Mistress of Melody Read online

  “That’s what he claimed.”

  Burke was certainly clever. The blackmailer had been at work for nearly two months, leaving almost no trail behind. But he or his beguiling niece would make a misstep—and Morgan would be there to catch them when they did.

  Rowan curled his fingers into a fist and tapped his desk. “We’re having him followed, but you’re our man inside. When’s the next concert?”

  “Next Thursday, I believe. At Lord Dearborn’s.”

  “You’ll be there.” It was not a question. “Report back on Friday next—the usual time. I hope you’ll have more for us then, my lord. Both myself and Sir Peel would like evidence. And, of course, to remove your cousin’s name from this brawling incident.”

  So did he. Already a whiff of Geordie’s misconduct had reached the papers.

  And, privately, Morgan had to admit that even without the threat of family exposure hanging over the Silverton name, he wanted to help apprehend Mr. Z—this vulture gorging on the carrion of Society’s misconduct. Such vermin should not be allowed to go freely about the streets of London.

  ***

  Nearly a week later, Morgan leaned against the pale blue wall of Lady Dearborn’s salon, and waited.

  Waited for the lights to dim. Waited for the stunningly talented Miss Lovell to appear. Waited for her uncle to slip out of the room—as he knew the man would. This time, Morgan planned to catch the fellow. Those shifty eyes had belied his protestations of innocence at the last performance, but Morgan could smell the lies coming off his skin.

  Tonight he must uncover the proof Rowan needed, the hard evidence. It could not be coincidence that Mr. Z was blackmailing several families where Miss Lovell had performed. But not all of them. And not every victim had hosted a musicale by the celebrated violinist.

  Despite himself, Morgan felt a twinge of sympathy for Rowan and Scotland Yard. The man had not said precisely how many members of the ton had fallen victim to the blackmailer, but certainly it was enough to make his job quite uncomfortable until the villain was caught.

  Yet another reason to live an exemplary life. Morgan’s indiscretions were over a decade old—ashes and dust that would not fuel any scandals.

  “Silverton!” A dark-haired gentleman approached, his voice lifted in surprise. “Haven’t seen you about for ages. How have you been keeping?”

  “Bandon.” Morgan nodded a greeting. Viscount Bandon had once counted among his circle of friends. “Well enough.”

  He was hardly going to detail his difficulties since their days at Oxford. Not to Bandon—or anyone. Certainly most people knew of the accident that had taken his brother’s life, and inexorably altered the course of his own—but the stringent path he had trodden ever since was not a matter for discussion.

  The viscount raised a brow and surveyed the gathering. “Hard to think this is where we’ve ended up, after all our adventures. Stuffed in a room with the stodgiest members of society. A musicale at Deadly Dull Dearborn’s.” He affected a shudder, then dipped into his pocket and brought out a silver flask. He tipped it toward Morgan. “Care for a drink?”

  “No.” He never touched hard alcohol. Not after that night.

  The viscount took a long swallow, then glanced at the front of the room. “At least the daughter is no hardship to look at. Too bad she’s such a stickler for propriety. I’d like to steal a kiss from that one.”

  “She is too good for you.” Morgan spoke the words mildly, but threaded them with steel.

  Though he was not acquainted with the lady in question, he had made it a point never to allow ungentlemanly comments to pass him by. Constant vigilance was the only way to hold on to decency. One slip could turn an entire life astray.

  Bandon gave him a level look. “So it’s true, you’ve turned yawningly respectable. Unless you’ve got your sights on the girl yourself? I’ll leave you the field, Trev. A pity, though.” He shook his head, then took another swallow from the flask.

  Trev. Morgan felt the name lodge under his skin like a sliver. His old name, from his old life.

  “It’s Silverton,” he said. His dead brother’s title. It had taken him years to feel comfortable wearing it.

  “Good Lord, man. You needn’t take yourself so seriously. I’ve told you I’ll stand clear, if you want Lady Anne.” He nodded, and Morgan followed his gaze to the bright-haired young lady in the front row.

