The Baron Next Door (Prelude to a Kiss) (5 page)

“And yet I am here now solely due to the efforts of Lady Effington and yourself.”

They were speaking low now, quietly enough that their conversation wouldn’t be overheard by those around them. She was close enough to smell the subtle spice of his shaving soap. It was oddly intimate in such a public setting, but she imagined he was no keener than she for their less than civilized exchange to be observed.

“I’ll admit, it was rather amusing to see you bullied by my grandmother. It was almost worth being seated next to you now.”

“Glad to know my suffering could be a source of amusement for you,” he said without any real heat. “Although I suppose we established that this morning, did we not?”

“You must have a very thin skin, my lord, to be so easily wounded,” she replied archly.

“My, my,” Grandmama said from across the table. “What have the two of you got your heads together about?”

Charity cringed at the spectacularly loud statement, which drew the attention of nearly the entire table. With the weight of so many eyes on her, her blush heated two times over. “Nothing of note, ma’am.”

Chuckling indulgently, the older woman looked to the baron. “I daresay it looked quite noteworthy from here. What say you, Mrs. Potter? Shall we scold them for their whispered conversation?”

Mrs. Potter’s smile could not have been more delighted. “Oh no, Lady Effington. Allowances must be made for besotted young people, I think.”

Besotted?
Mortification filled every inch of Charity’s body, making her stomach drop and her ears ring. She wanted to say something, anything, to deflect their attention, but all the proper words seem to flee her tongue.

“I assure you, ladies, ’tis nothing so exciting as that.” Lord Cadgwith sounded completely composed, even slightly amused. “Miss Effington has confessed to a headache, so I was endeavoring to speak quietly so as not to offend.”

Charity cut her eyes to the baron, who spoke the lie with perfect aplomb. Why had he said such a thing? Predictably, Grandmama turned distressed eyes toward Charity. “Oh, my. I had no idea. I thank you, my lord, for having such courtesy. Shall we depart after dinner, my dear girl?”

Well, Charity could scarcely say otherwise after such an excuse. Never mind that it provided the perfect escape from the baron’s company and the other guests’ scrutiny, including that of Miss Remington, whose bewildered expression still somehow held accusation; the man had no right to rope her into such a lie. He as good as secured her ejection from the party. And for this, Grandmama was
thanking
him?

Her gaze slipped to the baron, where he sat watching her with lifted brows. Daring her to deny his explanation, perhaps? There did seem to be a gleam of triumph in those green eyes of his. With a quiet huff of annoyance, she turned her attention back to her grandmother. “Yes, ma’am, I think it’s probably best.”

As the other guests returned to their conversations, Charity cut narrowed eyes to the baron. “You fiend. I can’t believe you just got me kicked out of the party.”

He shrugged. “Why? Seems fitting, if you ask me.”

“Fitting? In what way?” He was maddeningly unperturbed by his part in this.

“If your intervention resulted in my forced attendance, it’s apropos that mine should result in your forced departure.”

“So you planned this, did you?”

He snorted, shaking his head. “If I had thought that far ahead, I would have said
I
was the one with the headache.”

For the first time, she saw the hint of drollness in his expression. Could it be that the churlish Lord Cadgwith actually possessed a sense of humor? As Charity sat back and allowed the footman to set her dessert in front of her, she considered the possibility.

Perhaps there was more to the man than she originally thought.

W
hat, exactly, had they gotten themselves into?

Charity bit her lip as May’s servant carefully laid the long wooden zither, with all the care one would expect for a newborn infant, upon the designated table. Set against the pale gold-and-white damask wallpaper and Queen Anne furniture of the townhouse’s music room, it was almost absurdly out of place. At May’s thanks, the footman left them, and Charity stepped closer in order to properly inspect the thing.

There were at least a dozen strings stretched across the instrument’s nearly five-foot length, with several bridges fanning along the top. It had a rich rosewood border with a blond wooden inlay polished to a high shine. A watery painting adorned the top, depicting a stylized oriental garden and several Chinese symbols.

