The Architect of Song

  I rose from the cushioned chair and went to Hawk. I would have given anything to nestle my head beneath his chin, press my heart to his, and weep with him. Instead, I could do no more than stand beside him.

  He didn’t look at me. To honor his introspections, I occupied myself by studying every intricate line and brushstroke of Gitana’s likeness. When I came to the etchings on her bodice’s neckline, something in the artistic styling struck me as familiar.

  I strained to look beyond the flowers embroidered of colorful threads on her dress, allowing my eyes to glaze. Covert images blurred to life within the embellishments. Rats, clocks, and human faces—each of them strangers to me, yet vivid in detail. Indeed, I had seen such hidden pictures before.

  Rushing to my trunk, I dug out Chaine’s journal, my fingers tingling with excitement.

  I sorted through the pages until I came upon Chaine’s drawings. Standing, I held up the book for Hawk. “There … in this sketch of a vulture, the feathers are a labyrinth of camouflaged images. Just like in the portrait on the wall. There’s a face that matches your mother’s. Here, in the bird’s chest. Do you see it?”

  In a blink, Hawk stood before me. He regarded the journal then returned to his mother’s portrait. “Juliet … you’re bashing brilliant!”

  I couldn’t stop my smile from spreading. “You’re the brilliant one. You drew them.”

  From across the room, he frowned in thought. “I’ve heard you comment on the colors of this painting. How would I have known what scheme to use?”

  “Perhaps you had some help. From someone who thrives in color. Could it be you drew the lines and Nicolas filled them with paint, in homage to your mother? Perhaps that was what caused Miss Abbot’s confusion as to whose hand gave it life.”

  A dreamy satisfaction softened his features. The theory seemed to please him. “Did you see this one? This image here, in this cluster of fruit in the background.”

  Upon returning the journal to my trunk, I hurried over, my boots stirring a wave of petticoats around my ankles.

  His translucent finger tapped at a symbol. “Do you recognize it? The rune on the plaque of wood beside the iron gate—the one I couldn’t decipher when we first arrived here.”

  I nodded in disbelief. In all of our settling in, I’d forgotten to draw it for him so he might study it. “Do you think it has some significance?”

  “I do. I believe it might be the key to everything.” He smiled down on me.

  “So …?” My pulse quickened. “Do you remember what it means?”

  “No.”

  I frowned. “Then why the dotty smirk?”

  “Because you have captured my brother’s attention and trust, China Rose. Nicolas must know the meaning of the symbol to have placed it upon his gates. Tonight at supper, you will charm it out of him, my alluring little spy.”

  Chapter 22

  The girl who can't dance says the band can't play.

  Yiddish Proverb

  I was hard pressed to find a moment alone with the viscount—for spying or anything else—due to unexpected visitors.

  Lord Thornton’s five investors and their wives arrived early to oversee the final touches on the Manor, and from the moment they entered the townhouse, the viscount had his hands full giving tours and directing the servants in preparation of guest chambers. He didn’t even make it to supper.

  After our meal, Enya, Uncle, Hawk, and I retired to the drawing room.

  Several candles flickered on tall, twisted sconces. Light danced upon walls hung in cotton damask the same color as moss beneath a tree. Enya settled in front of the fireplace with a book. Uncle pulled up an ottoman where she could rest her ankle and sat beside her on the couch.

  Mama had been helping Enya learn to read just before she took sick. After she hurt her ankle today, Uncle had offered to continue her lessons. They passed the entire afternoon with the activity which worked out nicely since Enya could do little else without casting suspicion upon her injury.

  Seated on a divan in the corner, I busied myself with a pink garden hood of dotted Swiss muslin, intending to finish the pleated ruffle trim so I could put it on display in the boutique once we opened for business. Pausing, I watched my uncle and his pupil.

  In the soft glow of the fire, something wonderful was taking place—a prolonged meeting of the eyes, an accidental brush of the hand upon turning a page, a shy smile hopping like a restless bird from one flushed face to the other. I searched out Hawk and his delighted smirk mirrored the one hidden within me.

