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The Arrangement. Lyn Stone
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“Get out!” he ordered, placing the perfume immediately. He shoved her skirts aside as he twisted around and plopped down across from her.
“Come now,” she answered calmly, fiddling with her gloves. “I only want to ask you a few questions. Why do you refuse to talk to me? It’s not as though I’ll bite.”
“Nonsense. You bite quite regularly. You chew people up and spit them out like a mouthful of bad fish. And you wonder that they run from you? Get the hell out of my carriage.”
“Your music is marvelous. What harm could it do to let people know what you’re really like as a person? You took a long hiatus in the midst of a brilliant career. Why don’t you share what occupied you in the interim?” she suggested, pausing to purse her lips for a second, “Assuming, of course, that you have nothing to hide. Do you?” She smiled sweetly and cocked one brow.
Tenacious little bitch. He relented a bit, not by choice, but out of trepidation. If he continued acting the ogre, she would write just that. The persona that intrigued an audience might not look so good on paper. “Look, Miss...?” As though he didn’t recall her name.
“Wainwright. Kathryn Wainwright.”
“Yes, well, Miss Wainwright, I’m very tired right now. Exhausted and really out of sorts. Perhaps another time. If you would, please?” He gestured toward the open door, not offering to assist her. She’d climbed in by herself; she could jolly well climb out.
She didn’t move. “Shall I call you Lord Jonathan? I heard an odd rumor that your late father was a peer. Is that true?”
Jon stiffened and sucked in a deep breath. Damn. If she’d managed to unearth that much, what next? She might even stumble on the worst of his secrets. No, not if he kept his wits about him. She knew nothing definite, and was merely fishing. He exhaled with a sigh and gave her his most withering look. “Chadwick’s my name. If you’re to call me anything, it must be that.”
“Ah, that’s right, you claim the famous Sir Roald of Chadwick as an ancestor, do you not?”
“Yes,” he answered carefully. Admitting that much couldn’t hurt him. He had used it for all it was worth most of his life.
“The noble one who penned all those lovely poems and songs about his liege, the Black Prince? Well, that certainly lends a note of credence to your choice of careers, doesn’t it?” she asked, smug laughter evident in her every word.
Who did this chit think she was to mock his ancestry, even if this part of it was one of Mamon’s outrageous fabrications? If the old minstrel hadn’t been an ancestor of his, then he bloody well should have been.
Jon summoned up all the hauteur he had left for the evening. “And you are a Wainwright you say? Judging by the origin of your name, your ancestor was likely nailing someone’s wagons together at the time. Just what are you trying to construct for me, my dear? Perhaps a trundle cart to your paper gallows?”
She gasped in outrage. Her hands flew up in frustration and then slapped angrily against her silk-swathed knees.
He laughed. And he continued to, louder and louder, as she scrambled down from the coach, muttering what sounded vaguely like obscenities. Jon leaned his head out the window and watched as she marched along the street to another coach, parked three back from his own.
When he realized what he had just done, the laughter died a quick death—almost as swift as the fatal blow she would deliver to his career when tomorrow’s papers hit the street. “Damn!” he said through clenched teeth, then drew his head back in and knocked it sharply against the back wall of the coach. The driver obviously took that bump for a signal, and the coach started with a jolt.
He had found it impossible to force thoughts of Kathryn Wainwright from his mind on the trip home. Even as he paid the hired coachman and watched him drive away, he had imagined her watching, imagined her wearing that knowing grin. A plaguing fancy, that was all. For the moment, he was safe at Timberoak.
Next time he’d be ready for her, he thought as he climbed the stairs to his room. Next time he would have some cock-and-bull story ready for her. Next time he would charm her knickers off.
He jerked off the stupid wig and gave it a shake. More mindful, he removed his evening clothes and hung them in the armoire. Raking both hands through his damp hair, he leaned over the basin of cold water and soaped off the powder and accumulated sweat.
But the heat inside him did not abate as he replayed the night’s events in his mind. Events condensed into images: Kathryn Wainwright absorbing his music from across the crowded room, Kathryn Wainwright leaning forward, her umber eyes wide with questions, Kathryn Wainwright smiling at some inner thought. Images gave way to notes, and the notes to a pervasive melody.
God, there would be no sleep tonight. None. He gave up without a struggle and slowly made his way downstairs, eager despite his exhaustion.
Chapter Two
Jon’s eyes stung from lack of sleep and the soap he’d used earlier to scrub off the rice powder. He blinked, shook his head, and picked up his pen again to get the notes down before they escaped him. They ran through his head like a string of crystal beads, tinkling against each other, winding around full circle, twisting playfully here and there. They’d been doing that ever since he arrived home.
He stopped scribbling to test their possibilities on the violin. Pleased with the results, he laid the instrument aside. Ink-dotted paper crinkled under his bare legs and feet as he wriggled out a comfortable spot. Stretching out full-length, his head on a threadbare cushion, Jon closed his eyes and let the music in his mind flow through him.
Last scene. The tenor returns.... Soprano greets him. Ahhh, a lyrical tease, a sly, dark-eyed cat... Dark-eyed? That woman’s face flashed through his mind, likely because she was the last one he’d seen. Jon lifted one hand toward the cracked ceiling plaster and waved in time with the imagined aria. Sforzando, now. Tenor offers final tribute to his lady. Now up, swiftly, like a cock...pounding, surging, reaching...
Jon’s voice joined in the process, using only pure sounds instead of words, bel canto, now rising in volume to return, almost unrecognizable, to his ears. Ah, yes... Slowly, on a burst of feeling that reached a crescendo, Jon rose to a sitting position and lifted the Stradivarius to repeat himself.
Then it came, profound as a lover’s cry, powerful as the urge itself, the whole of it sweeping over and through him, ending like the little death. Culmination, climax, ecstasy! Done!
He had finished! All but the finale with the entire ensemble, a mere repeat of the overture, with a few adjustments. At last!
Jon spared but a moment to savor the exhilaration, then laid down the violin and located his pen. He scratched madly with the pen, humming with his bottom lip caught between his teeth.
The ink trail crawled left to right in a wavy line, broken by myriad squiggles and curlicues. When it reached the right edge of the paper, it curved down and tracked right to left in a continuous scroll to the bottom of the page. Jon’s code, as Maman had laughingly called it, had developed when he was only five and untutored in the intricacies of the music staff and individual notes. She had quickly taught him to put down the music correctly, but suggested he keep to his own invented method for the first drafts when he wrote. No one could decipher the childish chicken tracks but himself, when he translated them later.
Poking a hole in the paper at the excitement of penning the last sound in his head, Jon sailed the pen across the room and boomed, “Bravo!”
A sharp “Ouch” jerked him off his cloud of euphoria. The shock of reality struck him dumb, and he stared, disbelieving, at the shadows surrounding the old grand piano. Out of the semidarkness crept