“Chase it. Sing it. Win it.”
Was it right to sing out loud while in the duke’s arms? Mmm. No. I hummed the melody instead, but the Duke sang in my stead.
“What was’t I wish’d to see?
What wish’d to hear?
Where’s all the joy and mirth,
Made this town a heaven on earth?
Oh! they’re all fled with thee.”
Full circles, dizzying turns, he stopped, and then led dizzy me to the pianoforte. “Now practice the song. You know the words. I’ve been listening to the practices.”
“Robin Adair” was a fun song, but Pleyel’s hymn was sober.
With a glance to the duke, then my tutor, I closed my eyes and went for it.
“When gladness wings my favored hour,
Thy love my thoughts shall fill;
Resigned when storms of sorrow lower,
My soul shall meet Thy will.”
When I was done, I felt sick. But the duke clapped.
Lord Mark had a grin. He approved.
“It is something, sir,” the duke said, “to see a woman find her place in the world as simply as in a song.”
My tutor stopped and closed the pianoforte. “You’re proficient. You’re talented, Miss Wilcox, but the duke won’t be able to dance with you when you exhibit.”
His tone was tight, almost touchy.
“No, he won’t.” Katherine entered the music room. “If he did before your performance, His Grace would be singling you out. That won’t bode well. The gossip is out that there’s a secret engagement involving my sister and an unidentified gentleman, a peer. Everyone will assume it’s you, Your Grace. That’s not our plan.”
My sister had a newspaper in her hand. She laid it out on top of the pianoforte. “Someone saw you two at Anya House. They must know the secret lover is the musical Lord Mark Sebastian.”
In black and white, a cartoon portrayed a skinny fellow leaning on top of a pianoforte kissing a large Blackamoor woman. The Gilroy cartoon made a cruel joke of both characters, but especially the one who was made out to be me. She was abnormally twice the size in comparison to the fellow. The figure seemed old, ugly, matronly—a terrible wallflower, a horrid tall Meg.
Yet, the very worst thing was the comment bubble above sayingMassa is cute.
“They spared no trope in this foolishness,” the duke said. “Lady Hampton is correct. The caption,Miss Coal finds a peer, is particularly telling.”
After another look at the horribleness, I questioned if it was us—Lord Mark and myself—or someone trying to tarnish everyone at Anya House. “Very odd. We were in the garden. Yet, the artist put us in here. Look—the exact number of paintings on this wall are the same as in here.” I counted again, noting the five picture frames in the cartoon matching the five watercolor landscapes hanging behind the pianoforte. “This is this room.”
Mark picked up the paper. He paled and looked up at me. “This is terrible.”
My heart pounded. “This is a warning to you, my lord. The cartoonist withheld your name, this time.”
“They want him scared away,” Mr. Steele said. In his arms were several copies of the sameMorning Postnewspaper. “Lord Mark Sebastian, it’s pure intimidation. We had so many reporters here the day of the science meeting. I should’ve been more on guard.”
“This is a home, Steele. Not a fortress.” The duke retrieved the paper, balling it in his hand. “My residence is meant to be welcoming. It’s a place for science to progress. Cures for the illnesses no one speaks of can be discussed here.”
“There was a slight mention of the meeting next to this scandalous illustration.”