  Lord Dearborn’s daughter. He hadn’t considered that particular girl. He hadn’t considered any particular girls, though he had every intention of starting a list of properly eligible young ladies. Marriage, after all, was the next step in the preservation of the earldom. Especially as his cousin, who was currently next in line for the title, had evidently inherited the family’s wild streak.

  In one thing, at least, Bandon was correct. Lady Anne was a lovely girl; cream-skinned and golden-haired, with wide blue eyes that held no knowledge of the darker shadows that lurked in men’s hearts. Eminently suitable.

  The lights dimmed, and he heard the viscount draw in a breath, then expel it in a low hiss. “Damn—now there’s a woman. Keep your Society misses. I’ll take the likes of her any day.”

  Morgan looked to the head of the room, where Miss Lovell had just entered. Her black hair gleamed in the lamplight, and the red silk gown she wore showed an indecent amount of bosom. Or precisely the right amount, if one’s tastes ran toward titillation. Her dark-eyed beauty was of a different brand altogether than the proper misses seated in the audience, and he understood Bandon’s fascination.

  He’d wager that every man in the room had felt his blood heat the instant Miss Lovell stepped inside. Her lush lips begged for kisses. Her body curved in places that made a man’s hands tighten with desire.

  And then she lifted her violin and played, and the spell was cast over everyone, man and woman alike. The rich notes flew out from the instrument—runs and trills and harmonies. As before, Miss Lovell played without printed music. She knew the tunes intimately, and she moved with a natural, unconscious grace as she played. Her body swayed, she leaned and breathed, and the listeners breathed with her.

  It was only after long minutes had passed that Morgan realized he’d missed his chance. Swallowing a curse, he tore his gaze from her and scanned the audience. Damnation. Her uncle was gone, slipped away while the niece kept the listeners distracted.

  At least the rapt audience made Morgan’s own exit easy. No one paid him any mind as he eased his way to the door. He paused and glanced once more at the performer.

  She was watching him. It was a subtle scrutiny, with her lashes lowered over her eyes, her bow arcing deftly over the strings, but still he knew. He could see it in the way the black wings of her brows drew together, the tightening at the corners of her soft lips.

  The memory of touching her jolted through him. He had held her hand tightly in his. He had felt the impossible silk of her hair. He had very nearly caressed her cheek and tugged her against him for an illicit kiss.

  Arousal and self-disgust warred in him, and Morgan turned abruptly and strode from the salon. The music followed him, a scattering of notes like a barely-felt caress.

  Where was that damned uncle of hers?

  Morgan stalked through the halls. He halted at the private wing and surveyed the closed doors. At Lady Cowden’s he had caught Mr. Burke skulking near the family quarters, but there was no sign of him here. After waiting several minutes, Morgan heaved a breath and turned back toward the salon.

  The sound of a door closing, the faint movement of rain-scented air against his cheek—he pivoted and followed his intuition down a shadowed corridor. Empty, it led to an exterior door. He eased it open, quieting his breath. The pitter of summer rain on leaves, the flare and acrid stench of a phosphor match, then the glow of a cheroot. Morgan stepped outside, narrowing his eyes against the darkness until he could make out the figure of a man standing beneath a nearby elm. As he had thought, it was Miss Lovell’s uncle.

  “Mr. Burke,”
he said. “Again you absent yourself from your niece’s concert.”

  The man blew out a nearly invisible stream of smoke. “Lord Silverton. May I say the same for you? Odd behavior for a music lover.”

  “I never claimed to be an aficionado.” Indeed, until he had heard Miss Lovell play, Morgan had not been overly fond of the solo violin.

  “I warn you, my lord, if you keep seeking me out because you wish to do more than simply listen to my niece, I don’t do that kind of business. She’s not available for activities beyond concertizing.”

  Morgan blinked. Of course—Mr. Burke was probably approached all too often by men desirous of furthering their acquaintance with Miss Lovell. At least, whatever else the fellow was up to, he wasn’t selling her favors.

  “Miss Lovell is quite talented,” Morgan said. “How long has she been in London?”

