Ashlyn Macnamara (15 page)

Only at the end of the afternoon had he come across anything closely resembling a solid clue. One of the stable boys at the inn may have heard someone moving about in the night. An investigation of the hayloft revealed an abandoned lace-trimmed handkerchief, but that may well have been left behind following a hasty assignation.

Still, it was more than he’d come across the rest of the day. Now all he wanted was to meet Revelstoke and the others to compare their findings. If he could bring any sort of hopeful news to Isabelle, all those fruitless hours would not have been a complete loss.

He strode straight to Revelstoke’s study, fully expecting to find the others discussing the day over brandy. He pulled the door open to an empty room.

Damn and blast. Now what was he to do? He couldn’t very well present Isabelle with the handkerchief, not when it smelled of roses. He pulled the scrap of linen from his topcoat pocket and sniffed.

No, he hadn’t been mistaken. How odd. The handkerchief’s erstwhile owner held the same taste in scent
as his former mistress. He shoved the offending article back into his pocket. The last thing he needed was a reminder of those difficulties.

And if he spent this time helping Isabelle to locate her son, when, exactly, would he find a few hours to relieve some of the other gentlemen of their blunt?

They needed to find Jack and soon, before the gathering broke up and his creditors tracked him down. His creditors, who now included Roger Padgett. Lucy’s brother. He pulled out the handkerchief and sniffed again. What were the odds?

Too long to wager on, but not long enough to ignore.

Damn it, where were the others? He might take care of both his problems over a few hands of vingt-et-un while learning of their findings. He might distract himself from this new quest, one Isabelle was right to question this morning. But, hang it all, he’d answered her truthfully. What sort of gentleman would he be if he ignored her plight? What kind of
human
? It was perfectly normal for him to feel this protective of a struggling young woman.

Wasn’t it?

Upon closing the study door behind him, he wandered in the direction of the ballroom, in hopes of rousting someone up. But that space, too, was unoccupied. The lack of off notes jangling in the air ought to have alerted him to that fact. His sisters, no doubt, had joined the other ladies outside. The afternoon was warm and breezy, perfect for a walk in the gardens or sketching. No doubt Miss Abercrombie had found a worthy subject or two.

The pianoforte beckoned. No, he couldn’t. Not with more important matters on his mind.

But his fingers ached to touch the keyboard again, and he thought of the peace it would bring him. Losing himself for a few moments was nearly as good as a glass
of brandy. He’d sat at the instrument only last night, and Isabelle had discovered his secret, yet once more the need arose in him. Damned yearning for the feeling of the music flowing through him, around him, and in him, originating from somewhere deep inside, behind his heart, perhaps in the vicinity of his soul.

He stepped away, but could not take his eyes from the instrument. More demanding than any of his mistresses, it called to him. Mocked, even.
Yes, come to me. You know you want to. You cannot resist
.

God, yes, this feeling, this obsession, this joy, something he’d tried to bury years ago. But whenever he gave in—since he’d released the yearning last night—it clambered for freedom once more, to rejoice in the light of day.

The ballroom lay under the hush of the late afternoon humidity. Here, in the shelter of stone walls, no breeze chased the heaviness from the air. His boots thumped dully against the parquet as he crossed to the piano. The instrument dominated this end of the room, illuminated by a shaft of sunlight angling through a high, west-facing window.

He sat on the bench and rubbed a forefinger across the cool smoothness of a single key. One note, just one. Beneath his touch, the ivory warmed like a living thing. He applied pressure until the key descended and the note’s purity tolled through the space. G, nine half tones above middle C. He knew without looking, based on pitch alone.

He closed his eyes and pressed another key and another. The second hand joined the first, and he gave himself over to the melody, the counterpoint, the low throb of the bass notes in contrast to the tinkling of the treble. The music transported him to another world where nothing but harmony existed, where time ceased, where he might lose himself …

“Gracious, I’ve never heard anything like it.”

