To Love a Tormented Earl - Bridget Barton Page 0,52

tuning instruments in a cacophony of sound that made her wistful.

As before, Dassel spied her and hurried to remove their conversation to the garden.

From the satchel she carried, Emilia produced the pages of the opera and handed the bundle to him.

‘I ran out of paper in Act III,’ she said, indicating the section in question. ‘I had to use the backs of several letters. I do apologise, but there was no other way at the time.’

‘I suppose I shall have you copy it, then?’ said Mr. Dassel in a rare display of humour.

‘I shan’t refuse the commission, sir,’ Emilia replied with a tight smile.

Dassel leafed through the work, pausing and frowning. Emilia watched, her nerves disquieted as she waited to discover his opinion. Then, without a word, he turned and stormed back into the Chapel. Surprised, Emilia followed.

The composer hurried to a small room with a pianoforte, no doubt intended for use in his own work creating new pieces. Emilia stood near the doorway, uncertain and vexed to be alone in a room with Dassel. A garden was damning enough.

This level of privacy should be reserved for declarations of love and subsequent proposals of marriage. But Dassel seemed almost unaware of her, and he had said nothing about payment. She dared not leave his presence until she had a purse in hand.

Settling in front of the pianoforte, Dassel began trying certain passages from the opera. He lingered over the aria at the end of Act II, his eyebrows raised, his mouth agape unless he was humming the vocal portion. He seemed entirely absorbed.

Does he think it very strange? Overly passionate?

Troubled, Emilia smoothed her fingers over the sleeves of her pelisse. Interrupting him would be unwise, she thought. But how long will it take him to make his assessment?

At last Dassel stopped and looked at her. Emilia’s eyes widened as she met his gaze expectantly. Dassel pressed both hands to his cravat. He shook his head at her, his mouth pressed closed as if to stem a tide of words.

‘Well, sir?’ she prompted at last, unable to bear another moment.

‘Miss Whitmore!’ he exclaimed, his German accent changing the ‘wh’ to ‘v.’ ‘Such inspiration! It is magnificent!’

‘Ah!’ she gasped, then laughed. ‘You liked it!’

‘Liked it? I am astonished. Bewitched. I am—agog!’

Emilia laughed again, clasping her hands under her chin.

‘Her Majesty the Queen shall be delighted, I daresay,’ Dassel said.

‘What a great relief to know you are so pleased, Mr. Dassel.’

‘Greatly pleased,’ the composer confirmed. ‘In truth I am contrite for I regret how miserly I was when last we met. This time I shan’t make the same mistake. Thirty-five pounds.’

Emilia pressed her lips together and inhaled deeply, then countered, ‘Sixty.’

Dassel narrowed his eyes, but then smiled at her. ‘Forty-five.’

‘Fifty-five.’

Dassel sneered, but the joy that danced in his eyes was still visible. ‘Fifty. But only because this opera shall secure my place in the halls of all the renowned composers of history.’

His words gave Emilia a pang, but fifty pounds would mean a month of household expenses paid in full. ‘Very well,’ she agreed.

‘If you will excuse me,’ Dassel said. He rose, clutching the pages of the opera, and hurried out, leaving her alone.

Emilia ran her fingers along the hem of her sleeve as she waited, anxious to be done with her business and on her way. After a short wait Dassel returned with a purse, which he offered her.

‘Good day, Mr. Dassel,’ she said, and took her leave.

As she did, however, a sensation close to grief swelled in her breast. Abandoning her opera to Mr. Dassel felt akin to abandoning a child. How she wished that someday, she might keep her music for herself, or perhaps play it for her intimates. Her mind went unbidden to Maximilian Emery, and she bit her lip, hurrying out into the street.

No, she scolded herself. That will not do at all.

Maximilian Emery was a liar and a scoundrel. She must never dream of him in such a way again.

But her heart would not listen, and it pained her terribly as she made her way to where Alice waited.

Emilia was doomed to be haunted by him, it seemed. The most she might hope for was success in achieving her family’s financial recovery, and to one day provide her father with the treatment he needed.

But happiness, for Emilia, was impossible.

***

‘This is most irregular,’ Ibbott said, gazing over steepled fingers at Max and Roberts from where he sat behind his desk. The office was lit only by sunlight streaming