“Thank you.” She exchanged a brief farewell with Arthur, Frederick did the same, and together, they stepped away from the counter. Skirting the trio heading purposefully toward Arthur, they made their way up the aisle.
Frederick lowered his head and his voice and asked, “What did you order?” He genuinely wanted to know.
“Mendelssohn’s ‘Carnavale.’ I realized I don’t have a copy.”
He reached for the door handle and looked at her. “So you play the piano?”
She met his eyes briefly, a laughing light in hers. “Yes, but nowhere near as well as you.”
He held the door for her, then followed her through and drew the door shut behind him. Releasing the knob, he murmured, “That doesn’t actually convey a great deal—not many people do.”
She laughed—and the sound danced over his senses. To his ears, the timbre was all bells, a lilting peal that lured and seduced.
She threw him a glance over her shoulder, her eyes alight with a similar allure. “And that, my lord, is why I’m intent on securing your services in support of those local musicians deserving of the patronage of the haut ton.”
He halted on the pavement beside her and openly studied her.
She tipped her head and let him; she didn’t look away.
Despite keeping his distance from society, he knew the haut ton—the gilded circle into which he and she had been born—well enough to know that she didn’t quite fit. She wasn’t the average young lady, intent only on securing a good marriage, be it a love-match or not. Her ambition was something quite different—she had a purpose that revolved about helping others and, more, served the greater good of music in general. That purpose was her driving force, and he had to admire her for that—had to admire her strength and devotion to a cause he could only applaud.
After several seconds, the glow in her face faded, and she asked, “Have you decided yet?”
He quashed the temptation to admit he had. “You’re not going to give up, are you?” He wanted an excuse to surrender and give in—to appease that part of his mind that still insisted agreeing was a very bad idea.
She widened her eyes at him. “No.” Then she added, “You are the performer I need to make my scheme a success. You and only you will do—so no, I will never give up trying to persuade you.”
He held her gaze, then ventured, “I’m still not convinced. Not completely.”
Stacie stared into his golden eyes. Although she could read little in them, she felt certain she’d understood him correctly. “You’re saying that you’re teetering on the cusp of agreeing, but that I need to provide something more—some more compelling argument—to push you over the edge.”
He considered her for a moment, then replied, “A somewhat lyrical assessment, but essentially correct.”
A challenge, then—one she needed to meet to get what she wanted. She wracked her brains…then smiled and refocused on his eyes. “Very well. I suggest you
accompany me on a visit to the institution currently vying with the Royal Academy for the title of premier music school in London and meet the local musicians I’m seeking to advance with my scheme.”
Through her tone and the tilting of her chin, she made it clear that was her counterchallenge.
He searched her eyes, her face, then with his own expression studiously impassive, nodded. “All right.” He arched his brows at her. “When should we go?”
The following afternoon, Stacie loitered on the pavement outside St Martin-in-the-Fields. The music school attached to the church had a lengthy history of fostering local London musicians.
She felt oddly tense, as if she had her fingers tightly crossed. She sensed she was close—so very close—to getting Frederick’s agreement to play his part in her scheme, yet she wasn’t certain that steering him through the school, having him meet the master and survey the work the school did, would prove sufficient to get Frederick over what he’d all but admitted was his last remaining hurdle.
Scanning the throng filling Trafalgar Square, she waited. Then she spotted him weaving elegantly through the crowd, heading directly for her.
By the time he stepped free of the milling horde, she’d plastered a bright smile on her face. “Good afternoon.”
He half bowed. “As promised, here I am.” He glanced behind her. “Do we enter through the church?”
“No.” Turning, she gestured to the narrow street that ran down the side of the church. “The diocese runs several schools. Most, including the music school, are presently housed in this building.” She indicated the large building on the other side of the street. “The music school is the third door along.”
He nodded and walked beside her down the cobbled lane. When they reached the relevant entry, identified by a small plaque on the wall alongside, he reached past her and opened the door, then followed her inside.
Stacie led the way to a counter at the back of the small foyer. Beyond the barrier, two secretaries were busily working at a pair of desks; both looked up and, recognizing Stacie, smiled.
The older woman rose and came to the counter. “Lady Eustacia—how lovely to see you again.”