The Beguilement of Lady Eustacia Cavanagh (The Cavanaughs 3)

Miller sat, drew breath, and played.

His head cocked, Frederick listened; the young man had clearly worked diligently over the days since he’d advised him to feel the music and had all but perfected the piece.

When the final chord rang out, Frederick nodded. “Excellent. That is, indeed, impressive and will do well with our particular audience.”

Miller looked positively giddy with delight.

Frederick glanced at Stacie and Protheroe, then continued, “You will, of course, be paid according to the usual hire agreement, with a bonus of fifty percent to be added if all goes well.” He would be paying them, no matter what Stacie thought or said.

Returning his gaze to the three young musicians, in his mind’s eye picturing their appearance before the ton, he smoothly went on, “And given you’ll be appearing more or less as my protégés, I will arrange for the three of you to be outfitted as befits that station. I will expect you at Albury House in Upper Grosvenor Street at eleven o’clock tomorrow—don’t be late.”

“No, my lord,” the three chorused, their eyes round.

Frederick looked at Stacie and arched a brow. “Have I forgotten anything?”

Stacie was immeasurably grateful that he’d thought of appropriate clothes for the young men and, even more, that he’d volunteered to arrange to acquire them; she wouldn’t have known where to start. “We should mention that we’ve yet to set a date for our first event, but I would hope to hold it shortly—within the next fortnight, if possible.”

Frederick added, “We’ll need to consider what other entertainments the ton has scheduled in order to ensure we make the biggest splash.”

“Indeed.” Stacie rose and smiled at Protheroe as he came to his feet alongside her. “But we’ll contact you through the office here, through Mr. Protheroe, as soon as the date is fixed.”

Protheroe beamed. “We’ll be delighted to act as go-between.”

Sensing hers and Frederick’s intention to leave, all three musicians broke into effusive thanks that, while disjointed, were patently heartfelt.

Although she accepted those thanks gracefully, Stacie seconded Frederick’s observation that, in fact, the shoe was on the other foot, and the three were doing them a favor by consenting to be the first three local musicians to be featured at her musical evenings under Frederick’s aegis.

While the three young men pondered the rights of that, Stacie, with Frederick, took her leave of them and Protheroe.

As she stepped into the mild sunshine and felt it touch her face, she found she was smiling in quiet triumph. She glanced at the gentleman—the nobleman—beside her; with him working hand in glove with her, her ultimate goal of launching the careers of local musicians was within reach.

At eleven-thirty the following morning, Frederick sat in the wing chair by the window in his dressing room and watched his tailor, the highly respected Moreton of Savile Row, measure the breadth of Brandon Miller’s shoulders.

Phillip Carpenter and George Goodes stood just inside the door from the corridor, somewhat nervously awaiting their turn. Moreton and Brandon occupied the center of the narrow room, which was lined with shelves, cupboards, two armoires, and in the middle of one wall, a gentleman’s dressing bench flanked by two long mirrors. Standing nearer to Frederick, Moreton’s elderly assistant, Thomas, jotted down the figures Moreton barked as the tailor—an intimidating figure with his precise and severe attire and his wealth of silver-gray hair—wielded his tape measure with grim zeal.

On being summoned by Frederick and informed that he was to prepare a full complement of attire suitable for a concert appearance—coats in black superfine, ivory linen, and sober charcoal waistcoats and trousers—for the three younger men by Monday evening at the latest, Moreton had drawn in a breath and considered protesting the waste of his talents, but Frederick had glibly explained that the three were scheduled to appear before the cream of the haut ton at a private function within the next few weeks, and Moreton had swallowed his pride, pulled out his measure, and suggested repairing to the dressing room.

Noting just how rigidly Brandon was holding himself, Frederick said, “Try to relax—it makes Moreton’s task easier.”

The tailor grunted in agreement.

Frederick hid a smile and went on, “That’s something you three should learn, to help with your public appearances. Create a small ritual, whether it be taking three deep breaths or twitching your sle

eves straight—an unobtrusive action that works to focus your mind—and connect that with consciously relaxing, letting all tension flow from you. Then perform that ritual just before you walk on to perform.”

George—Frederick was starting to think of the three by their first names—frowned slightly. “Something like checking each button on your waistcoat is done up?”

Frederick nodded. “Just so. Something that looks natural, but means something to you. Almost all experienced performers have some little ritual they use.”

Brandon, still standing before Moreton, asked, “What do you do?”

Frederick raised his hands and opened them wide, spreading his fingers as far as they would go, then curled them to his palms, then opened them again, repeating the cycle three times.

“That looks like you’re limbering up your fingers,” Phillip observed.

Frederick nodded. “Exactly. You don’t want your ritual to be anything anyone else notices—its true purpose isn’t something others need to know.”

He watched them take that in, then George asked, “Is there anything else we should know about performing for Lady Eustacia’s guests?”