Mary Blayney - [Pennistan 03] (8 page)

“If a woman as beautiful and talented came into my circle of friends, I would remember. How long?” Meryon prodded.

William did not take the bait but paused another long moment before he spoke.

“I play the violin, in my own rude way. As soon as the
war ended I went to Italy to hear Eduardo Verano play. We all spent a great deal of time together. I count the six months I had with Elena and Eduardo my finest experience of Italy. I expect I will see the Signora again this evening.”

Lord William did not answer the question directly. Interesting.

“Why do you want to know, Your Grace?” Lord William’s bland smile hinted that he had drawn the wrong conclusion.

“Signora Verano and I spoke briefly last night,” Meryon said, “and if I find you using any part of my private conversation with her for your own ends, I will cease making a distinction between you and your grandfather.”

Meryon made himself unclench his fist. He did not wait for a reply, but climbed into the carriage, slammed the door, and knocked for the coachman to move on.

The rest of the evening passed in a haze of annoyance—mostly at himself, for allowing this to happen. He knew better than to speak about anything that could be construed as fodder for gossips. Anything that could find its way into hands that would use it for their own gain.

He and Signora Verano had talked about Princess Charlotte’s death, the Regent’s deplorable lifestyle, their dead spouses. Good God, he had even told her that he talked to Rowena’s dog and that the dog answered. In the wrong hands that could be twisted into malicious rumors that would undermine his credibility at the exact moment when he thought to propose a bill.

In truth, the woman could make up a story if she had
been so commissioned. He had to confront Signora Verano and make sure she would be discreet.

Meryon had his secretary root through the invitations piled on the desk. Apparently she had no singing engagement this evening. On impulse, he decided to go to her house. Never mind the hour. This situation could not wait.

W
HAT A DELIGHTFUL DINNER
, my lady.” Elena pulled her cloak more tightly around her. Rain threatened. Where was her coach?

“Yes, it was a lovely experience, signora,” Lady Margaret replied. “Thank you so much, Lord William, for accompanying her and sharing your evening with us.”

Elena heard the rumble of coach wheels and pulled on her gloves. “Please do tell Mr. DeBora that it was a joy to see the Verano violin again. I hope he enjoys playing it.”

“Oh, DeBora will not play it.” Lady Margaret spoke as though that would be akin to her riding a horse astride. “It is much too valuable an instrument.”

Lord William took Elena’s arm when she tensed. Could he feel her outrage?

The carriage came to a stop and her coachman began,
in Italian fortunately, a rant about the idiocy of Englishmen. “They move like snails!”

“Be quiet, man,” William called in the man’s language. “Or they will say that English servants have better manners.” He patted Elena’s arm, bowed to their hostess, and clambered up to soothe the coachman.

“Perhaps I should drive, Elena,” Lord William suggested.

“Si! Si,” the coachman called down. He went on in Italian. “The little lord has been in Italy and knows how to drive. And he speaks English, so he can tell them to move out of the way of someone who knows how to handle the reins.”

Elena allowed it after making William promise he would drive as her coachman’s instructor and not as a competitor.

She settled on the cushioned seat, alone at last. The dinner had been pleasant enough, the other guests all music lovers. But listening to praise of Edward and sharing amusing stories of his eccentricities reminded her too much of her widow’s life in Italy.

The rain matched her mood and as she watched the raindrops track down the windows of the carriage, she welcomed the warm brick at her feet.

What a waste, that DeBora would not play Edward’s violin. Mr. DeBora and his wife were completely the wrong kind of music lovers. Yes, the auction of the instrument had funded the program for young musicians, but to treat the violin like a relic. It was a crime against music! Could she have someone approach them about buying it back? Could she afford it?

They reached the lovely little house in Bloomsbury quickly. Perhaps she did need an English coachman, someone who knew the streets and did not drive like he owned them. The Roman way did not suit London at all. She would ask Tinotti.

She found him waiting in the hall.

“Buona sera
, signora, and good evening, my lord.”

“Good evening, Tinotti.”

Her secretary then spent a solid minute effusively greeting Lord William. Did Tinotti think of him as a marriage prospect? Surely he knew that the two of them were only friends and not at all romantically inclined.

“What is bothering you, signora?” This from Signora Tinotti. Her housekeeper worried about everything and nothing. “You look unhappy.”

“Shhh,
carissima.”
Tinotti took his wife’s hand and kissed it. “It has been a long evening and it is not over yet.”

With a raised eyebrow from her husband, some sort of secret communication Elena surmised, Tina Tinotti took Lord William by the arm, urging him to come to the kitchen.

Elena watched them leave, puzzled by the familiarity and the hurry. Tinotti explained it with one whispered sentence.

“Signora, you have a caller.”

“A caller?” Even in Rome people did not call this late. “Why did you allow him in? What were you thinking? It’s well past ten o’clock!”

“He had an air of importance and walked into the blue salon announcing he would wait for you. I thought
perhaps that he …” Tinotti hesitated and cleared his throat. “Only lovers meet at this hour, signora. I thought you might want to speak with him. I did not know that you were going to bring the little lord home tonight.”

Did everyone think only of her supposed need for a lover? “Did he give you his card?” She sounded as weary as she felt.

“Yes. Signora, he is a duke: Lynford Pennistan, the Duke of Meryon. He said you had not been formally introduced but that—”

She raised her hand and Tinotti stopped speaking.

“I know who he is.” A brief flash of surprise was replaced by pleasure. He wanted to see her again. He could not forget the kiss either, so moved that the normal rules of etiquette did not apply. That sounded too dramatic, like one of Georges’s plays,
A Heart Bewitched
. Had the duke seen it, she wondered. “Please bring some wine for my guest and some tea for me.”

