Madrigals And Mistletoe (7 page)

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Authors: Hayley A. Solomon

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Her yelp of pain caused the music to cease instantly as the captain looked up to find his audience—he had suspected her presence long before her sudden cry—looking annoyed and somewhat conscious.
“I have stubbed my toe!”
“So you
should
have! Did I not tell you to don half boots?”
“
Ordered
me more like!” Seraphina scowled, but her heart sang, for in truth she was delighted to have exchanged the tedium of the house for the exhilaration of this confrontation.
“You shall have to get used to that, I am afraid! Military manners!”
“You are not at
all
like my other tutors.” Seraphina regarded him suspiciously. The captain did not seem put out by this cryptic comment; rather he smiled his lazy, quite imperturbable grin.
“I should hope not! My own tutors were enough to make me run a mile! God forbid I should be added to their ranks!” Captain Argyll cursed himself for a fool and hoped that Seraphina did not notice his slip. A mere tutor would not have had tutors himself.
Fortunately, she did not seem to notice, for she was too pleased at the
content
of his remarks to be concerned with the particulars. She therefore nodded rather happily and unbent a little. If the captain did not intend being stuffy, she could be more than reconciled to his services. “What was that you were playing, just now?”
“The music? Some unknown composer—I forget his name. Did you like it?” Seraphina nodded. She was surprised at the intensity of her liking but was too vulnerable, at that moment, to share it.
The captain, however, was astute enough to sense something of her agitation and divine its cause. He smiled to himself. Though Seraphina had not so much as touched an instrument or hummed a bar that day, he felt that her first lesson had progressed very well indeed.
SEVEN
The guest room was decorated prettily in the pastel shades Mrs. Camfrey delighted in. The captain reflected with resigned humour that the chamber was more fitting for a woman than a man, for it sported no less than three looking glasses and several rather pretty china dolls. Still, as far as comfort went, he could make no complaint, for the room certainly offered a much more charming prospect than the camp bed and makeshift shelters he had become accustomed to over the years of the Iberian campaign.
He noticed with satisfaction that Pendleton had ordered his trunks sent up. These were now placed neatly beside a Queen Anne writing table. A pitcher of water and a washtub had been placed at the south side of the room. He walked over to them and immediately washed his hands and splashed a little water on his face. Then, throwing off his coat, cravat and shirt, he let them tumble in a forgotten heap upon the floor.
My lord was too anxious to see whether his writing implements and instruments were intact to take note of trifles. He carefully opened the first of the bandboxes and closed it almost immediately. They contained all manner of clothing that no doubt he would never need or want in his new calling.
His valet, used to working in an earl's household, simply could
not
be convinced to desist from packing fine lawn shirts and endless neckerchiefs of Eastern silk. Had he realised, Frederick would have unloaded it all at the King's Arms, but since he had not chosen to open that particular portmanteau, he now found himself blessed with the whole wretched lot.
The second box pleased him better. It contained his carefully wrapped lute, a marvellously old violin and an excellent quill pen and ink. Several smaller items of clothing had been included as well. Frederick reflected glumly that, until he was in a position to purchase better, these would have to serve as his work clothes. Heaven only knew, they had seen service! It was almost with fondness that Frederick thought on the bitter battles, the hardships and the sheer ingenuity that had got him through Spain almost without a scratch.
The haunting melody Seraphina had heard floated through his head once more. He added a small arpeggio to the opening bar, then carried the theme through to the sixth and seventh before allowing a small diminuendo to hush the lilting rhythm and cause a tension in the counterpoints to follow. He had used panpipes earlier, but strictly speaking, the fullness of the harmony would gain substance if plucked on the sweet strings of a harp.
He nodded and began to write, bold strokes confidently crossing page after page. My lord's extraordinary gift—that of perfect pitch—served him well. He was unhesitating in his inscription. When he finished, he lit several of the tapers that had been set out for him, for the house had sunk into a quiet darkness. He wondered fleetingly where Seraphina lay and whether she, too, was awake, pacing her chamber in the half-light. In the ordinary scheme of things it would be uncommonly easy to set up a dalliance with the youngest daughter of the household. Her eyes invited it, bewitching and innocent at one and the same time.
The captain tried not to think of her lips or other assets, for he had a long night ahead of him and he found the contemplation strangely disturbing. Doubtless his restiveness was caused by not having had a woman recently. Fortunately,
that
could soon be remedied. He chuckled upon this uplifting thought and wondered whether Harriet Smith was as charming as ever—
and
as abundant with her favours. Doubtless she was.
A sad smile suddenly crossed his utterly beguiling features. Occasionally—usually in the quiet shadows between waking and sleep—he indulged in what he considered “maudlin fancies.” This was that annoying, elusive time when he found himself wishing for something that quite possibly did not exist. The themes of his composition floated through his mind, adding poignancy to the thoughts that kept recurring, unbidden and unwanted.
He reached for the quill and added another small flame to the candelabra. By morning, he was satisfied.
 