  “By the look of things,” he said, “Enya has made great strides in her transformation from a child to a lady today.”

  I agreed silently. Once out of the element of sameness, in an environment foreign to us all, Enya’s intellect and wit took center stage. Uncle appeared beguiled by this other side to the often stoic and productive young woman.

  “Amazing what a difference in perspective can make,” Hawk’s voice teased.

  I pressed my lips to stifle a grin, thinking upon the truth of the statement, of the tolerance Hawk now felt toward his brother after realizing their true history this afternoon. And though still discomforted by the dungeon’s secrets, a part of me had come to trust the viscount more, as well.

  I slipped a needle through a pleat to baste it in place on the hood. Tomorrow morning, Uncle and I planned to arrange our shop’s displays. An influx of customers were expected to arrive this weekend—only five days away—and we would be open for business come Monday. With ball gown and riding habit fittings scheduled in Worthington, not to mention the riding lessons Lord Thornton had promised, I’d have little time for sewing after tonight.

  So absorbed in my stitches, I almost missed the stir of activity at the door. Hawk nudged me mentally just as Lord Thornton entered the room with his investors close behind, each carrying a cigar and a snifter of brandy. Smoke curled through the air on a mix of cloves, cocoa, and vanilla. The wives followed, all five of them dressed in frills and bustles so wide their posteriors almost didn’t fit through the door.

  I felt not only inadequate for my status, but underdressed—having not changed out of my wrinkled merino gown all day. Even the viscount had freshened up. He wore a long-tailed coat of celery brocade, a silver vest with navy pinstripes, and a silk puff tie one shade lighter than his orchid fitted trousers. As always, in spite of his clashing attire, twisted foot, and cane, he made a striking entrance—far more elegant and tasteful than the entourage behind him.

  Tonight, he looked every bit the Romani prince with firelight glazing his olive complexion. His thick hair was parted down the middle, and the shoulder-length waves knotted at the back of his nape. The style laid bare his hooded eyes—painting him both vulnerable and virile in one sweep.

  Our gazes met and something darkened his features, as if he bore a heavy weight. I wondered if he regretted sharing the secrets in his note, exposing his heart to me. If he could read my thoughts as his brother did, he would know he had nothing to fear. For where I assumed it would give me power over him, somehow I was now at his mercy.

  “Careful, Juliet.” Hawk’s voice drifted in beneath my musings. “He’s still harboring secrets, and could yet be a dangerous man.”

  I agreed inwardly.

  My uncle stood to greet the investors and their wives. After introductions, Lord Thornton patted Uncle’s back, set his half-drank brandy on a passing servant’s tray, and made his way to me. Hawk followed the investors on the other side of the room to see if he could pick up any information while they were free to speak outside of the viscount’s earshot.

  I forced my attention to the hat in my hands as my host settled himself on the other end of the seat. His scent surrounded me. It was becoming entirely too familiar.

  Noticing the rhythmic tap of his cane against the floor a few inches from my foot, I turned my attention to his lips.

  “A bit ragged around the edges, I see.” He offered the unexpected observation, propping the cane between
his knees.

  Heat prickled from my neck to my cheeks as I pulled a shawl tight around my shoulders. “I-I was not aware we were to be in full-feather tonight.”

  Tucking wayward strands of hair behind my ears, I regretted my decision to leave it down for the evening. I’d brushed it smooth, but had I known there would be other guests, I would’ve had Enya make me more presentable. I pressed my palm over my bruised cheek and sunk deeper into the cushion.

  The garden hood waited in my lap with the needle still attached by a thread. The viscount lifted the hat, forcing me to face him.

  He grinned. “I did not refer to you, Miss Emerline.” He gently pulled my hand from my face. “That paltry bruise cannot mar your beauty. I referred to the hat. I noticed you were trimming it. ‘Ragged around the edges.’ It was meant to be a joke.” He held up the hood and drew the thread tight so I could cut the needle free and tie a knot.

