It would be such a relief to come out of hiding, to have everything out in the open.
To be thrown into jail. To be publicly tried. To be hanged.Couldan earl’s daughter be sentenced to hang? An earl could not. But could his daughter? She did not know.
Why was her father’s cousin not wearing mourning? Was it possible that Sidney was not dead after all? But it would be foolish to hope.
She threw back the bedcovers eventually and stopped even pretending to be settled for the night. She lit her candle, threw her cloak about her shoulders, and left her room, not even bothering to dress or to put on shoes. Perhaps she could find a book in the library into which to escape until her brain quieted down.
But she became gradually aware of something as she descended the stairs. Some sound. By the time she reached the bottom it was quite obvious what it was.
Music. Pianoforte music.
Coming from the music room.
But who could be producing it? It was far too late for visitors. It must be well past midnight. Besides, there was no light in the hall. The servants had all retired to bed. There was a thin thread of light beneath the music room door.
Jane approached it gingerly and rested her hand on the knob for several moments before turning it and opening the door.
It was the Duke of Tresham.
He was seated on the pianoforte bench, his crutches on the floor beside him. He was hunched over the keys, playing without sheet music, his eyes closed, a look almost of pain on his face. He was playing something hauntingly beautiful, something Jane had never heard before.
She stood transfixed, listening. And experiencing again, with a constriction of the heart, the feeling that the music came not from the instrument or even from the man but through them from some divine source. She had not believed there could be another musician with a talent to match her mother’s.
But now she was in his presence.
Five minutes or more must have passed before the music ended. He sat, his hands lifted an inch above the keyboard, his head bowed, his eyes still closed. It was only in that moment that Jane realized she was a trespasser.
But it was too late. Even as she thought of withdrawing and closing the door quietly behind her, he turned his head and opened his eyes. For a moment they looked blankly into hers. And then they blazed.
“What the devil are you doing here?” he thundered.
For the first time she was truly afraid of him. His anger appeared somehow different from any she had seen in him before. She half expected him to get up and come stalking toward her.
“I am so sorry,” she said. “I came down for a book and I heard the music. Where did you learn to play like that?”
“Like what?” he asked, his eyes narrowing. He was recovering from his shock, she could see, and was looking more himself. “I dabble, Miss Ingleby. I was amusing myself, unaware that I had an audience.”
He had retreated, she realized suddenly, behind a familiar mask. She had never thought of him before as a man who needed defenses. It had never occurred to her that perhaps there were depths to his character that he had never shown her, or any of his visitors either.
“Oh, no,” she said, aware even as she spoke that perhaps it would be wiser to remain silent. She stepped right into the room and closed the door. “You are no dabbler, your grace. You have been gifted with a wondrous and rare talent. And you were not amusing yourself. You were embracing your talent with your whole soul.”
“Poppycock!” he said curtly after a brief silence. “I have never even had a lesson, Jane, and I do not read music. There goes your theory.”
But she was staring at him with wide eyes. “You have never had a lesson? What were you playing, then? How did you learn it?”
She realized the truth even as she asked the questions. He did not answer her but merely pursed his lips.
“You do not wear it loose even to bed?” he said.
Her hair. He was talking about her hair, which was in a thick braid down her back. But she was not to be distracted.
“It was your own composition,” she said. “Itwas, was it not?”
He shrugged. “As I said,” he told her, “I dabble.”
“Why does your talent embarrass you?” she asked. “Why are you eager to belittle and even deny it?”
He smiled then, slowly. “You really do not know my family,” he told her.