Glittering, shimmering, sparkling, these are the fragments of
my mind reflecting on you.
You transform the darkness the deep molten shadows
with a heart that is brilliantly true.
Romance is a rainbow, a spectrum of
colour that's vividly lustrous on a sparkling wet day,
but love is much deeper, much more than pure sunshine it's
starlight
when all else is grey.
Mirror for mirror your thoughts are like
echoes
of my thoughts, my psyche, my conscience, my soul.
I love you, adore you
I need you, my heart mate,
for two parts make more than a whole.
Romance is magic when mingled
as our love and laughter and friendship shall always be.
There'll never be moments of dark or despairing while your light
shines deep within me.
 
The morning mail carried two letters from the captain. One was addressed to Mr. Beckett of Islington Publishing House, London, and the other was rather cryptically addressed to Mr. R. Carlisle of Huntingdon. Neither address raised any brows, nor was the coincidence of his grace the Duke of Doncaster's hunting box lying just west of Huntingdon in any way remarked upon.
Cordelia hastily penned her own missives, carefully crossing every line so that one sheet, not two, would be charged for. Seraphina had no such qualms and was therefore busily occupied in committing to paper
tomes
for her good friend Miss Sarah Appleby of Knightsbridge. Since much of this related to the stunning person of “her captain,” the note was necessarily long and brought a strange blush to her cheeks when she found the maddening man but two steps behind her. She covered up the wafers hastily, but not before she saw one of those annoying, slow and irresistible smiles cross his face. She was still debating whether the insufferable man had caught a glimpse or not when her mama looked up from her
own
letters and addressed him.
“You do not dine with us, Captain Argyll?” Ancilla's voice held a slight interrogative, for when the captain did not appear for breakfast she was concerned that he might have found himself relegated to the kitchens. She was determined that every civility be accorded to him. She would have been
mortified
if he was made to feel like a mere upper servant, for, though strictly speaking that was what he was, she nevertheless could not bring herself to think of him in that light.
The captain nodded briefly. “I had an excellent breakfast in my chamber. Thank you.”
It did not suit him to be socialising with the Camfrey sisters. For one thing, he wished to concentrate on his work; for another, he did not want to risk being recognised by some of the morning callers who might imminently appear to pay their addresses. He did not wish to dwell on the other reason, for he refused of think of it himself. If he wished to put a distance between himself and a certain Miss Seraphina Camfrey, that, too, was entirely his own business.
“You shall dine with us this evening, I hope!”
“Thank you, ma'am! That is very kind of you, but I prefer to eat above stairs.”
Seraphina opened her mouth to tell him what utter poppycock he was talking when she recalled the disturbing effect he had on her person every time he entered the room. If her nerves were not to be permanently jangled, the arrangement might turn out to be a good thing. Still, she could not resist a wistful glance in the excellent captain's direction. The first thing she encountered was the firmness of his jaw. That was followed by the delicious spectacle of his lips and further by the sardonic twinkle behind his sea blue eyes. Seraphina could swear he could read every thought in her head. She determined to veil her wayward thoughts to confound the man.
“Quite right, too! Mama, you must not forget we are in London! It would look very odd in us to be entertaining the servants!”
“Since when do you care about town gossip?” Cordelia was mortified by her sister's remarks. She cast a look at the captain, hoping to discern whether he'd been offended by her sister's unmannerly outburst. He was carefully putting the damask serviette to his lips, so any attempt to read his thoughts was foiled. If there was the hint of an appreciative twinkle behind his intense, dark-lashed eyes, Cordelia did not have time to notice. The uncomfortable silence was broken by Seraphina, who was half prepared to cut out her unruly tongue and half prepared to add fuel to the fire by making some
other
disparaging remark. Really, if the man could at least have the decency to look offended, she need not put herself to the trouble of thinking of another way to offend. His odious appearance of unqualified ease was most unnerving.
“When would you wish to commence lessons, Miss Seraphina?” The tone was respectful, but Seraphina had the annoying suspicion that tone and intent did not necessarily go hand in hand.
