“You cannot be serious!” Ambrose Castern declared as soon as he was shown into Vincent’s study. “You are sending lawyers after me? What next? Scotland Yard?”
“You cannot barge into my house,” Vincent said. “Not like in the old days. Although knowing you have been served by my solicitor and are a mere octave away from justice finally coming down upon your miserable, conniving head, that alone gained you entrance when otherwise my butler would have closed the door in your sorry face.”
Ambrose threw himself into the only empty chair. “Everything looks exactly the same.” His friend used to be a steady fixture in Vincent’s house, the first year after he purchased it, before ... everything.
“Why wouldn’t it?” Vincent asked, not wanting to have a civil, social discussion with the person who had betrayed him.
“I guess you had no reason to alter it. My wife had my entire house repainted and refurnished directly after we married. Cost me a bloody fortune!”
The wretch could only have brought up Lydia to be irksome, to wound Vincent as best he could. Strangely, even though thethought of her used to cause a pinch of pain, at that moment, he no longer gave a fig.
Seeing her again as Ambrose’s wife had taken the shine off her nob, as it were. She was better in his memories than in the real-life person.
It was a relief to feel that way. On the other hand, Ambrose was also better in the past. In person, his old friend was now nothing more than a whining, light-fingered diddler. And a weasel to boot.
“Since you paid to redecorate your house using money you made from my music, you must excuse me if I don’t give a damn. And I am certain you didn’t come to discuss my home’s furnishings.”
Ambrose stopped the pretense of being friendly. His sly face sobered.
“I came because I received a threatening letter from your solicitor. It is absurd.”
“What is? How once again you stole my music? Or the part about how I want you to confess publicly?”
“Both. All of it. Even if I had purchased an anonymous piece of music, and I am in no way saying I did, I had no idea it was yours. That was purely bad luck.”
“It honestly doesn’t matter, does it?” Vincent asked, trying not to lose his tenuous hold on serenity and on his temper. “The point is you knew it was not yours.”
“It sounded like mine,” Ambrose grumbled. “I could tell that it would when I first read the sheets.”
“You mean it sounded likemine!” Vincent reminded him. “Because it is. Luckily, I am in a position this time to prove that I wrote it. But if the music hadn’t been mine, you would be getting away with stealing from some other sad bleater.”
He knew the black ache in the soul when forced to listen to someone passing off one’s work as his own. He wouldn’t wishthat on anyone else. Looking at Ambrose now, with his boyish face and quick, darting eyes, a shiver of pure disgust danced up Vincent’s spine.
What a slithering snake!It was galling to have been fooled for years by this man who had pretended, convincingly, to be a loyal friend.
Leaning back, Vincent put his booted feet upon his own desk, feeling for the first time since Ambrose had stolen his music that he had the absolute upper hand.
“I don’t know why you do it, either. Pure laziness, I suspect, because I recall you had some spark of ability. Small talent, perhaps, but not completely negligible. Why don’t you simply compose your own music?”
Ambrose’s face twisted. “That’s easy for you to say.”
“Easy? Easy!” Vincent exclaimed, realizing he was fisting his hands, belying his relaxed position. So much for serenity. “There is nothing easy about composing. And it was made far more difficult after you, my so-called friend, took all my work. It deflates one’s powers to produce and create. Something you wouldn’t understand since you are always taking, not making.”
Ambrose didn’t even have the decency to appear the least chagrined. “The music was just sitting there anyway, being wasted.”
Vincent caught his breath. It was the closest Ambrose had come to confessing. Unfortunately, it was so dismissive of any responsibility, his words had Vincent seeing a red haze.
“If I play my music only for myself or even my blasted horse or if I choose never to play it at all, that ismychoice. My pieces weren’t like spare dinner plates, which you needed at a party.”
Ambrose shrugged, looking sullen. “I have already played that new composition in concert, and very well, too. The audience loved it, and they loved my rendition. What can I say now that won’t break their hearts and make them hate me?”
Vincent couldn’t maintain hissangfroidanother moment. His composure snapped as he swore a blue oath. Uncrossing his ankles, he lowered his legs slowly to the floor and rose from his desk.
“You may not understand why, and God help you for your lack of understanding, but I don’t care about any of that. Theyshouldhate you. I hate you!” He halted. “No, I don’t really. I despise you, and now that you must admit to the world what a fraud you are, I pity you. Almost.”
Ambrose stood quickly. “Save your pity. You’ll need it for your little Diamond lady when I’m finished with her.”
Vincent’s feet carried him around the desk and ran him directly into Ambrose before he could even think what he was doing. Sweeping the worm backward until he heard Ambrose’s head connect with the study wall, Vincent pressed his forearm across the stunned man’s throat.