  Afterwards, I perched the hat next to the sewing basket at my feet and tucked away the scissors, needles, and pins.

  Lord Thornton’s cane tapped the floor next to my foot again and I looked up, intrigued. It appeared he’d developed this subtle trick to claim my attention without making my deafness a spectacle for his guests. He was honoring my privacy without my even asking.

  “I shall introduce you to them, when you’re ready.” The viscount gestured his cane toward the investors. All of the men gathered around the fireplace with Uncle, laughing at something he said. “I didn’t wish to spring them on you after your reaction to my initial invitation to work here.”

  Chagrined, I considered how I’d cowered weeks ago when he first invited us to open a shop. Looking at the ladies now, they seemed so cordial. They sat, three on a fainting couch in the corner opposite me and two next to Enya, inviting her—a lower class maid—into their conversation.

  Could it be, all these years, I’d misjudged them? Could it be that they had treated me like a fragile doll because I acted like one … introverted and inadequate?

  As I pondered this, one investor strayed from the others. Hawk stuck close to him. The man appeared to be Uncle’s age—gangly, with hair so black that when combined with his beakish nose, gave him the semblance of a crow. He seemed very interested in the viscount’s possessions. His mouth moved with each step, as if speaking to himself as he wrote upon a small square of paper.

  “Who is he?” I asked my host.

  Disdain flashed across the viscount’s face, so fleeting I barely caught it. “Lord Larson.” He cringed on the name—like he tasted something unpleasant. The same reaction I noted at our parlor in Claringwell that day, when he spoke of his manor.

  Miss Abbot had said Larson was secretive about Hawk’s death at the mines. No wonder Lord Thornton didn’t like the man.

  “He appears rather … sluglike,” I said.

  The viscount grinned. “Sluglike? You mean sluggish?”

  “No. I mean there is slime trailing his every move. He is not trustworthy.”

  The viscount propped his hands on his cane and watched me, openly fascinated. “How can one so unworldly, know so much of the world?”

  A rush of pride filled me. “I’m simply observant.”

  “Observant indeed. But there is nothing simple about you.”

  His compliment made me smile. “I wonder, how wise is it, to invite the previous owner to invest in the manor’s opening? Larson lost the mine’s deed in a gamble to you. He must be harboring ill will.”

  The viscount’s expression closed, an indication that the subject closed, as well. Perhaps he hoped that by being generous to Larson, he might gain more details of Hawk’s death. I could respect that.

  He twirled his cane on the floor. “So, what do you think of the others?”

  I shrugged. “What matters is what you think. They are your business partners, your guests.”

  “Bah. I don’t like playing host.”

  “Why would you have a dream to open such an establishment, if you dislike sharing your company?”

  “This is nothing of what I dreamed.” The moment the words slipped from his mouth, he looked as if he wished to gobble them up again. He stared at his black silk slippers, jaw clenched.

  I frowned. “But Miss Abbot alluded that you have wanted this since childhood, planned such an establishment since your youth.”

  He faced me. “Miss Emerline, as I’m sure you surmised from my earlier note, I was once a very different man. Spoiled. Selfish. Meeting my brother, learning of his broken past … being faced with his death—it changed me. I now crave a quiet routine. A happy home with gardens to tend. A wife and children. Tranquility.”

  Tranquility? How did the dungeon’s torture chamber fit into such a life? Knowing I couldn’t possibly ask that, I asked a more obvious question. “So, why go to all this trouble if you don’t want any of it?”

  “To uphold the family name. I made a promise.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “To your father? He should be here, sharing in your successes. A family should stand beside one another in happy times, just as in tragedies. It is what they do.”

  “Is it?” Lord Thornton shook his head, as if he truly didn’t know.

  Within me, a hundred questions begged for answers. There was more to his father’s absence than he let on, not to mention his aunt’s clandestine presence. But this was not the place to broach such subjects. Not with so many guests puttering about.

