“Mark, I asked about your new friend. I should know about who you spend your time with.”
“Truly? You wish to know? You want to know about the people whose music rooms I designed? What about the pupils I’ve garnered? What about the committeemen who will hear the sonata I’m working—”
Her expression, drawn cheeks frowning while sipping on brandy and tea, saidNo, no music. “Mark, I gave you music to help you be expressive. You lost your words so often.”
“How could they be heard over Prahmn screaming at you?”
Her lips disappeared, then she took a long swallow from her cup. When she and Prahmn fought, his odious temper silenced me and her.
Thank goodness he was not here. As much I thought I could now handle his critique, my tongue, as it did at the worst times, would betray me.
“Tell me, Mark. It’s your mama. Humor me. You always do.”
A joke? That’s what I was?
“I once tried to tell you of my enthusiasm for a painting. You laughed as I wrongheadedly bared my soul. Why should I expect differently?”
This had been my life. I was a spare’s spare. I would probably only be useful to the Sebastian line if that transfusion thing Livingston was working on came to pass.
“Mark, is it true you are engaged to one of the Wilcox girls?”
“How do you know anything about that family?”
“I know enough, Mark. They supply the coal to the house.”
“So you’re upset that I’m rumored to be in a relationship with a tradesman’s daughter?”
“Are you?”
“You know how rumors go. Where did you get such nonsense?”
“The papers. There’s a sketch that looks a lot like you on a pianoforte.”
“Am I the only man in London who can play an instrument?”
She slurped more from her bone china cup. “You’ve been very different, Mark.”
“Different? It’s been a week since I last saw you. We sat at the dining room table where you went through a list of suitable candidates. I remember half were industrious daughters of wealthy men of trade. Why are you letting this cartoon upset you? And if it were true, why would my choice be different from yours?”
“Your choice made the paper. That’s what’s different. If your father were here, he would have a conniption. The upset would be grand.”
“What do I do thatdoesn’tcause him to be disagreeable?” I shot up, turning to the books. The gilded pages I fingered were tattered and smelled of tart aged ink. “I am not in a scandal. That doesn’t even look like me in thePost.”
“Ha. So, you do know what I’m talking about.”
“I read the paper. It’s a scandalous sketch. Gilroy always looks to cause an upset.”
She seemed to accept this, sipping less liberally on her doctored tea. Then she rose up and pointed at me. “The Dowager Livingston said that’s you in thePost, you and your scandalous love.”
Livingston.
My friend, the paranoid fool, told his mother. The network of mothers in Mayfair stretched far. They went to work and contacted the Marchioness of Prahmn. I knew it was a risk telling Livingston. But it also made the faux relationship more believable. If my close friend knew of it, the illusion of a connection between myself and Miss Wilcox seemed truer. I breathed a little easier knowing our scheme had begun to work.
“There’s a young woman I care for.”
“A strumpet.”
“She is not that. I don’t want her to suffer for being free enough to dance to my music. I wish she were always about to twirl. Mama, I want her to be wildly herself.”
