Butler and Lord Dalling. Another bead of sweat rolled down Sebastian’s spine. He curved his right hand around the flute his father extended, trying to force his fingers to obey, though his little finger didn’t move at all. His teeth came together hard when a cramp seized his hand, freezing the rest of his fingers into a clawlike position.
He grasped the glass with his left hand and steadied a sudden tumble of anxiety.
No one knew. No one knew.
“Oh, a waltz,” Miss Butler remarked as the musicians began a new piece. “I do so love the waltz.”
Rushton shot him a pointed glance, which Sebastian recognized well. He looked at the couples circling the dance floor. He had always liked dancing. Last spring, he wouldn’t have hesitated to ask Miss Butler to accompany him onto the floor, and he’d have ensured they both enjoyed every step and turn.
But Sebastian hadn’t danced once in the past five months, and he couldn’t start again now. Not when he could no longer count on his ability to guide his partner with accuracy.
An awkward silence fell. Dalling cleared his throat. Miss Butler smiled again.
“Mr. Hall, aren’t you recently returned from Germany?” she asked, her heart-shaped face turned up like an open flower. “My father said you had a rather prestigious position at Weimar at the invitation of Monsieur Liszt himself.”
“I did, yes.”
“But left due to a quarrel with the musical committee?”
“They wanted to alter one of my operas. I objected.”
“Of course you did.” She giggled with delight, as if she would have expected no less of him. “Though I can’t imagine working at the Patent Office will be quite as thrilling as performing for the Court of Weimar.”
“No. Not quite.”
“Do you intend to return to performing, then?”
“One day.”
He intended to. Whether or not he could was another matter entirely.
Sebastian knew what rumor said about his resignation—he’d stormed away from the position as director of the court theater in a fiery pique over creative control of his work. The committee members had pleaded for him to return. He’d refused and fled to the home of the Grand Duchess Irina Pavlova, the woman who had recommended him to Liszt for the position in the first place, so that he could work in peace. And, of course, everyone thought she was his lover, the celebrated grand duchess a decade his senior.
None of it was true, but society loved tossing the romantic story about as if it were a balloon bouncing on currents of air.
That, Sebastian thought, was both his saving grace and his downfall. The gossip was friendly, amused, intrigued—nothing like the horrific shock that had followed his parents’ divorce after the countess had had an affair and deserted her family.
Rushton, however, now reestablishing himself both politically and socially almost three years after the scandal, would hasten to forestall the glare of any gossip, no matter how good-natured.
Lord Dalling and his daughter soon made their excuses and went to the refreshment table. Sebastian felt his father’s gaze, weighted with displeasure.
“Why did you not ask her to dance?” Rushton asked.
Sebastian didn’t respond.
“She is also an excellent prospect for marriage,” his father continued. “Well educated, respectable. Her father is purported to be the next Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs. You would do quite well with her.” Rushton studied him, his eyes narrowing. “Or seek out Smythe’s daughter at Lady Rossmore’s ball. Unless you intend to be occupied with one of your performances?”
The mild note of condescension in his father’s voice grated against Sebastian’s nerves. “No.”
“Why did you go to all the trouble of having your piano delivered to the Society of Musicians?”
“The Society’s piano needs repairs, so I offered to loan them mine.” That was the truth, at least, though Sebastian couldn’t tell his father the actual reason he’d sought out Granville Blake at the Hanover Square rooms last night. Not without betraying the confidence of his brother Darius.
Do not tell anyone what you are looking for.
The sentence in Darius’s letter tangled through Sebastian’s brain. The order wouldn’t be difficult to follow, considering he had very little idea what he was looking for. He didn’t much care either. After his furtive visits to several doctors and then the expense of a surgery that had permanently damaged his finger, Sebastian cared only that Darius would compensate him enough to settle the remainder of his medical obligations.
He still felt his father’s gaze. Although Rushton’s staid expression often concealed his thoughts, the man possessed a stare that could peel one like an apple.