A piece of the Orient, right here in Bath.

“It truly is beautiful,” Charity breathed, trying to keep the doubt from her voice. How on earth were they to marry three such disparate instruments? It’d be like drawing a carriage with a horse, an ox, and a zebra.

May’s smile was as sunny as the day was dreary. “Yes, and foreign enough to give you the vapors, no?”

“Indeed,” Sophie said, after swallowing her bite of apple puff. “In the very best possible way. I cannot wait to hear you play that thing. It’s the closest I shall ever come to China. Or the East Indies. Or across the Channel, for that matter!”

“Is there a best possible way to have the vapors?” Charity asked, grinning as she spoke. Sophie did have a manner of speaking that could not help but amuse.

“Oh yes!” Sophie’s dark curls bounced with her enthusiastic nod. “The best vapors are to be had when a very,
very
handsome gentleman asks you to dance, or you have a bite of the most divine cake ever, or you catch a glimpse of a rather spectacular nude statue that you were forbidden from seeing.”

“Sophie!” she laughed, widening her eyes in teasing reproof. Charity wouldn’t have thought the girl could ever be scandalous, but clearly she had a little devilment hiding behind those rosy cheeks and sparkly eyes. “It’s a good thing my grandmother can’t hear very well—you’ll get us all in trouble.”

“Not I,” said May, looking very worldly with her knowing little smile. “The natives of the East Indies are more often than not half-naked. Most aren’t much to look at, but every now and then . . .” She trailed off, grinning wickedly.

Sophie and Charity gaped at her for one shocked moment. Then all at once they all broke into gay laughter, the sound echoing beautifully around the high ceilings of the music room.

“Oh, my word,” Charity said, wiping tears from the corners of her eyes. “You two shall be the death of me, I can already tell.” After the odd dinner last night, it felt wonderful to laugh with people she actually liked.

May patted her arm. “No, darling—we shall be the
life
of you. Anyone who blushes as easily as you has not had nearly enough adventure in her life.”

Probably a more accurate statement than Charity would like to admit. “Yes. Well, let us start with hearing you play. That shall be adventure enough for the day, I think.”

Sophie dragged a chair from the wall and plopped down directly in front of the zither. “I have thought of little else since we parted, and, yes, I do realize that makes me sound very boring. But in my defense, my mother is not yet settled and therefore doesn’t wish for us to attend any functions just yet. So, you see, you and your zither are certainly the most excitement I have had in days. Perhaps weeks.”

Taking a seat in front of the table, May fitted little black picks to the ends of her fingers. “In that case, I shan’t delay a second longer. Are you ready, Charity?”

Settling on the comfortable butter yellow settee nearby, Charity nodded. May smiled, then closed her eyes and took a long, deep breath. She was the very picture of an English miss, dressed in shimmery white muslin with gorgeous emerald embroidery in place of a sash at her waist. Her blond hair was pulled up into a simple twisted knot, and a plain gold cross lay against her chest.

The soft patter of rain against the wide back windows was the only sound as May seemed to meditate a moment. Then, with the graceful descent of a landing bird, her fingers settled on the strings and she opened her eyes.

The first pluck filled the room with an almost harplike sound, full and resonant as the strings sang. But then she slid her fingertip down the chord and the difference was notable, apparent in the tinny, almost flat twang of the notes. Her fingers danced over the strings, playing a song that was as unfamiliar to Charity as the instrument itself.

Her passion was unmistakable, her focus complete as she plucked and strummed with masterful hands. The song flowed from her fingers like a kite dancing in the wind. It bounced and bobbed, swooped and slid, calling forth a different time and place. It wasn’t just a song; it was an experience.

When the last note rang out, May looked up for the first time since beginning. Her smile was firmly in place, but it was different from her teasing grins before. She seemed almost wistful, with a hint of sadness touching her eyes. It was a look Charity recognized well. One that graced her own features whenever she was stuck in London, subject to the
ton
’s snide comments and belittling stares.

