More than a Mistress/No Man's Mistress (57 page)

“It is in four parts,” she was saying to no one in particular but with every appearance of extreme anxiety as
Ferdinand’s eyes alighted on her. “Oh, dear, can we manage four parts?”

Perhaps someone would have answered her had not everyone at the same moment noticed the new arrival and fallen silent.

“I have accepted my invitation, you see, sir,” Ferdinand said, singling out the vicar and striding toward him, his right hand outstretched.

The Reverend Prewitt appeared slightly flustered, but gratified. “That is very obliging of you, I am sure, my lord,” he said. “Do you sing?”

But Ferdinand had no chance to answer. There was a slight stir among the choir members, whose eyes had all moved from Ferdinand himself to some point beyond his left shoulder. He turned to see Viola Thornhill coming down the stairs, a look of pure astonishment on her face. She was part of the choir too?

He bowed as he looked up at her—and something snatched at the edges of his memory again. Damn, but he had seen her somewhere. She was looking rather regal, her chin raised, her face a mask of controlled dignity—a far cry from the laughing lass of the maypole.

“Lord Ferdinand,” she said, stepping down onto the stone floor of the hall, “I did not expect to find
you
here.”

“I trust you had a pleasant day, ma’am,” he said. “The vicar’s wife was kind enough to invite me to choir practice.”

She looked at the clergyman with what might have been silent reproach, and Ferdinand turned away to address the pianist.

“You were saying as I came in, Miss Merrywether,” he
said, “that the piece of music before you is in four parts. It that a problem?”

“Oh, not a
problem
, exactly, my lord,” she assured him, her voice breathless with apology for bothering him with such a slight concern. “But Mr. Worthington is our only tenor, you see. Not that I am saying he does not have a fine voice, for he does. Very fine indeed. It is just that—well, he does not like to sing alone, and I do not blame him, I am sure. I would certainly not wish to do it. Not that I have a tenor voice, of course, being a woman, but—”

“He is easily distracted by the basses and sings along with them,” a round woman Ferdinand had not encountered before said more bluntly.

There was general laughter.

“We have never claimed to be professional singers,” the vicar added. “But what we lack in musicality we make up for in enthusiasm.”

“And volume,” someone else added, to the accompaniment of more laughter.

“All we can ask of ourselves,” the vicar said genially, “is that we make a joyful noise unto the Lord.”

“You would not enjoy listening to us,” Viola Thornhill told Ferdinand.

Smiling into her eyes, he offered his services. “I sing tenor,” he said quite truthfully. He had sung with a university choir and enjoyed the experience enormously. “No one has ever accused me of having extraordinary talent, but I have never noticed particularly pained expressions on the faces of those within earshot of my singing voice either. Shall Worthington and I put our heads and our voices together and see if we can hold our own against the basses?” Worthington, a balding, freckled
redhead, was one of the tenant farmers who had camped out in his hall during the morning, he recalled.

“We would not put you to so much trouble, my lord,” Miss Thornhill said firmly. “You surely wish to—”

He did not wait to hear what it was he would wish.

“But it is no trouble at all,” he assured everyone. “I love nothing better than an evening of music, especially when I may be a participant rather than a mere listener. However, I must ask if I am being presumptuous—are there auditions?”

That question drew a burst of hilarity from most of the choir members. Even Miss Merrywether tittered.

“No one with a desire to sing with us has ever been turned away, my lord,” the vicar assured him. “We should get started, then.”

It was certainly not a particularly musical group. Someone who was nominally a contralto was tone deaf but sang heartily nevertheless, one of the sopranos sang with a shrill vibrato, the bass section proceeded under the apparent assumption that it was their primary function to drown out the rest of the choir, and Mr. Worthington did indeed display a tendency to join forces with them when he was not inventing a tune all of his own. Miss Merrywether was heavy-handed on the pianoforte, and the conductor slowed or speeded up the rhythm with bewildering and unpredictable frequency.

But despite it all, music was created.

