The Beguilement of Lady Eustacia Cavanagh (The Cavanaughs 3)

She smiled, and for a second, he felt as if the sun had broken through the light clouds to beam down on him.

“Very well,” she said. “You’ll find us at Number Five, Green Street. I’ll expect you tomorrow at two.”

He nodded, closed the carriage door, and signaled to the coachman.

He slid his hands into his pockets and stood and watched the carriage roll away. A full minute ticked past, then he shook himself back to the present, hailed a hackney, and headed into town.

The following afternoon, Stacie found herself pacing her drawing room, waiting for Frederick to arrive.

He wasn’t late—it wanted ten minutes to the hour—but she couldn’t seem to sit still.

She’d gone over their exchanges of the previous morning, and as far as she could see, she’d managed to gain his agreement to everything she’d actually wanted. She hadn’t intended to host six events over the next year—that had been her initial position for negotiation, a negotiation she’d successfully concluded, giving her the four events per year she’d gauged as optimum for her purpose.

She knew the ton; hosting events too frequently risked ladies taking said events for granted. On the other hand, as she and Frederick had ultimately agreed, each of the musicians they selected to introduce to society would need to appear at least twice if not three times in a year to have any chance of gaining the attention of the ton’s more influential hostesses.

There was, she was discovering, many competing pressures to weigh up when making even the most mundane decisions; during their discussions, she’d found having Frederick’s views to bolster and balance her own exceedingly helpful.

She swung and paced once more across the hearth, conscious of the fluttering of anticipation inside. She told herself it was because she was looking forward to hearing Frederick play again—this time, in her own music room.

The music room had been the deciding factor in her purchasing this particular house. After she’d finally succeeded in convincing Ryder and Mary that, as she wasn’t about to marry, continuing to live at Ravent

horne House in Mount Street wasn’t a viable option in terms of establishing a life of her own, she’d searched Mayfair for the right house. Money hadn’t been an issue—she’d inherited all of her mother’s estate on top of her portion from the marquessate—but the house had had to be the right sort of house. Not too large but with a music room that would satisfy the requirements of her scheme and suitable reception rooms to host a large ton gathering.

The instant she’d walked into this house, she’d thought it might be the one, then she’d stepped into the white-and-gilt music room and known she’d found the perfect abode for her and her purpose.

From a corner of the chaise, Ernestine—a widowed cousin of some forty years of age who filled the role of companion and largely unnecessary chaperon—murmured, “You’re restless today.” Ernestine, who was quiet calm personified, looked up from her embroidery and smiled. “Although I must admit I’m quite looking forward to meeting Lord Albury myself.” Ernestine cocked her head. “Do you think he’ll play a piece on your piano? I’ve never heard him play, but I’ve heard all the rumors. Such a romantic...well, tragedy, I suppose one would say.”

“Tragedy?” Stacie stared at Ernestine; she tended to forget that Ernestine was extremely well-connected gossip-wise. With her gaze locked on Ernestine’s face, Stacie forgot about pacing and sank into the armchair opposite. “What tragedy?”

“Why, the tale of when he last played in the ton.”

Stacie gestured for Ernestine to continue. “I haven’t heard the story.”

“Ah, well…you have to understand that he was considered a prodigy from an early age—a positive virtuoso on the pianoforte. Through his teenage years, he occasionally played at his mother’s and sisters’ events—both his sisters are rather older than he. Then, when he was…not quite twenty years old, I believe, he composed a piece for the young lady he’d fallen head over heels in love with. He openly declared it was dedicated to her and played it at one of his mother’s affairs—by all reports, the piece was so very evocative, so very moving, several ladies swooned.”

Stacie frowned. “How is that a tragedy? It all sounds rather lovely.”

“Oh, the tragedy lay in what came after. Unsurprisingly, the entire ton was agog, knocked cock-a-hoop, then the hostesses and the matchmaking mamas descended on him, all wanting him to compose a piece for them or for their daughters. And then came the cruelest cut of all. The young lady for whom he’d written the piece—to whom he had, in musical terms, openly offered his heart—accepted an offer from an earl’s son and turned her back on him.”

Stacie frowned more definitely, even more puzzled. “But he wasn’t even twenty. He couldn’t possibly have expected her to marry him.”

“I don’t know about that, my dear. Who knows what goes on in the minds of men—young men, especially? Regardless, by all accounts, his lordship took her public rejection badly—he fled London and has never composed anything since.”

“Oh.” Silently aghast, Stacie felt something inside her twist as the knowledge sank in that, when it came to performing before the ton, Frederick had, indeed, had a real, sound, and rather painful reason for refusing her request. His reluctance had been based on rather more than a simple wish to avoid ton events—a tendency shared to a greater or lesser extent by many gentlemen of his class. “When I spoke with his mother about my notion of having Frederick play at my events, she didn’t mention any of that.”

Her head bent over her stitching, Ernestine murmured, “I daresay she’s hoping he’s got over the whole episode—it was more than a decade ago, after all.”

No one knew better than Stacie that experiences from one’s childhood could cast a long shadow—let alone deeply emotional negative experiences suffered before twenty years of age. “I wish I’d known about this before.”

Ernestine glanced up. “Why? If he’s agreed to perform at your events, presumably he’s consigned what happened to his past. You should be happy to have drawn him back into society. I assure you that everyone who hears him play will be grateful to you for returning him to the ton, as it were.”

Stacie didn’t reply. She suddenly felt very uncertain. She didn’t really care what the rest of the ton thought, but she did care what Frederick thought, and the idea that she’d manipulated him into doing something that might cause him emotional pain…

Oh, dear.

From the murky morass of her whirling thoughts, one unarguable conclusion rose, sharp and clear. Having metaphorically dragged Frederick back into the bosom of the ton, any adverse outcome from his playing at her events would be on her head. She’d manipulated him into performing for her without once considering what it might cost him; it was, therefore, her responsibility to protect him from any threat that arose through him being a part of her scheme.

She was mentally staring at that unnerving conclusion when the doorbell rang, the peal chiming through the house.