  “Long enough for people to know musical brilliance when they hear it.” Mr. Burke straightened and took another pull of his cheroot. “Would you be interested in hosting a musicale yourself, Lord Silverton? The fees are not exorbitant, if I may speak bluntly.”

  Host a concert at Trevethwick House? It was a mad thought. Yet what better way to keep Mr. Burke under surveillance than during a performance at Morgan’s own home? He had to have something to give to the commissioner at their meeting tomorrow, and so far he’d failed to garner any evidence for Scotland Yard.

  “How much?” If Mr. Burke was going to descend to the level of commerce, Morgan would meet him there.

  Mr. Burke eyed him, as though calculating the cost of his fine wool coat, the weight of the sapphire set in his signet ring. “Three hundred pounds.”

  “And when is Miss Lovell free to perform?” Good God, was he really thinking of hosting a social event? He’d have to enlist his aunt’s help, of course. Bachelor earls did not hold musicales.

  On the other hand, perhaps he would make up that list of young ladies and instruct his aunt to see that they were invited. He needed a plausible reason to host the event. If the mamas of the ton saw it as a signal—well, perhaps they had the right of it.

  “My niece will be able to play for you…” Mr. Burke pressed his thin lips together a moment. “In a fortnight. If that is acceptable, my lord.”

  “It will do.” Two weeks should be enough time for his aunt to send invitations and attend to whatever other details were necessary. “Will Miss Lovell be performing before that time?”

  “She’s been asked to play before Queen Victoria next week.” The man’s voice was sharp with pride.

  The queen. It would fortify Miss Lovell’s reputation as a performer of the first order, and make Morgan’s job that much more difficult. Still, if Peel wanted the girl and her uncle watched, he could wangle Morgan an invitation to court. Or do it himself. No doubt the former prime minister was welcome at the new queen’s functions.

  Morgan gave Mr. Burke a tight smile. “Very well—a concert at Trevethwick House in a fortnight. Where shall I call upon you to finalize the details?”

  “I’ll send you a contract, my lord. You can have your solicitor look it over, but I assure you everything will be properly set out.” Mr. Burke dropped his cheroot and ground it under his heel. “The musicale must be nearly over. Good evening.”

  “Oh, I’ll come with you.” Morgan fell into step beside the man as he turned back to the house. Mr. Burke would not escape him again tonight.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Damn the man!” As soon as Jessa and her guardian stepped through the front door of Mr. Burke’s home, he threw his coat to the floor and began pacing in tight, angry circles. “How am I to do my work when he watches every step?”

  Keeping out of his way, Jessa edged toward the stairs. She could guess which man he meant. The Earl of Silverton, though she knew better than to speak that name aloud. After four months beneath Mr. Burke’s roof, she had learned that the slightest things could send her bitter, unpredictable relative into a spiral of rage.

  He whirled on Jessa, and she froze. “Did you tell Lord Silverton anything? I saw him with you after the performance at Cowden’s.”

  “No! I swear it—”

  “You’re in this up to your neck too, girl. If I’m arrested, don’t think I’ll hesitate to name you as an accomplice. And where would that leave your precious idiot of a sister? Bedlam, that’s where.”

  She swallowed hard. “I’ll never say a word.”

  That horrible morning when she had discovered Mr. Burke’s schemes was stamped in her memory. And though the marks of the cane switch had faded from Louisa’s back, the echo of her screams still sounded in Jessa’s nightmares.

  Mr. Burke had gone out, leaving a half-composed letter upon his desk. Curious, Jessa had read it, her blood turning cold as she understood what she was seeing.

  It was a blackmail note, threatening to reveal secrets about one of the patrons she had recently performed for. Hands trembling, Jessa had sifted through the desk and found more correspondence—all with members of the ton who had hosted the Gypsy Violinist.

  Her guardian had returned, then, and seen her surrounded by the evidence of his perfidy. Foolishly, she had told him she’d go to the constables.

  “Let me show you another letter,” he’d said, rummaging in the bottom of the desk drawer. “This is merely a copy, you understand. Should anything happen to me—anything at all—immediate action will be taken.”