He started, his eyes opening abruptly, his fingers falling to strike a final discordant jangle. He winced and let his hands fall to his side. Henrietta stared, wide-eyed, from just beyond the empty music rack. Of course, he’d used no noted sheets. He’d been improvising, his fingers moving faster than thought. He ought to have stuck to Mozart.

His glance passed from face to face—a sea of them surrounded the piano, their expressions ranging from shock to intrigue to speculation. Miss Abercrombie’s eyes narrowed, as if she were already revising his portrait.

“Mr. Upperton, I had no idea you played so beautifully.” Prudence Wentworth batted her eyelashes at him.

He blinked twice. God, how could he have forgotten himself this way? Then he recalled he ought to incline his head in acknowledgment of the compliment.

“Oh please, don’t stop. Play something else,” another young lady twittered.

“Yes.” A third clapped her hands. “If only the other gentlemen would return, we could have dancing.”

This was it. They’d hound him now. Devilish compulsion that dogged him to give up his secret. He ought to take a sledgehammer to the goddamned piano and smash until nothing remained but slivers of wood, twisted wire, and shards of ivory.

He tamped down the urge and pushed himself upright. “I’d hardly be courteous if I continued when so many others might demonstrate their talents.” He’d certainly never intended to put his on display. He gestured to the bench. “Please.”

A chorus of feminine sighs went up. No one dared protest, not with their mamas and chaperones all watching for the smallest slip in decorum. Heat prickled at his nape. While he generally enjoyed feminine scrutiny, it was normally for his more manly accomplishments. The
piano, as his father often berated him, was hardly a masculine bastion. Ironically, several of the younger misses were staring at him in open admiration, their cheeks pink with appropriately chaste excitement.

God save him.

He concentrated on his sister, who watched, her head turned away so that she regarded him from the corner of her eye. Was that hurt creasing her brow? Jealousy? He’d gladly give her this useless talent if he could.

At last, Miss Wentworth took a place at the keys and launched into a credible rendition of a Beethoven piano sonata. Her fingers fumbled now and then over the rhythm—clearly lacking the required feeling to create an emotional performance—but she struck far fewer false notes than Henrietta.

He plastered what he hoped was a mild expression on his face and backed up a step every so often, in hopes of slipping out the door unnoticed. He’d wasted enough time. He needed the men to return and soon, rather than pass the remainder of the afternoon with a roomful of hopefuls. And he hadn’t seen Isabelle anywhere in the group.

“Don’t you think you can sneak away like that, not when you had those girls completely enthralled.”

George suppressed a groan. The last thing he needed was his mother badgering him into putting on another performance. Bad enough she put his sisters on regular display. And Mama would feel no compunction about the idea. Unlike his father, she would see no reason to criticize his musical ability as unmanly.

“I thought I’d be polite and let someone else have a turn.”

Mama stepped directly into his path. Now that her position forced him to look her full in the face, he could see the tears shining in her eyes. “Never,
never
have I heard the like, and from my own son. How …” She
pressed her fingers to her lips for a moment. “How have I never heard you play when your sisters are so accomplished?”

He would not laugh. He would not. Not when his mother was so convinced. Not when she was so
moved
. He tossed his shoulder in a half shrug.

“Papa preferred I pursue other studies.” He pronounced the words carefully to keep the bitterness from his voice.

“Oh my dear, had I only known. I would have insisted.”

She might well have, but nothing would have changed his father’s opinions on what proper masculine pursuits entailed. Papa had been quite adamant in that regard. Gambling, drinking, whoring, dueling if necessary—all of those constituted a gentleman’s daily regimen. Love of music—unless that love translated itself into a particular fondness for opera singers—was fit for women. Those men who indulged their talents were highly suspect—unnatural, even.

George had been nothing if not a dutiful son.

“No matter.” It
did
matter, but that was no reason to dredge up the past. Not when his father had long since left this earth and could no longer answer for his shortcomings. Mama most likely didn’t even know a quarter of Papa’s vices. No point in upsetting her further by bringing them to light.

“You must give a performance.”