With a brief bow, Tinotti went off to do as she asked.

Was it a mistake to offer the duke hospitality? As Tinotti had hinted, only lovers met this late. Had the duke assumed that because she sang in public she was like a woman who sang for money, with loose morals and easy virtue?

Elena left her cloak and bonnet at the door. Sweeping into the blue salon, she wondered if her gown would blend with the wall color or if the blue-washed paint would complement it. She did not care, but it was easier to think about that than what to say to the duke.

She had spent half of last night wondering what he
thought of her singing, why he had left early, if she would see him again, if she would kiss him again.

If she would even recognize him.

Elena had the answer to that question the moment she laid eyes on him. She had never been so aware of a man in her life. She felt his presence even more vividly now than last night.

Her fatigue and sadness evaporated, replaced by an attraction that frightened as much as it thrilled. She knew nothing about the man. Nothing except his rank, his name, and that he had loved his wife.

Smiling a little, Elena curtsied without taking her eyes from him. He was so very English. That was hardly surprising. Blond hair, not too long, blue, blue eyes, and skin that would redden in the cheeks with age. High cheekbones and a strong chin with a cleft in it. And much too serious.

He had a virility that matched the very physical music of Beethoven. And yet he comported himself so much more like a Bach concerto, quiet and self-contained.

“Good evening to you, Your Grace. Lord William told me your name. Lynford Pennistan, the Duke of Meryon.” She gave a deep curtsy as befitted his title.

He returned her gesture with a brief bow.

Was he angry? With her? She could not read his expression but his curt greeting betrayed him. She waited, her pleasure at seeing him edged with caution.

“I want to speak to you about our conversation last night.”

“Yes.” She prepared herself for something awful.

Before the duke could say anything else, there was a
scratch at the door and Signora Tinotti came in with a tray. Elena’s tea was in her favorite Deruta mug and there was a very nice Italian wine. That should impress the duke.

“Some wine, Your Grace?” Elena offered the bottle for his study.

“No,” he said abruptly.

Elena set the wine back on the tray, abandoning any attempt at hospitality. “All right.”

Tina stepped back, glaring at Meryon. At a glance from Elena, the housekeeper left. After one more sip of tea, Elena set the cup on the tray.

“I came to clarify one issue,” he said, moving so close that she could smell the scent he favored.

“Please, do tell me.” She folded her arms in front of her, doing her best to ignore the scent.

“I want your assurance, your promise, an oath on the memory of your husband, that what we shared last night will remain between the two of us.”

Elena heard a command, not a request. “What we talked about?” Surprised at his vehemence, she took a step back, confused. He could not mean the kiss. Of course she would tell no one about it, even if she could not dismiss it from her mind.

“You mean our sorrow?” As she thought of the other topics they had covered her irritation grew. “Or do you mean Princess Charlotte? Or our comments about the Regent? Or our very personal reflections on Edward and your Rowena?” She had to make an effort not to shout. “What do you think I would do with such information?”

“If you are friends with Lord William it is not hard to imagine how you would use it.”

“What in the world does the viscount have to do with this?”

“I have it on good authority, signora, that you two are friends of long acquaintance.”

“Yes, we are.”

“Have you already talked to Lord William about me, signora?”

“No, of course not,” she said, feeling as though her words were being twisted. “We spoke in general terms, nothing more.”

“I have only your word on that.”

“
Only
my word? You know nothing of the value of my word.” She’d raised her voice and swept away from him, moving around the room lest she do something physical. She had never in her life wanted to hit a person, but this man begged for it.

“I saw Lord William at dinner tonight,” she said, trying, with the greatest effort, to keep her tone reasonable. “The only mention he made of you was to wonder where we would be likely to see you again.” It was the slightly embarrassing truth.

“Exactly.” The duke smiled, a you’ve-fallen-into-my-trap expression that was not friendly at all. He came to her across the room. “Two things intrigue me. That you and Lord William spend so much time together and that I am so frequently a topic of conversation.”

“You flatter yourself, Your Grace.” She stood her ground, hoping he would not notice her blush, for she had wanted to talk to William about him far more than she had. “Lord William is doing me the kindness of helping me establish myself in London.”

“I think his interests are more personal than that.” The duke took a step back and though he did not look her up and down, she felt as though he was considering her as he might a new statue. Or a mistress.

“Our friendship is none of your business, Your Grace. None at all. Let me remind you that he deserves your respect. He is, after all, the heir to a dukedom.”

“Even praiseworthy men can be compromised, especially in the name of family.”

“What do you mean by that?” Her throat tightened and she raised a hand to rub at the pressure, reminding herself that very few people knew of her connection to the Bendasbrook family. There was no way the duke could have discovered it. No way at all.

The duke did not answer right away and she waited, her hands shaking a little. The duke glanced at her fingers, but that one flick of the eye was the only curiosity he showed.

“I mean, madame, that in order to protect a family’s reputation and wealth even the honorable will abandon principle.”

“That says much more about you than it does about William.” Relief made her chatter on. “But then as a duke no one questions you; you are never at fault for any reason, whether it is to protect wealth or reputation, or only to show your power.”

“You hardly know me well enough to make that kind of judgment.”

“I only need to know that you are a duke.”

She did not wait for an answer but turned her back to him, staring at the painting on the wall, a Canaletto that
she adored, and prayed for calm. Finally she faced him again, more controlled but still aware of the way his presence affected her. “I will respect your privacy, as I trust you will respect mine.”