  Jessa had read it, icy despair seeping through her. The letter committed Louisa to the worst lunatic asylum in London.

  “You can’t,” she’d said.

  “Of course I can. I’m your guardian. And I’ll prove that lesson to you over and over, until you believe it.” His voice had been hard and angry. “Tell your sister I’ll be paying her a visit. With the switch.”

  “No—please.” Jessa had gone to her knees. “Beat me instead.”

  He’d looked down at her, his eyes hard as brown pebbles. “You have a performance on the morrow. I’m afraid your sister will be paying the price of your prying into my affairs. Don’t do it again.”

  Despite her tears and pleas, he had not relented. Indeed, he had given her a rough punch to the stomach when she’d tried to block the door of their bedroom, then locked her outside while he striped Louisa’s back.

  Jessa swallowed down the bile that rose at the memory.

  “Remember who it was that took you in after your father died and his filthy people turned their backs on you. You owe me, Jessamyn. Don’t forget it.” He glared at her, no sympathy in his expression.

  “Yes, sir.” She dipped her head, fingers clenched around the handle of her violin case.

  Defiance would only earn her a painful blow to her back or ribs—something that would not show. And perhaps a backhand across the face for Louisa, since it did not matter if she sported a bruise upon her cheek.

  Indeed, Mr. Burke seemed to enjoy the obvious signs of his abuse. The only protection she and Louisa had was the shield of Jessa’s obedience.

  There was no point in arguing, either. Mr. Burke wanted to believe that he had taken Jessa and her sister in after the Romani threw them out, but the truth was that she’d made the choice to go with him.

  Her stomach clenched. Agreeing to live under Mr. Burke’s guardianship had seemed the better path, when the alternative was a forced alliance to a dour Rom man three times her age. Now, however, she feared she had made the worse choice.

  “You play before Queen Victoria next week, girl.”

  Jessa nodded. Before, the thought had filled her with anxiety, but now it would be a relief to perform without the terror that her guardian would be discovered. Buckingham Palace was too closely guarded for even Mr. Burke to contemplate prowling.

  “And after that,” he said, “I’ve spoken with the Earl of Silverton about a musicale at his mansion. The man is well heeled enough—and it would serve him right for prying into my business.”

  “Sir. Do you think that’s wise?”

  He narrowed
his eyes. “Your fame is hardly going to last out the Season. The ton is fickle, always looking for the newest sensation. Gypsy Violinist today, Spanish Dancer tomorrow. I take the opportunities as they come. And it’s still not enough for you to repay me. My brother inherited an empty title and a tower of debts—all on account of your mother.”

  It was his constant refrain, and there was nothing she could do to deny it. No matter that the debt had been accrued before she was born.

  Her mother, Mr. Burke’s cousin, had abandoned the single Season her poor yet genteel family had managed for her, dashing their hopes for a rise in their fortunes. And bankrupting the family in the process. The Burkes had spent thousands of pounds on gowns and gloves and jewels, only to have their beautiful daughter run off with the darkly handsome half-blood Gypsy who had been hired on as a stable hand.

  Perhaps the young Miss Burke had not realized how close to financial ruin her family had been. Perhaps she had not thought she would be disinherited. Perhaps she had only known that she had lost her heart and must follow where it led.

  Jessa kept her gaze on the dingy wooden floorboards. She and Louisa should not have to pay for her mother’s folly, but Mr. Burke demanded it.

  Night after night, Jessa lay awake, casting about for a way to be free of him, but her thoughts inevitably ended up chasing round and round, like a cur after its own tail. They had no resources. Mr. Burke had confiscated the few coins she’d managed to scrape together while with the Rom.

  Still, she had seen a few shillings in his desk. If the opportunity ever presented itself, she and Louisa would flee.

  And go where? She was wise enough to realize they could not survive on the streets. Perhaps the Rom would take them back. She swallowed back bile at the thought of wedding old Pietro. But to keep Louisa safe, she would.

  Mr. Burke waved his hand. “Go. I want you to practice for the next five days until your fingers are numb. You must perform flawlessly before the queen.”