Because he needed to see Phoebe. As soon as possible.
“You must have crossed paths with Thornwick in the front hall. He paid a call on Phebes. I heard him leave just minutes ago.”
Andrew had gotten up and bowed when George had been announced into the music room. But his violin and bow stayed in his hands, the fingers of his left hand still moving over the neck of the violin, playing some unheard ghost music of his own.
George had forgotten Andrew devoted the entirety of Saturday to his violin and every spare hour of every other day of the week as well. The young man was single-minded in his avocation. But what else could poor Andrew Finch, Marquess of Keldchester, heir apparent to the Duke of Abingdon, do besides play his music? He couldn’t read or box or play cards with his eyesight as poor as it was.
At least George had other things in his life besides chess. His riding and his fencing and his monographs on the history of certain words likewalrusandquizandshambles. His speeches and votes in the House of Lords. Even this little nuisance job of being treasurer for the Mayfair Music Society although he played no instrument himself. He knew he had been nominated for the post since he found it so easy to elicit delinquent dues from his fellow lords. All he had to do was draw himself up to his full height, furrow his brow, and smolder. Then a pound coin or two was quickly dug from a purse. He performed the same job for the Audley Street Chess Club.
And, of course, George had the very large responsibility of his own estate which Andrew did not yet have since his father was very much alive.
George wished for a moment that his own father hadn’t died and he could ask him what to do about Phoebe. But that was foolishness. His father would never have been able to offer any sound advice. In George’s eyes, he had always been a weak man, completely in thrall to George’s mother—a beautiful, frivolous, volatile spendthrift who had died when George was thirteen. His father had then been a shadow of himself for the last five years of his life, allowing the barony to fall further into unprofitable chaos.
When he had first inherited his title upon his father’s death, George had frequently sought counsel from Phoebe’s father, the Duke of Abingdon. His Grace had been generous with his time and guidance and had given George the knowledge he needed to begin to rescue the barony. Now, if it were a different matter, one not involving Abingdon’s daughter and George’s all-consuming desire to bed her again, he might go to the duke.
But that wouldn’t do in these circumstances. Not at all.
Andrew came closer to George, peering at him. “Is something different about you, George?”
George put his hand to his head. He had forgotten his wig. This was the first time in four years he had been out in public without his wig. No, this morning. He must have ridden Apollo all over Hampstead Heath bareheaded.
“I’m not wearing my wig.”
“Decided to come into the nineteenth century, eh?”
“Something like that.”
Now George realized Andrew also looked different. “Where are your spectacles, Andrew?”
“I really only wear them so people remember how blind I am. The spectacles don’t help much anymore. Everything is still a blur. The blurs have a bit more definition, but . . .” Andrew shrugged and felt his chair with the back of his legs and then sat down. “I can still read music with a magnifying glass if I hold the score four inches from my nose. And there’s nothing wrong with my memory. Please do sit, George.”
George looked around. There were no other chairs in the music room. He sat on the bench of the pianoforte, having decided the stool by the harp was too fragile to bear his weight.
“Thornwick was here, you say?”
“Yes. As you can imagine, there has been a great deal of fuss about the house lately.”
“Yes.”
“Even more fuss than when my other sisters were getting married. I suppose because Thornwick is a duke, and Mother was not really prepared for Phoebe to get engaged. To anybody.”
“Why not?”
Andrew shrugged again. “She had almost four Seasons with nary a bit of interest until now. Phebes very nearly decided not to go to any balls anymore, you know? Spoke about putting herself on the shelf. I can’t understand it at all. I’m rather disgusted with my fellow lords. Not very discerning, are they? I can’t imagine what put them off her for so long. Almost as if something or someone had scared them away. Of all my sisters, I would have thought . . . I mean, this will sound strange, but I have sometimes wished I could marry Phoebe myself. She’d make such a companionable wife.”
George shrugged, realizing only too late Andrew likely couldn’t see the gesture.
Andrew laughed. “Well, I and everyone else always thought you would marry her, George, so there was never any chance for her real brothers, was there? Now, what did you need to speak to me about?”
Everyone thought George would marry Phoebe? Nobody thought that. He and Phoebe were just the best and oldest of friends. Although he had lusted after her in his youth, hadn’t he? And now . . . and now . . . now all he could think about was getting her in his bed again. And murdering Thornwick.
“What do you think of Thornwick?”
There was a silence. Andrew peered at him. “You came to speak to me about Thornwick?”
George forced a guffaw. “No, no, no. I was just wondering. I’m here about the music society. Do you think we should start having assemblies every week rather than every fortnight?”
As Andrew gestured with his bow and discussed the pros and cons of increasing the frequency of the assemblies, George wondered how he might work the conversation around to Thornwick again.
