The Beguilement of Lady Eustacia Cavanagh (The Cavanaughs 3)

“I daresay.” Frederick steeled his senses and took her arm again. “But I would prefer you refrained from informing Protheroe for the moment. Give me a few hours to come to grips with my decision.”

She cast him a look, but her smile didn’t dim.

As they reached her carriage, she told him, “You hearing Brandon Miller playing just as we were leaving was obviously serendipity at work.”

He didn’t answer, just helped her into the carriage; he was going on to his club. He needed a drink. Several drinks. “We can meet tomorrow and decide on the details.” He closed the door and saluted. “I’ll see you then.”

Smiling, she leaned out of the open window. “Until then.”

He stepped back and watched the carriage roll away.

She’d ascribed him hearing Brandon Miller playing at the very moment his guard was at its lowest to serendipity.

He deemed it fate.

Chapter 3

After a restless night during which every possible scenario in which Frederick might change his mind and decide against supporting her scheme had played in a continuous loop through her head, Stacie called at Albury House as the clocks chimed ten-thirty—the earliest hour at which she could possibly call on a gentleman.

It was also an hour at which Frederick was highly unlikely to have left the house.

Indeed, on being admitted by the butler, who recognized her from her previous visits, she stepped into the front hall to see Frederick leisurely descending the main stairs. He saw her and paused, then resumed his unhurried descent.

Stacie surrendered her half cape, then turned to face Frederick as he neared. “If I could beg a few minutes of your time, my lord, I believe we have several matters to discuss.”

One brow faintly arching, he halted before her and reached for her hand. “Good morning, Lady Eustacia.”

Damn! “Indeed, my lord. Good morning.” She allowed him to take her hand and bow over it, while she sank into an appropriate curtsy.

As they straightened, he met her eyes; the line of his lips was not quite straight. Releasing her, he waved toward the drawing room. “I do have a few minutes I can spare. Perhaps we might sit and address your ‘matters.’”

Frederick ushered her into the drawing room. As he passed Fortingale, caution reared its head, and he murmured, “No need to shut the door.”

He was perfectly certain Stacie had no notion of using propriety to trap him into offering marriage—in fact, now he thought of it, her lack of matrimonial interest in him was one of the things he found most refreshing about her—but others in his household might not be so inclined to overlook an opportunity such as discovering them together, in private and under his roof. Other gentlemen had found themselves leg-shackled for less.

True to his reading of her, she glided into the room and, with a swish of her skirt—today’s in a rich shade of plum—claimed a seat on the chaise. He crossed to one of the armchairs opposite, sat, and looked at her, transparently waiting for her to speak.

A slight frown creasing her brow, she offered, “The first thing I believe we should decide on is how many events to include in the first year of our campaign.”

He blinked. “Campaign?” He straightened as a feeling awfully like panic gripped him. “I thought we were speaking of one event—a single evening of music.”

Her frown growing more definite, she aimed it at him. “As must be obvious even to you, a single event—an isolated evening—would achieve very little.” She gestured dismissively. “A single evening would hardly be worth our time. We need to present our selected musicians to the ton at large, and while I admit I might have used the term ‘event,’ singular, I always envisaged a campaign.” She met his eyes. “In terms of achieving our goal of introducing worthy young musicians to the notice of the ton, the only approach that will work is an organized sequence of events—in other words, a campaign.”

“No.” Adamantly, he shook his head. How had he got roped into this? Just the thought of performing at multiple events made him shudder. “No campaign.” He held up a finger. “One event, nothing more.”

“Frederick—that’s nonsensical.” Openly exasperated, she stared at him. “If you can perform at one event, given your ability, how much more effort would it take to perform at several more, spaced out over an entire year?”

She was right, of course; in terms of effort, the difference was negligible. But that wasn’t the problem, and he wasn’t about to explain.

His jaw set, he met her eyes. “The simple fact is, I don’t want to appear before the ton at all. However, after seeing the need, I agreed to one—singular—event. That’s all I’m prepared to play at.”

Stacie narrowed her eyes on his face, with its hard edges and implacable expression. She’d thought she’d won his agreement to provide the drawcard she needed for her campaign and wasn’t about to meekly surrender that position.

Head tilting, she studied him. I don’t want to… Those were the crucial words in his refusal. So what would motivate a man like him to change his mind?

Inspiration struck, and she smiled.

His eyes narrowed in response, and she battled not to grin. “I happen to know that the Raventhorne Abbey library holds a collection of medieval musical texts—all originals—as well as five folios of very old sheet music.”