The Arrangement. Lyn Stone

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СКАЧАТЬ use again, music was all he knew. It was all he had ever studied, all that could save him now. Maman, relentless as she was, had been right about one thing; he couldn’t live without music and the music couldn’t live without him. He wished to hell he’d been born a bloody banker.

      The playing should be a private thing, an opening up of his soul. At rare times, he could forget the audience was there—all those fawning, simpering faces, with their cow eyes, staring and judging—but usually, as tonight, he simply endured. Pretended. Held back. Threw up. Suffered And still blushed at applause.

      Maman had solved the problem of his beet red face by powdering it white. That had worked when he was eight; it still worked. The dark wig looked a bit much, but it was necessary. His own hair, bleached near-white by the African sun, combined with the white face powder, made him look like an albino. He knew very well that the strange stage image he presented lent a certain mystique, an added attraction.

      Tonight it had proved a massive drawback. The Wainwright woman had studied him like a sparrow hawk poised to swoop. A female predator. Those quick brown eyes of hers missed nothing. For the past two weeks, she’d been everywhere he looked. If he didn’t keep away from her, she would pick him apart like the puzzle he was and destroy him with a single swipe of her pen. God knew she was capable. And eager.

      Her pieces in the About Town news sheet were caustic as lye, the praise rare as chicken’s teeth. She never even pretended to be other than what she was, either. As though working for that rumor rag were a thing to take pride in.

      She didn’t even have the grace to look like a destructive force. That wispy halo of golden curls escaping her oh-so-proper hairstyle gave her heart-shaped face an angelic appearance, despite those dangerous chocolate eyes.

      What the hell was a woman doing writing for a newspaper, anyway? And such a beautiful woman, at that. Damned unnatural.

      Tonight’s confrontation had destroyed every vestige of pleasure he’d found in her appearance and any hope that she might choose another victim.

      Immediately after the performance, Jon had hurried down the front walk to his hired carriage. The sweetness of lilacs had hit him full force as he climbed into the dark vehicle, and he had very nearly squashed the source of the scent by sitting on her.

      “Get out!” he ordered, placing the perfume immediately. He shoved her skirts aside as he twisted around and plopped down across from her.

      “Come now,” she answered calmly, fiddling with her gloves. “I only want to ask you a few questions. Why do you refuse to talk to me? It’s not as though I’ll bite.”

      “Nonsense. You bite quite regularly. You chew people up and spit them out like a mouthful of bad fish. And you wonder that they run from you? Get the hell out of my carriage.”

      “Your music is marvelous. What harm could it do to let people know what you’re really like as a person? You took a long hiatus in the midst of a brilliant career. Why don’t you share what occupied you in the interim?” she suggested, pausing to purse her lips for a second, “Assuming, of course, that you have nothing to hide. Do you?” She smiled sweetly and cocked one brow.

      Tenacious little bitch. He relented a bit, not by choice, but out of trepidation. If he continued acting the ogre, she would write just that. The persona that intrigued an audience might not look so good on paper. “Look, Miss...?” As though he didn’t recall her name.

      “Wainwright. Kathryn Wainwright.”

      “Yes, well, Miss Wainwright, I’m very tired right now. Exhausted and really out of sorts. Perhaps another time. If you would, please?” He gestured toward the open door, not offering to assist her. She’d climbed in by herself; she could jolly well climb out.

      She didn’t move. “Shall I call you Lord Jonathan? I heard an odd rumor that your late father was a peer. Is that true?”

      Jon stiffened and sucked in a deep breath. Damn. If she’d managed to unearth that much, what next? She might even stumble on the worst of his secrets. No, not if he kept his wits about him. She knew nothing definite, and was merely fishing. He exhaled with a sigh and gave her his most withering look. “Chadwick’s my name. If you’re to call me anything, it must be that.”

      “Ah, that’s right, you claim the famous Sir Roald of Chadwick as an ancestor, do you not?”

      “Yes,” he answered carefully. Admitting that much couldn’t hurt him. He had used it for all it was worth most of his life.

      “The noble one who penned all those lovely poems and songs about his liege, the Black Prince? Well, that certainly lends a note of credence to your choice of careers, doesn’t it?” she asked, smug laughter evident in her every word.

      Who did this chit think she was to mock his ancestry, even if this part of it was one of Mamon’s outrageous fabrications? If the old minstrel hadn’t been an ancestor of his, then he bloody well should have been.

      Jon summoned up all the hauteur he had left for the evening. “And you are a Wainwright you say? Judging by the origin of your name, your ancestor was likely nailing someone’s wagons together at the time. Just what are you trying to construct for me, my dear? Perhaps a trundle cart to your paper gallows?”

      She gasped in outrage. Her hands flew up in frustration and then slapped angrily against her silk-swathed knees.

      He laughed. And he continued to, louder and louder, as she scrambled down from the coach, muttering what sounded vaguely like obscenities. Jon leaned his head out the window and watched as she marched along the street to another coach, parked three back from his own.

      When he realized what he had just done, the laughter died a quick death—almost as swift as the fatal blow she would deliver to his career when tomorrow’s papers hit the street. “Damn!” he said through clenched teeth, then drew his head back in and knocked it sharply against the back wall of the coach. The driver obviously took that bump for a signal, and the coach started with a jolt.

      He had found it impossible to force thoughts of Kathryn Wainwright from his mind on the trip home. Even as he paid the hired coachman and watched him drive away, he had imagined her watching, imagined her wearing that knowing grin. A plaguing fancy, that was all. For the moment, he was safe at Timberoak.

      Next time he’d be ready for her, he thought as he climbed the stairs to his room. Next time he would have some cock-and-bull story ready for her. Next time he would charm her knickers off.

      He jerked off the stupid wig and gave it a shake. More mindful, he removed his evening clothes and hung them in the armoire. Raking both hands through his damp hair, he leaned over the basin of cold water and soaped off the powder and accumulated sweat.

      But the heat inside him did not abate as he replayed the night’s events in his mind. Events condensed into images: Kathryn Wainwright absorbing his music from across the crowded room, Kathryn Wainwright leaning forward, her umber eyes wide with questions, Kathryn Wainwright smiling at some inner thought. Images gave way to notes, and the notes to a pervasive melody.

      God, there would be no sleep tonight. None. He gave up without a struggle and slowly made his way downstairs, eager despite his exhaustion.

      Chapter Two

      

      

      Jon’s СКАЧАТЬ