather her voice. It was too easy to imagine it, powerful, evocative and, above all, too filled with emotion.

He stayed as if rooted to the spot.

With a gesture to the orchestra, she began. Signora
Verano’s voice was not what he expected. It did not have the power for an opera hall, but in a space like this it reached every ear and every heart.

The last of the whispers stopped as the first notes floated out, but he might as well have been alone with her in the room. She sang with her eyes closed but he still felt her singing to him, only him.

Although she sang in Italian, Meryon needed no translation. Her voice gave the words all the meaning they needed.

Passion filled the air. Promise poured from her, mixed with a happiness—no, more than that—a
euphoria
that spoke of intimacy so complete that his whole body responded.