God, no. The last thing he wanted was the entire
ton
staring at him. He was quite content with their view of him as a rogue and a rake. Tortured artistic souls had no place at the gaming hells and types of clubs he frequented. “Leave the performance to Henny and Catherine.”

Her chin firmed, a sure sign she was about to dig in her heels.

“I’ve got a more urgent matter on my mind,” he added
to forestall her. “Have the other gentlemen come back yet?”

“They have not. I don’t understand. A house party, and all the young men have disappeared. The young ladies have been upset enough today as it is, without the added concerns of passing an entire afternoon with no opportunity to flirt.”

She flapped her hands in front of her face, as if the very notion overheated her. Then she went still and looked him in the eye. “Come to think of it, you’ve been gone all day, as well. Please don’t tell me you’ve been off convincing all the eligible young men in attendance to secret themselves away in avoidance of the fairer sex. It’s quite unfair to your sisters.”

“As a matter of fact, Mother, we’ve spent the day in search of a missing child.”

Mama blinked several times before her eyes hardened. “Is this about that Mears woman from the village? Do you know who she really is? After Miss Marshall’s outburst, we pieced together the entire sordid tale.”

“Miss Marshall?” He fixed Mama with a hard stare. “What has Isabelle got to do with Miss Marshall?”

“Apparently”—Mama sniffed—“Miss Marshall is that woman’s cousin.”

“Cousin?” Such an inadequate reply, but his mind whirled with the implications. Mama knew nothing about his designs on the head of the Marshall family, and by God, he’d keep things that way.

“Yes, a cousin.” She sighed. “And here I thought you might make an advantageous match. The influence you might have attained.” The influence
she
might have attained as a result, but George refrained from pointing that out. “But Miss Marshall has already cut short her stay. You do remember, don’t you?”

“No.” He could hardly say any more. Not with his
pulse racing in his throat. It burned hot with a combination of anger and possibility.

“The family tried to cover it up, naturally. An earl’s daughter throwing herself away like that. Imagine.” Mama shook her head. “They claimed she’d gone off to stay with some feeble great aunt or other, but no one really believed that story.”

This was exactly the sort of tale George paid no attention to, given that it involved a young miss. In keeping with his father’s ideas on what constituted proper manhood, his interests gravitated to the older, the experienced, the widowed. If some young lady got herself into trouble and disappeared because of it, he gave no heed. Perhaps he ought to have.

“At any rate,” Mama rattled on, “I cannot approve such a match now. Not knowing about the cousin.”

“I’m surprised at you.” Shocking how he could manage to sound so calm and controlled when inside outrage seethed through his veins. Fury threatened to erupt with every pulse of his heart. Good God, his own mother. “The woman’s child is missing. I’ve always been under the impression you possessed a measure of compassion.”

Her mouth worked for a moment or two. She cast a glance around the room as if to remind herself they were in danger of being overheard. They stood apart, and Miss Wentworth played on, but still this was no place for raised voices. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course, I possess a measure of compassion.”

“When it suits you, you mean. Considering our position in society, you are the last person I’d suspect of being high in the instep. Congratulations, Mama. You surprised me today. Brava. I’d applaud you, but we mustn’t cause a scene, now, must we?”

Hurt flitted through her expression. He ought to experience a certain level of guilt. He’d never turned his brand of biting sarcasm on his mother. He’d never had
occasion to. Good-natured teasing was one thing, but he’d never crossed the line into mean-spiritedness until today. What was more, the emotions running through him pressed him onward. Go for the jugular. Twist the knife. Finish it. His own mother.

Christ.

But then her expression turned brittle. “You’ve taken the trollop to your bed, haven’t you? And if you haven’t, you’re considering it. Consider well, because if she tries to entrap you …” Her voice rose, and she paused for breath. “You will not let that woman dupe you into marriage, do you understand me? I will not tolerate someone of her reputation in the family.”

“If you’ll excuse me.” He didn’t have time for any more of his mother’s social climbing. He had to find Isabelle. Not only did he need to help recover her son, she might well lead him directly to Redditch.

CHAPTER TEN