The Beguilement of Lady Eustacia Cavanagh (The Cavanaughs 3)

Protheroe took him to listen to a group of cellists, then a pair of flautists, before they sat in on a rehearsal for an upcoming recital at Apsley House. “The Duke of Wellington has long been a supporter,” Protheroe murmured, “but as he is a bachelor, playing at his events rarely leads to subsequent engagements in wider society.”

Frederick felt Stacie’s pointed look, but didn’t need to meet it to understand Protheroe’s point. Until musicians caught the eyes and ears of major ton hostesses, engagements for the salons and musicales through which solo artists made their name were unlikely to come their way. They might manage ensemble engagements to play at balls or soirées, but the pinnacle of society performance would remain beyond their reach.

That was what Stacie was aiming to change with her musical events.

It was a cause he could all too easily see himself supporting.

But…he needed to think carefully before he leapt. He hadn’t forgotten the intensity of the mania that had engulfed him all those years ago; he definitely didn’t want to have to weather such an experience again.

When Protheroe sent Frederick a questioning look, he nodded, and the three of them quietly left the rehearsal room. After shutting the door behind them, Protheroe looked at Frederick and lightly grimaced. “I know your personal interest lies in the pianoforte, but sadly, none of our graduate pianists are scheduled for practice sessions today.”

Frederick inclined his head. “A pity. However, I believe I’ve seen enough to judge that”—he glanced at Stacie—“as Lady Eustacia maintains, this school is producing soloists worthy of the ton’s attention.”

Stacie’s eyes lit; he could almost see delight flaring in her eyes.

Before she could ask if that meant he’d decided to agree to play at her events, he temporized, “I must now think hard about how best I might support your endeavors.” He transferred his gaze to Protheroe. “I congratulate you on all you’re achieving here. I expect Lady Eustacia will inform you of my ultimate decision.”

At the edge of his vision, he saw the light in Stacie’s eyes fade, and she looked at him in a puzzled, curious way.

Protheroe, however, was accustomed to such equivocal responses; with no sign of disappointment, he bowed and said, “If there’s any further information I can provide, my lord, you have only to ask.”

Four young cellists, barely taller than their instruments, were gathered in the hallway a little way along and were regarding Protheroe expectantly.

He glanced at the boys and smiled, then turned back to Frederick and Stacie. “My next class.” Protheroe looked at Stacie. “If you know your way back…”

She smiled and assured him she did.

With another bow, Protheroe left them. Frederick watched him gather his pupils and noted with approval the boys’ transparent eagerness to start their lesson—the sign of an excellent teacher.

Then he turned to Stacie and found her regarding him through narrowed eyes. He arched his brows at her.

“You’re being difficult.”

He humphed and waved her toward the front foyer. “I have my reasons. And if it’s any consolation, on the strength of what I’ve seen today, I’m inclined to agree to your request—I just have to convince myself that doing so will not feature as the most stupid decision of my life.”

She would have been in the schoolroom when the debacle occurred, and even if his mother and sisters had told her of it—and he wasn’t sure they would have—they had never comprehended the depth of his revulsion; he seriously doubted Stacie had any inkling of what she was asking him to do.

But when, frowning, her gaze on his face, she opened her mouth to inquire, he tersely shook his head. “No—I’m not going to explain.”

He looked ahead and heard her softly humph, but she glided beside him along the corridor and around the corner into the hallway that led to the front foyer.

The familiar chords from the opening of the adagio molto from Beethoven’s “Piano Sonata Number 21” reached them, and Frederick halted. Head tilting, he listened; whoever was playing was accomplished. Not in Frederick’s league—but only a few rungs below.

Without conscious direction, his feet followed the music to a door along the corridor. Silently, he turned the knob, then slipped through the doorway, into a small practice room housing a grand pianoforte. He paused against the wall, holding still so as not to disturb the young man who was playing with admirable passion and laudable technique.

The piano faced down the room; if the pianist lifted his eyes, he would see them. But his focus was all for the ivory keys beneath his fingers, his concentration absolute.

Frederick sensed Stacie beside him, but didn’t take his eyes from the young man—he was in his early twenties at most. His shaggy brown hair fell across his brow, not quite reaching his eyes; from where he stood, Frederick could see the young man’s cuffs were worn, and his coat was little better than threadbare.

But he could play.

Frederick ghosted along the wall until he reached a spot where he could see the pianist’s hands. Long, strong fingers tickled the keys, their span impressive and their placement assured. Chord after chord rang clearly, well-executed, yet…

The young man reached the end of the adagio and, after the usual pause, commenced the rondo—and Frederick couldn’t help himself. “No.” He stalked forward as the young man started in surprise and lifted his hands and the music cut off. “Your balance isn’t correct,” Frederick continued. “Your left hand is overpowering your right.”

The young man frowned. “I’m left-handed.”

“So?” Frederick curtly gestured for him to move along the piano stool. “Ultimately, you play by ear—it shouldn’t matter which is your dominant hand. Listen.” He set his fingers to the keys. “This is how it should sound.”