Rhapsody for Two - Theresa Romain Page 0,23

I explain to the duchess that her pianoforte remains out of tune because you are too limited to respect female knowledge?”

The butler appeared extremely displeased, yet he drew aside and admitted Rowena to the foyer. “Wait here.”

She was grateful for the reprieve, her heart pounding and cheeks hot, as if she’d just done battle. And she had, hadn’t she? What the ducal butler had seen as weaknesses, she’d asserted as irrelevancies or strengths.

Drawing in a deep breath, she calmed herself, then inspected her surroundings. She’d been here before as Edith’s guest, though not for some time. The Duke of Emory’s London town house, where he lived with his widowed mother and younger brother, was an elegant but unusual building. The spacious octagonal foyer communicated ducal power in its every inch, from the mosaic of the family crest on the floor, to the sweeping grandeur of the central staircase that vined upward.

Rowena was surrounded by the scents of wealth, too, of lemony cleaning oil and the flinty smell of air trapped between marble floors and plastered ceilings. She preferred the familiar surroundings of her workshop: the fresh smell of cut wood; the sweet-scented, resinous copal and the astringent shellacs that she used to make her varnishes.

No matter. Tuning pianofortes paid the bills, and if she was very creative and persuasive, perhaps even the lease. She’d have to speak to Mr. Lifford, her landlord, about offering quarterly payments rather than one annual outlay. It was a possibility that had occurred to her recently.

“I’ll show her to the music room.” A rumbling masculine voice floated down the grand staircase.

“Yes, Your Grace,” came the reply in the butler’s vinegary tone.

So. The old butler had tattled on her to the duke, and the duke was allowing her in. She experienced a flash of triumph, then of curiosity when she realized she’d get another look at the man who inspired How to Ruin a Duke.

The Duke of Emory rounded the curve of the staircase with heavy footfalls. His Grace was a large man, a little too rough for male beauty, with a strong jaw and weary eyes.

Rowena curtseyed to him. He nodded a greeting. When he reached the foyer, he said, “My mother and brother are gallivanting around Town, while I find myself short of invitations. You will know why, I am sure.”

The book, of course. How to Ruin a Duke. “Yes, I know why.”

“Scandal is all right as long as we pretend not to know about it. That veil is gone.”

Rowena understood. “Lady Caroline Lamb suffered for writing Glenarvon a few years ago, but without an author to blame for…that book…you bear the scandal.”

“Indeed. If I could unmask the lady responsible for this libel—” He cut off the sentence, looking grim.

“I thought it was written by a man,” Rowena said.

“No one knows.” It’s all too much, said his expression, and she understood him as she’d never understood an aristocrat before.

She couldn’t reconcile this man with the flippant, frippery Duke of Amorous. But it wasn’t her business to do so.

“This is not why you have called.” The duke recalled himself. “I am told that you are the finest piano-tuner in England.”

Right. That was her business. “Only England?” Rowena drawled. “Someone’s insulted me.”

The duke’s haughty mouth curved. “The music room is upstairs. If you will accompany me?” As they ascended the stairs, Emory added, “I would pay you more to cut all the strings than to bring the instrument back into tune, but my mother thinks a lady ought to play the pianoforte regardless of her level of skill.”

“I’m far too wise to step into a family feud,” Rowena replied. “Show me to the instrument, and I’ll have it in tune for you. Should you wish to cut the strings, Your Grace, and risk your mother’s wrath, I can be found in Bond Street and will happily restring the pianoforte for you for an exorbitant fee.”

“Fair enough. You will please not cut the strings at this time.”

They had reached their destination, an airy chamber papered in a floral print and dotted here and there with chairs and smaller instruments: a harp, a violoncello. In the center of the room, a shining black-lacquer pianoforte held pride of place.

“When my footman made this appointment with you,” the duke said, “you mentioned the possibility of keeping your shop on retainer. While my mother is hard on instruments, she is not so musically skilled that she notices the difference. I do apologize if the footman raised false hopes.”

Rowena set her case