Ferdinand amused himself by imagining the reactions of his friends if they could see him now. They would bundle him up and cart him off to Bedlam as a raving lunatic. Tresham would fix him with one of his famous black stares. No—perhaps not. Tresham had been playing the pianoforte again during the past few
years—since his marriage, in fact—instead of smothering his talent as he had done most of his life. Their father had brought them up to the belief that the most deadly of all sins for a Dudley male was anything that hinted at effeminacy. Music, art, an overindulgence in intellectual pursuits—all had been ruthlessly stamped out, with the aid of that infamous birch cane when necessary.

Ferdinand had enjoyed both the singing and the company. And obviously he had cooled the hostility of at least a few of the neighbors with whom he was going to have to consort during future years. It was the habit of several of the male members of the choir, it seemed, to take a glass of ale at the Boar’s Head on choir evenings. Worthington suggested that he join them.

“Singing dries the throat,” he added by way of explanation and excuse.

“It does indeed, and I would be delighted,” Ferdinand replied. “But Miss Thornhill, did you walk here? May I escort you home in my curricle first?”

“I brought the gig, thank you, my lord,” she said, and he could tell from the stiffness of her voice that she was furious. She must feel let down by her friends, who were not repulsing him as they ought.

And so he went off to drink with six other male choristers and the realization that country life was very different from town life. More egalitarian. More genial. More to his taste—a strange thought, considering the fact that he had spent the years since Oxford kicking up every lark that fell his way and generally leading a fast, wild existence in London.

If only there were not Viola Thornhill. In some strange way he felt indignant on her behalf that the people who were her friends had allowed him within the
space of one day to begin to inveigle himself into their lives. For, after all, they could not both live here, he and Miss Thornhill. One of them was going to have to leave, and that one, of course, was she. But her friends should be furious with him. They should be making life sheer hell for him.

“H
E COULD NOT REALLY
have enjoyed choir practice,” Viola said. “Could he, Hannah?”

“I don’t know, Miss Vi,” Hannah said, drawing the brush in one firm stroke from the crown of Viola’s head to the ends of her hair below her waist. “I just don’t know.”

“Well, I do,” Viola said firmly. “Gentlemen like him just do not enjoy the company of people like that, Hannah. And they certainly do not enjoy singing church music with a choir like ours. He must have been excruciatingly bored. In fact, I really believe that it turned out for the best that he decided to go. After today he is sure to realize that this corner of Somersetshire has nothing whatsoever to offer a sophisticated and dissipated London rake. Do you think?”

“What I think, Miss Vi,” Hannah said, “is that that man has as much charm as he has good looks and that he knows how to use both to his advantage. And I think he is a dangerous man because he will not ever admit defeat. If you had not been here when he came, he would likely have gone off again to wherever he came from within a week. But you are here, you see, and you have challenged him. That is what I think.”

It was so exactly what Viola herself thought that there was nothing to add. She merely sighed as Hannah
brushed back the hair from her face and began to plait it for the night.

“The thing is, Miss Vi,” Hannah said when she had almost finished the task, “I thought in the village the other day that he had an eye for you. In fact, I am sure he did, him playing for your daisies and taking you onto the green to dance about the maypole and all that. And then he turned up here next morning just like fate had brought him, not knowing it was your home. And now when you have tried your best to drive him away, he has risen to the task and shown that he is your equal. I think he is
enjoying
the challenge—just because it is you, Miss Vi. Perhaps you should change your tactics, not try to drive him away, but—”

“Hannah!” Viola cut her off midsentence. “What on earth are you suggesting? That I lure that man into falling in love with me? How would that get rid of him, even if it could be done and even if I wished to do it?”

“I wasn’t thinking of your getting rid of him, exactly,” Hannah said, twisting a length of ribbon about the end of Viola’s braid.

“You were not—”

“The thing is, Miss Vi,” Hannah said, turning to put away the dress and other garments Viola had just removed, “I cannot accept that your life is over. You are still young. You are still lovely and sweet and kind and … Your life cannot possibly be over, that is all.”

“Well, it
is
, Hannah.” Viola’s voice was shaking. “But at least it has been a peaceful half existence I have been living here. He is determined to drive me away. Then there will be nothing left. Nothing at all. No life, no home, no dream. No income.” She swallowed convulsively. Panic had her stomach tied in knots.

