Not a weak tinny soprano, after all, this dark exotic female. A stunning contralto. She’d chosen Handel’s ‘Ombra Mai Fu’, a distinctly odd choice. Originally composed for a castrato, it was often performed as a female trouser role. Her tones were rich with passion and dark with mystery.
There wasn’t a man in the room who wasn’t wholly focused on her. A feral odour of lust and excitement filled the room, when all she was singing about was sitting beneath the shade of a tree.
As the last notes died away, male applause thundered. Bannerby cried, ‘Bravo.’
Garth rose to his feet. ‘Encore.’
Hapton followed suit, as did Fitz and Phillips.
The women smiled and clapped, any sound deadened by their gloves.
Mrs Travenor curtsied and brought Mrs De Lacy to her feet. Both women curtsied together. Garth narrowed his eyes. So the mysterious young widow was wont to perform. In drawing rooms? Or on the stage? The professional manner, the confidence—hell, the skill—said she was no amateur. What a surprise. An opera singer who left the house in the dead of night.
What the hell was she up to?
Despite the calls for more, Mrs Travenor shook her head and returned to the shadows behind her employer, who said cheerfully, ‘Be still, you rascals. She will sing for us again another day. Will you play for us, Mrs Mallow, or will you sing?’
Mrs Mallow’s irritation in being asked to follow such a performance could not have been more obvious.
Garth leaned forwards to whisper in Penelope’s ear, ‘Be glad she did not call on you.’
Penelope’s expression said she was very glad indeed. She shrugged an impatient shoulder.
A glance at Mrs Travenor revealed no expression at all. The woman was an actress par excellence. First she played the nun and now the siren. His curiosity had been thoroughly roused. Along with a decidedly unruly part of his anatomy.
The woman presented a challenge. His blood stirred at the realisation. Very well. He’d pick up the gauntlet and find out exactly what she was about. Honest or nefarious. Virtuous or clever whore. The truth would out.
Mrs Mallow elected to play rather than sing. No fool, Maria Mallow. She never had been. She’d landed an ancient earl at the age of sixteen, buried him not long afterwards and spent most of her adult life as a rich and very indulged widow. She was the sort of woman he’d have been only too delighted to pursue at this kind of party, if his interest hadn’t been diverted.
Boredom had dissipated. He felt enervated. All because of Mrs Travenor. Fiend seize it, his quarry would be a whole lot easier to catch if he didn’t have to play nursemaid to Penelope.
He gulped down half of his wine and gave Penelope a toothsome smile.
She glowered over her fan. ‘Why can’t you bother someone else?’
‘Go home and I won’t bother you at all.’
Like the spoiled miss she was, Penelope slumped in her chair and gazed at the piano, her pretty mouth in a pout. What the hell was Mark thinking marrying such a girl? Obviously thought hadn’t entered into his decision. Thank God Bannerby was too much of a coward to challenge Garth head-on for what he wanted, the puny weakling.
Another warning would probably do it, despite Penelope’s encouragement. Not that she seemed particularly encouraging today. More sulky and unhappy.
No doubt because Garth was getting in the way. Well, she should have picked a man with a stiffer spine.
Hapton was a different proposition altogether. He took what he wanted and got away with it. Of all the men here, he presented the most danger to the pretty bride should he bestir himself in her direction. Fortunately, he seemed more taken with the lady companion. Garth suppressed the urge to warn him off there, too.
To Hapton that would be an irresistible dare.
While Mrs Mallow played competently, if without inspiration, the rest of the party listened politely or chatted softly. ‘This is so dull,’ Penelope whispered.
‘What were you expecting?’ Garth asked. ‘An orgy?’
Penelope’s cheeks turned pink. ‘You are disgusting.’ Married she might be, but she was no sophisticate.
‘You said you were bored,’ he said mildly.
The pout grew more pronounced. ‘And all you think about is … is …’ Now her face was fire red.
‘It is all any man thinks of.’
Pain filled her pretty green eyes. Tears welled. ‘I know that now.’
Why the hell was she crying? Mark was the one being betrayed. ‘What is going on, Penelope?’
She blinked a couple of times, teardrops clinging to her lashes. She dashed them away. ‘Why would you care?’ she muttered. ‘You are just like him.’ She turned her face away.
‘Penelope?’ he said.
She rose swiftly to her feet with her fingertips pressed to her temples. ‘Please excuse me,’ she said to the room at large. ‘I have a headache.’ She almost ran from the room.
Mrs Travenor leaned forwards and whispered something in Lady Keswick’s ear. The old lady nodded and Rose came to her feet and disappeared from the room.
She looked tired, he noticed, as if singing had tapped her strength. Or was her late-night excursion wearing her down? Would she go out again tonight? If she did, he would be right behind her.
Mrs Mallow finished her piece and the guests applauded.
Lady Keswick got to her feet, smiling broadly. ‘Come along, every one. Rose has arranged for card tables in the drawing room.’
Cards had been an inspired idea. Rosa closed the door on a buzz of conversation and laughter. While the guests, including Lord Stanford, gambled away their wealth, Rosa had something else in mind.
She smiled at Jonas coming the other way with more port for the gentlemen. ‘Goodnight, Jonas. I hope they don’t keep you up too late.’
‘I’m used to it, Mrs Travenor. Got a note for you.’ He nodded at his tray. A white folded square of paper lay on its edge against one of the bottles. Who on earth would be writing to her? No one knew she was here, except her sisters. She nipped the paper between finger and thumb, smiled her thanks and ran off up the servants’ stairs, the missive a dead weight in her hand.
Inside her room, she opened the letter.
The spidery handwriting was unfamiliar, but the signature was not. She sat on the bed to read.
Inchbold’s note relayed the worst possible news. Her grandfather would arrive in two days’ time to ensure all was in readiness for the new tenants. Inchbold had been ordered off to Rye to procure supplies and servants and he would not be back until the day after tomorrow. Just in time to meet her grandfather. The dear sweet man had left her the key under a stone beside the door into the kitchen.
She only had two nights for her search.
Something hard and heavy weighed down her chest. Fear.
Fear that Grandfather’s blistering rant the day he came to the school to inform her of Father’s death was the truth. Fear her father had forgotten his daughters.
She got up from the desk and went to the window, fingers laced so tight her skin burned. She would not give up. She would prove Grandfather wrong.
Whirling around, she grabbed up her cloak