“Oh, I think I will give today a miss, Captain Argyll!” She waved her hand in an airy dismissal. “I have so much to do I hardly think I shall have
time
for the services of a music master!”
She wanted to hurt him and she succeeded. For an instant, Frederick wondered why the chit was so venomous. It was either, he thought, because she genuinely loathed him or it was some sort of protective device. But protective against what? After an instant's thought, he grinned. If Seraphina of the auburn hair found him a threat to her peace of mind, he made no complaint. Honour decreed that he not dally with her in her own home, but inclination veered decidedly on the reverse side. He would have to tread carefully, for he was in dangerous waters. Still, a dull life had never been to his taste.
He carefully set down his cup and nodded briskly. “Very well, Miss Seraphina. You are dismissed. Miss Cordelia, I shall be honoured if you would have me teach. I noticed your music sheets the other day. If you would like to practice them, I shall endeavour to be of material assistance.”
Cordelia, a little ashamed of Seraphina's inexplicable rudeness, took the captain up eagerly. No doubt he was feeling a trifle strange in a household where he was employed to teach and found no opportunity of doing so. “I would love to! Thank you!”
The captain smiled at her goodwill and resumed his coffee. Seraphina looked daggers at her sister, then slumped a little against her chair. She would look silly begging to be included. There was nothing for it, she supposed, but to dredge up a few errands and be on her way. In her wildest dreams she would not have
imagined
how much she would wish she could stay.
Ancilla looked up from her letters thoughtfully. She might have been an errant mama in many ways, but she knew better than to try to force the issue of the music lesson with Seraphina. Better, indeed, that she be allowed to play truant—and yes, Ancilla suspected, allowed to regret it. She therefore mildly remarked that, if Seraphina was not to be indoors today, it would be greatly appreciated if she could acquire the receipts for boiled cockles and cold turbot from Miss Haversham, an aging spinster on the corner of Melden Terrace.
“What is wrong with our turbot, Mama?”
“Nothing. Only Miss Haversham has the knack of the most
scrumptious
cooking! I took over some dressed venison and a small perigord pie the other day and the old dear insisted I stay for tea. I was greatly surprised at the quality of her table, for she lives alone and is certainly not in her first glow of youth!”
“No, indeed! What did you have?”
“Among other things, the most superb cockles and turbot lightly smothered in a delectable lobster and anchovy butter sauce. There was horseradish on the side and something else, but I am not perfectly certain what. Miss Haversham very kindly promised to inscribe the recipe for me. So if you will, Seraphina, I'd be much obliged.”
Seraphina nodded. For all her foibles she was extremely good-hearted and recognised at once what Ancilla delicately avoided saying. Miss Haversham needed company and it would be a kindness to make her feel useful.
“I'll take her some of the barley water Mrs. Stevens has just boiled up.”
Ancilla nodded approvingly. “Leave out the liquorice root, then, for the poor woman suffers from indigestion. A little more lemon might act as a restorative.”
Seraphina nodded. “I shall add more sugar, too. Shall I go past the lending library?”
“If you do, try and procure a couple of Minerva Press books. I could do with a little light entertainment!”
“Mama!” Cordelia dimpled. “Are you not too old for romantic nonsense?”
“It will be a sad day when I am!” came back the quick rejoinder. “By the by, Cordelia, I hope you don't intend becoming all stuffy when you are Lady Winthrop!”
“Stuffy? Why should I be so?”
“Lord Henry appears to disapprove of my choice of literature! I was just settling down with a nice, juicy Gothic when he recommended me to Plutarch or some such person.”
“Plutarch? Never! Lord Henry does not have the
wit
to—”
Cordelia bit her tongue. It was unforgivable to criticise her betrothed to herself, let alone in company. She glanced up to see if her slip had been noticed. Ancilla appeared satisfactorily bland, but the captain's eyes met hers sympathetically and she felt the colour rise to her beautiful, high-boned cheeks. Seraphina was looking, not at her, but at the captain. Something in the intensity of her gaze stirred Cordelia. A most remarkable thought flashed through her mind only to be summarily dismissed. Seraphina's hopes lay with Rhaz, Duke of Doncaster. She had almost proclaimed as much. A small lump appeared in Cordelia's throat. She scolded herself for being ridiculous and turned to her mother once more.

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