“Not if he fell in love with you, he wouldn’t,” Hannah said. “And he is already partway there, Miss Vi. You could see to it that he fell all the way.”

“Gentlemen do not house their mistresses on their country estates,” Viola said tartly.

“Not mistress, Miss Vi.”

Viola turned on the stool and stared incredulously at her maid. “You think he would
marry
me? He is Lord Ferdinand Dudley, Hannah. He is a gentleman, a duke’s son. I am a
bastard
. And that is the kindest thing that can be said about me.”

“Don’t upset yourself,” Hannah said with a sigh. “Stranger things have happened. He would be the lucky one to win your hand.”

“Oh, Hannah.” Viola laughed rather shakily. “Ever the dreamer. But if I ever were to seek a husband, you know, it would be someone far different from Lord Ferdinand. He is everything I most abhor in a gentleman. He is a
gamer
. A reckless one who plays for high stakes. I will survive somehow without even attempting to make such a dreadful sacrifice. And I have not admitted defeat yet. If he wishes to be rid of me, he will have to have me dragged away. Perhaps then everyone will think a little less of his
charm,
” she added bitterly.

“That they will.” Hannah was using the soothing voice she had once used on the child Viola when something had happened to make her believe her world had come to an end. Yet that had been the golden time, when really the world had been a very solid, secure place and love had been real and seemingly eternal. “You get into bed now, Miss Vi. There is nothing a good night’s sleep will not solve.”

Viola laughed and hugged her maid. “At least I have
you, the very best friend anyone ever had,” she said. “Very well, then, I will go to bed and to sleep like a good girl, and tomorrow all my problems will have vanished. Perhaps he will be so drunk when he leaves the Boar’s Head that he will ride for London and forget all about Pinewood. Perhaps he will fall off his horse and break his neck.”

“Lovey!” Hannah said reproachfully.

“But he did not ride to the village,” Viola said. “He took his curricle. All the better. He has farther to fall.”

She lay in bed a little while later, wide awake, staring up at the shadowed canopy over her head, wondering how life could have changed so completely within two days.

I
T WAS AFTER MIDNIGHT
when Ferdinand returned home. The house was in darkness.
Indignant
darkness, he thought with a grin. She probably expected him to come staggering home, roaring out obscene ditties off-key and slurring his words. But the knowledge that it was not really a game they played soon wiped the grin from his face. He wished it were something that harmless. She was an interesting opponent.

Jarvey was still up. He came prowling into the hall as Ferdinand let himself in through the unlocked door, a branch of candles held aloft in one hand, its shadows across his face making him look somewhat sinister.

“Ah, Jarvey.” Ferdinand handed the man his hat and cloak and whip. “Waited up for me, did you? And Bentley did too, I daresay?”

“Yes, my lord,” the butler informed him. “I’ll send him up to your room immediately.”

“You may send him to bed,” Ferdinand said, making for the library. “And go to your own too. I’ll not need either of you again tonight.”

But he did not really know why he had come to the library, he thought after he had shut the door behind him. It was just that soon after midnight seemed a ridiculously early hour at which to retire. He shrugged out of his coat and tossed it over the back of a chair. His waistcoat joined it there. He loosened and then removed his neckcloth. Now he was comfortable enough to settle into a chair with a book—except that he did not feel in the mood for reading. It was too late. He wandered over to the glassfronted cabinet in one corner of the library and poured himself a brandy, but he did not particularly feel like drinking it, he realized after the first sip. He had had three glasses of ale at the Boar’s Head. He had never been much of a solitary drinker. Or much of a heavy drinker at all, in fact. He was not an advocate of thick morning heads, having experienced a few of them during his youth.

There must be a solution to her problems, he thought, throwing himself into one of the chairs grouped about the fireplace. He just wished she would help him find one instead of clinging to the notion that the will would exonerate her—or that the will had been tampered with.

Why
was he worrying about her problems? They were not his. They had nothing to do with him. He was giving himself a headache, a grossly unfair consequence of drinking only three glasses of ale over two and a half hours.