  “Have you eaten?” The question bubbled up before I could stop it. He seemed so lost and alone. I felt a tug at my heart to imagine him in any discomfort. “You missed supper. A good host must maintain his stamina.”

  An attractive flush dusted his cheeks—the first I’d seen of such a trait. I rather liked it.

  “I had some tea and toast earlier,” he answered. “It will suffice until the servants bring out cake for the guests. Thank you for your concern.”

  I dropped my focus to the hat at my feet. “It was just an observation.”

  He grasped my hand and cradled it in his palm, a warm and genuine gesture. I looked up. “Whatever the case, it is nice to have someone tending me.”

  “But haven’t you always had that?” I asked, thinking of his privileged life in contrast to Hawk’s. “A man of your status has servants to tend his every whim.”

  His demeanor saddened. “It is not the same as a woman’s caring touch.”

  I regretted my careless words. As of this afternoon, I knew he’d never had a mother. Could this be why he’d sought solace in so many women’s arms and beds? Seeking the love of a mother he’d never had? On some level, I could empathize with his emptiness, after losing my own.

  My fingers curled around his hand. “I intend to see that you eat two slices of cake to make up for your missed meal.”

  His stunning smile flashed then faded to an intense study of my own mouth. Several seconds flitted by. My lips felt the attention, as if he traced them with his fingertip instead of his eyes.

  The moment shattered as the viscount’s attention shifted to the door. Three men stepped in carrying instruments: two violins, one flute. My host stood and said something unreadable to everyone. All of the guests clapped, the silent applause mocking my deafness in the same as wind mocks the most capable vision.

  The instrumentalists set up to play in the corner where the ladies sat. Lord Thornton turned back to me and held out a palm.

  “Might I introduce you to my guests, Miss Emerline? Then perhaps you might honor me with a quadrille. These men are from the orchestra I’ve hired. As the others have yet to arrive, I thought we might grant the trio a rehearsal.”

  A handful of servants moved the furniture, opening up the floor for dancing. Four of the married couples whisked into place and formed a square.

  The musicians warmed up their instruments—though it was all lost on me.

  “I-I have not danced in years, my lord.”

  Lord Thornton didn’t withdraw his hand. “Then tonight, we practice.”

  “I don’
t wish to.”

  “Why ever not?”

  “It is a quadrille. I cannot hear the calls, so I wouldn’t know which position to take.”

  “So we forfeit the quadrille and dance a waltz instead. Thus there are no promptings from the orchestra to hear.”

  I winced. “Ever since I’ve lost my hearing, I’ve been … inept at rhythm.”

  The viscount’s fingers curled and opened alternately, beckoning me. “Follow my lead. I shall provide the rhythm.”

  Something in that suggestion brought my pulse to race. I used to dance with Papa and Uncle as a tiny child. Standing on their toes as we floated to the music. But to be in this man’s sturdy arms, held close enough to vanish inside his scent and warmth—it would be a sensual awakening. One of which Hawk would not approve. I searched for my ghost and found him still preoccupied with Lord Larson across the room.

  “I would be awkward and graceless,” I said to the viscount.

  Lord Thornton dropped his hand. Behind him, the dancers drifted across the floor—a rainbow of muted laughter and adroitness. How I coveted all of the things they took for granted. How I wanted to glide on a river of music. So much, my ears and limbs itched with envy.

  My host studied me. “Graceless? Can you imagine how graceful I am, with a bum foot and a cane to boot?” His expression gentled to a smile, and I knew in that moment we would be perfect dancing partners.

  Still, I couldn’t get past my fear of being the object of ridicule. I shook my head.

  “You are to attend the galas with me, Miss Emerline. To this we agreed.”

  “Attend, yes. I never said I would dance, my lord.”

  Pinned by his frown, I squirmed in my seat. The resulting scrape of petticoats against my legs reminded me of my rumpled appearance. “I am inadequately dressed to even greet your visitors, much less to attempt dancing among them.” I bent to gather my basket and hat.

  The viscount cupped my elbow and helped me stand.