And he gestured toward an open door across the foyer. Then he bowed shallowly and disappeared along the passageway.
“I counted three errors that an experienced butler would never make,” Vincent said.
“Agreed,” Brilliance responded. Even Belinda broke her usual silence. “As if I could be a lady.”
They strolled into the drawing room, which was chilly with no fire as yet in the hearth.
“A lazy gentleman has untrained staff,” Vincent remarked.
Brilliance busied herself surveying the room. It was nicely furnished and decorated. Mrs. Castern had good taste for color and artwork, it seemed. Before she could look more closely at a painting hanging over a credenza, Mr. Castern entered the room, trailed by his butler.
“I cannot credit my eyes that you people are in my home, uninvited.”
Brilliance turned to the odd sound of his voice and gasped at seeing the puffy purplish half-moons under each of his eyes, swelling them practically shut. No wonder he couldn’t credit them. He could hardly see out of his eyes. Moreover, upon his face was a bandage wrapped over his nose and around to the back of his head.
“You never could take a punch,” was all Vincent said, which didn’t seem to Brilliance like a good start to the discussion. “Anyway, your damn poor excuse for a butler gave us entry.”
“Do you see my face? I had to soak my nose in ice water and must wear this compression bandage for God knows how long. Why are you out of jail?”
Brilliance silently watched, wondering what Vincent would say. Her betrothed grinned.
“Because my future father-in-law is an earl.”
“That’s outrageous,” Mr. Castern said, although it came out thickly and mispronounced.
“There was another reason,” Vincent added. He drew the bundle out from under his arm. “And this is only half of it.”
“What isthat?” Mr. Castern asked.
“This is justifiable cause. More precisely, it is my music, written down and dated.”
Due to Mr. Castern’s bandaged-covered cheeks, Brilliance could not tell if he paled at the words, but he managed to slightly widen his swollen eyelids.
“I thought ...” He trailed off, and then, in a desperate move, he darted forward and tried to grab the satchel.
Vincent held it high over his head.
“You thought that your treacherous wife had ferreted out all my written work and given it to you. You are mistaken. I have another pile in the carriage. All dated, all in my hand.”
Brilliance thought she had never seen a sadder man. Ambrose Castern slumped down onto the sofa.
“Then I am ruined.”
“Indeed,” Vincent said.
At that moment, Mrs. Castern entered the house through the foyer and found the group in her drawing room.
“What is going on here? How dare you show your face after what you did!”
“I, for one, am sorry your husband looks like Mr. Punchinello,” Brilliance said, “but we now have written proof that Lord Hewitt composed all the music.”
Mrs. Castern dropped her parcels to the floor. Inside one of them, something made a tinkling sound, and Brilliance knew a piece of glass or maybe crystal had shattered. She felt sorry for the pair. Perhaps Vincent did, too, for he lowered the satchel he had continued to hold high in triumph.
The mood grew worse when tears began to fall — and it was from Mr. Castern’s squidgy eyes.
“Stop that,” snapped Mrs. Castern without sympathy. “Do not give them the satisfaction.”
“All I ever wanted to do was play music for people,” Mr. Castern said, letting the tears run into his bandages. “I don’t know how it became so twisted and complicated.”
