“Ambrose Castern,” she added. “He concluded his concert at Canterbury Hall with this piece. He called it ‘An Enchanting Dream.’”
Realizing how thatwas possible — because ofher— a sense of despair rushed through him. He had spent the last few hours during dinner talking himself into believing he could still have a friendship with Brilliance Diamond.Morethan friendship, if he was honest with himself. What she had done hadn’t been so egregious after all, he’d decided.
Now, however, he knew the ramifications of her publishing his music. And the worst possible outcome had happened.Ambrose!Moreover, no one would ever believe it was not the work of the popular composer and pianist.
“‘An Enchanting Dream,’” he spat out. “A ridiculous name thought up by a ridiculous man.”
“Why?” she asked. “Why are you playinghismusic?”
“It is mine!”
“That makes entirely no sense.”
He wondered why she seemed truly angry.Shewasn’t the one who had been stolen from.
“You write beautiful, intricate music. So why would you ...” She trailed off, unable to say the words.
“You had best leave. You are calling me a thief! That’s rich, coming from you. And under the roof where I was raised, too.”
Without another word, Brilliance turned and left. Vincent assumed she would first take her leave of his parents because she was a properly raised lady of theton. By the time he hadcollected himself and swallowed the worst of his anger, she had departed the residence.
At one time, he had thought she was the one person who would believe in him.
He wouldn’t make that mistake again.
Chapter Twenty-One
Vincent knocked on Ambrose’s door early the next day. Too early for polite visiting hours but also too early for the blackguard to be out and about. If he had to drag him out of bed himself, he would.
A housekeeper answered.
“Tell Castern that Lord Hewitt is here to speak with him.”
He heard the gasp through the open doorway and strode past the housekeeper.
Lydia was standing in her drawing room, looking as lovely as ever. And she was wearing only a jade-green silken housedress, belted at her slender waist with her golden braid over her shoulder.
“Mrs. Castern,” Vincent greeted her pale face. “Where is your husband?”
“You cannot simply burst in here,” she began. “It goes against all civility, and at this early hour. Why, it’s not yet ten.”
“Civility be damned. Neither you nor that plagiarist you married know anything about the word. Call for Ambrose, or I’ll go upstairs and wake him myself.”
She pursed her lips. Pretty pink lips that he had spent half a year kissing. Half a year trusting the lies that came from them.
“My husband had a concert last night, a very successful one. The Queen herself called for encores.”
“And I just bet he gave her one.”
“I did, indeed,” came a familiar voice.
Slowly, Vincent turned. There was no way he would ever see Ambrose Castern without first seeing his old and dear friend for the briefest of instants.
They’d met at Harrow and also attended Trinity College together. Their paths were similar since they were both pianists. Yet Ambrose had never been much of a composer. He ought to have had a successful career in an orchestra playing other people’s work. Instead, the scroof had decided to have a successful and lucrative career as a soloist playing Vincent’s work.
There were times when it still seemed like a bad dream. If only he would awaken to find his compositions still strewn about his conservatory and salon at Mirabel where Lydia had stolen them during her single visit. If only he had published them sooner under his own name, rather than continuing to polish them to perfection.
“Your encore was mine,” Vincent pointed out.
