The earl leaned so far in his saddle I thought he’d fall onto his stupid head.
I wasn’t so fortunate. Our new friend sped up and kept the fool upright.
“Thank you, Torrance.” The earl grasped his reins a little tighter. “Sebastian, your mother sent you to Kenwood to ogle a painting. Now you’re in love with Lady Elizabeth Finch-Hatton, a woman idealized on canvas in her youth who today is in her fifties and married. Prahmn will have a fit, but he might approve if you took her to bed for a prize.”
“The Duke of Prahmn? Sounds scandalous.” The duke’s diction sounded crisp, very British, none of the nasally accent Livingston said a man born in Saint Petersburg should possess.
“My father? No scandals. He still has hopes that I turn to the church, the path of a third son. No, I was at Kenwood for renovations. Dry rot gave the new owners ideas. A large music room will be designed, but my mother offered my expertise.” I sat up straighter on my mount. “I guess she finds me good at such things.”
“Oh, Sebastian, you always sell yourself short. Your Grace, he’s a musical genius. His name will be among the masters. No one knows more about the acoustics of a room than my friend. When he finishes his newest composition and wins the Harlbert’s Prize everyone will know the name Lord Mark Sebastian.”
I smiled as did the duke. Perhaps they’d both forget my enthusiasm for the painting of the Mansfield’s nieces at Kenwood, Lady Elizabeth and her lively cousin.
Livingston reached over and slapped me on my shoulder. In prideful, drunken tones he said, “My friend is brilliant.”
Fine. Maybe it was good the earl didn’t Humpty-Dumpty on this cobblestone. Who else would sing my praises? One couldn’t always rely on being your mother’s favorite.
Nonetheless, this feeling of pride was short-lived as Livingston reared back and said, “Pity, a live female, one of flesh and blood and the proper age, frightens the sensibilities of our pianoforte master.”
I fumed at him for being right. I was a master at the keys. The music in my head kept spinning and I remembered the portrait and the way the artist chose to paint her. The moment before she danced. Her smile and the way sunlight reflected from her satin gown would never leave my soul.
Music should be written for her.
Perhaps she was the muse to inspire my composition for the Harlbert competition. Then everyone, including Prahmn, would respect me.
We continued riding in silence, while a blustery wind blew at our backs. It was colder than it should be. Spring should be warm.
Soon we approached Blackfriars Bridge. The huge stone structure formed with high arches led travelers over the Thames. I thought we’d turn another way by now. The duke kept barreling forward. Working class, industrial, what could a duke want on that side of the river?
“Whoa, Torrance.” Livingston cantered closer to him. “You said at the coaching inn you wanted us to assist you on a mission of life and death. You never mentioned crossing the river at sunset.”
“Nearing sunset. There’s plenty of time to go and come back.” The duke offered him a withering gaze, one that could be given by Prahmn or any old man who’d been to war or battled great odds. Torrance had to be in his midthirties, ten more years than what I’d lived, about two less than Livingston. “For a man of science,” the duke said, “you have strange superstitions.”
“It rained on my wedding day.” Livingston guffawed, and then sneered. “If I’d heeded and not gone through with it, I wouldn’t have lost four years of my life.”
My friend had a terrible marriage that ended when his wife abandoned him. “Well,” I said, “perhaps if you hadn’t run on so much and gossiped, you might’ve noticed the incompatibilities and fared better.”
My barb made him shut his mouth, but my bitter words made my stomach sour. “Sorry, sir. That was uncalled for. No one knows what a gamble at love will bring.”
“No offense taken, Sebastian.” The earl looked sad, even wistful. “Damned woman. Would’ve been better off with a painting of her.”
The duke glanced at Livingston. His mouth tightened to a dot. “Everything has challenges,” he said, “and it’s best to be selective. Give your heart too soon to someone unworthy, it’s difficult to get it back.”
“Thank you, Torrance. But, Sebastian, you can make amends by buying ale at the next stop because I’m not going over the bridge.”
“If a little water frightens, you sirs will never survive a visit to my Saint Petersburg. Too many temporary bridges crossing plenty of rivers and streams. Here, you Londoners have it easy. Blackfriars looks permanent and sturdy. That good Portland stone should be sufficient.”
“Torrance, the bridge is fine.” I wove my horse between the men as if to keep the peace. “Let’s all find a tavern and go on the duke’s mission tomorrow.”
Livingston swayed, pulling my scope from my saddlebag, the tube with lenses I used to bird-watch. “Oh, I see why you want to cross, Torrance. There’s a woman walking over by the docks. I can take you to prettier ones on this side of the Thames. The price for the evening will be good.”
We’d just met the duke and Livingston was trying to take him to a brothel. I grabbed the scope and, despite my better nature, took a glance at the object of the earl’s attention. “You can be truly horrible. What kind of welcome is this for the duke? He’s back from Russia, thinking of staying, and you’re so drunk that—”
Can’t breathe.
Can’t think. Got to think.
Say a word, Mark.But nothing came out.