Homesickness.

“Oh, May,” Sophie said, pressing her hands to her chest. “That was so very beautiful.”

Plucking the picks from her fingertips, May offered a rueful smile. “If only I could play more freely in my own home. Aunt Victoria despises my guzheng. She believes that if God had intended an Englishwomen to play such an instrument, he would have given it a more palatable name.”

Charity shook her head, trying not to laugh. “Yes, because the bassoon is such a dignified name. And the tuba. And the viola, for that matter.”

Tapping her tiny musical case in her lap, Sophie said, “And
oboe
sounds more like the name of some tribe in Africa than an instrument.”

At this May laughed, finally rallying. “To be honest, I am not altogether certain that any instrument was invented by an Englishman. They have always excelled at improving things, not discovering them.”

“Next you’ll be telling us that Sir Isaac Newton wasn’t an Englishman,” Charity teased, earning a laugh from both girls. “Although the Englishmen I have met in the past few days do not recommend their species.”

“Ugh, that dreadful Mr. Green. I should so dearly love to see him put soundly in his place.”

“The best way to have our revenge is to shock them all with our fabulous trio. I think the first thing we need to do is decide on a song. May, do you know any pieces we might be familiar with?”

“I do, actually. My mother felt it best that I have as round an education as possible, including the great European composers’ work. How does a little Mozart sound?”

“Mozart?” Sophie squeaked. “Now, that I’d like to hear.”

“As would I,” Charity agreed. She considered herself to be extremely musical, able to hear things in her mind without ever having heard them played—handy when composing—but for the life of her, she couldn’t imagine what such an unlikely song for the guzheng would sound like.

May nodded, placed her fingers over the strings, and dove into Mozart’s Piano Sonata No. 11. Charity closed her eyes, listening to the familiar melody transformed into something subtly exotic. It was different, to be sure, but much more recognizable to her ear. Instead of the sliding runs she had done earlier, May plucked at the strings like a harpist or the way cello players occasionally do. The tinniness was still there, but the notes sounded almost normal. Better than normal, really.

By the time May reached the second movement, gooseflesh covered Charity’s arms and her heart pounded with excitement. This was something she could work with. This was something she could make even better.

“Stop!”

May immediately broke off, blinking up at Charity as if emerging from a trance. “Is something the matter?”

“No,” Charity said, coming to her feet. Both girls watched her as though she had quite lost her mind. “It’s exactly the opposite. I’m sorry if I startled you, but can you start over? I want to try something.”

At May’s bewildered nod, Charity sat down at her pianoforte. The notes in her head were not the same ones that she was used to playing. They were altered a bit, intended to complement May’s unusual interpretation. She listened for a minute to the song as it played out in her mind, then nodded. “Go ahead, May.”

As soon as the strings began to sing, Charity closed her eyes and set her fingers in place. At the right moment, she started to play, letting the music flow from her without interference. It wasn’t perfect, but it was exciting nonetheless. So different that she wiggled a little in her seat as the notes rose toward their crescendo. She always disliked playing other people’s pieces, but this arrangement was something so unique, she felt as though the two of them were painting in the lines of an unfinished drawing.

When they finished, Sophie erupted into applause, popping to her feet in her enthusiasm. “Bravo, you two. That was brilliant! I cannot—”

She stopped midsentence when a succession of several loud bangs rang out from the wall. “What in blazes was that?”

Charity’s jaw dropped as she realized what the sound had to be. For heaven’s sake, they were civilized adults in one of the most prestigious areas of the city! Heat rose to her cheeks as she turned her mortified gaze to her guests. “That,” she said, biting off the word as fury set in, “is the illustrious Baron Cadgwith. He’s only just ascended to the title, and I am fairly certain he was raised with all the manners of a donkey.”

“Do not tell me that a
baron
was just now banging the walls in protest,” Sophie said, her eyes as round as doorknobs. “I cannot believe such a thing. Even my youngest sister wouldn’t do such a thing, and she once put a frog in my bed while I was sleeping.”

Charity chewed on the insides of her cheeks, fighting the need to march next door and tell the man exactly what she thought of his protest. She had genuinely thought they had reached a sort of truce yesterday. For him to revert to this level of rudeness was beyond the pale. Had she imagined his dry humor? His wry, understated wit?

Well, she had no intention of bowing to this sort of uncivilized, unspoken demand. She drew a calming breath and forced a smile. “Oh, I don’t believe it was a protest. I imagine it was his ill-executed attempt to applaud us. It was my impression that he
adores
music.”

May and Sophie exchanged dubious looks. Raising a blond brow, May said, “Somehow I doubt that.”

Allowing her smile to transition to something a little more mischievous, Charity crossed her arms. “Nevertheless, I say we pretend it is true and play accordingly.”

“You wish us to play it again?”

Charity glanced back at the wall, imagining the maddeningly rude man on the other side of it. He seemed to think her weak and submissive, a reed that should bend to his will. And, yes, she normally did whatever others wished of her. She believed it to be a good thing that she wanted to accommodate others.

But when it came to Lord Cadgwith, she had no intention of being biddable. She had no need to make him happy, and certainly not at her expense. And it was time he learned that rudeness would not triumph over her.
He
would not triumph.

She glanced back to the other women, who watched her uncertainly. “Yes,” she said firmly. “And I wish for us to play it
louder
.”

*   *   *

“There must be something, sir. I assure you I am willing to pay handsomely.” Hugh raked a hand through his already disheveled hair, frustrated beyond bearing with the cagey old estate agent.

Mr. Sanburne’s caterpillarlike white eyebrows slunk up his forehead. “Though I would be more than happy to help myself to more of your funds, my good man, I was quite serious when I said there isn’t a set of rooms to be had in all of Bath just now. The festival is the best thing to happen to this town in years.”

Of all the bloody rotten luck
.
“So you are saying,” Hugh ground out, “that in one of the largest cities in England, there isn’t a single other place to let? Every nook and cranny is occupied until the end of the summer?”

Was this to be a completely wasted trip? Hugh tugged at his cravat, wishing he could just yank the damn thing off. God, what he would give for the sea breezes of Cadgwith. Despite the cloudy day, Sanburne’s office was already uncomfortably hot—as was the rest of the city. Hugh had yet to cool off after his visit to the Baths, and sweat dampened the fine lawn of his shirt, making it stick to the small of his back.

“It’s possible there is an attic room I’m missing, but I rather doubt it.” The man leaned back and stroked his pointed white beard, eyeing Hugh with interest. “I find the request rather extraordinary, my lord. I’ve met the Dowager Lady Effington. She is as fine a woman as I have ever seen.”

The sparkle in his pale blue eyes wasn’t exactly encouraging. Despite his age, Sanburne was a jovial, good-looking sort of man. Hugh could readily imagine him charming women of a certain age, like the viscountess. Clearly he thought much of the lady in question. Hugh rolled his shoulders, working at the tightness that temporarily had been assuaged during his soak but was now returning in spades. “Lady Effington is quite acceptable. It is her granddaughter’s constant pianoforte playing that gives me issue. Impossible for a man to hear himself think with that sort of ever-present distraction.”

He had almost liked the girl at the dinner party. Something about her spoke to a part of him that he had thought long dead. But it didn’t matter. He simply couldn’t be near her—especially now that the musical racket seemed to have multiplied.

He could admit now that banging on the wall like a lowborn ruffian hadn’t been his finest hour. But at the time, his head had been so racked with pain, even the tiny bit of daylight seeping around the curtains had caused him extreme discomfort. The music had been utter torture, resulting in throbbing pain so fierce, he had ended up on his knees, casting up his accounts. The banging on the wall was born of a desperate need to stop the pain.