off as the lady in question drew within earshot. She was accompanied by the young blond girl Verity had noticed at the musicale. “Hello, Emma.”
Emma murmured a nervous response.
The newcomer waited, then added, “Perhaps you would introduce us to your friend?”
“Oh!” Emma hastily presented Verity.
“How are you, Miss Townsend?” asked the pale-haired girl, who turned out to be Miss Frances Reynolds. “We met at a house party last autumn,” she told Verity.
“Isn’t it pleasant to have friends in London,” put in her companion. “I’m sure you’ll want to catch up.”
Miss Reynolds looked hopeful. Olivia said nothing, which surprised Verity.
They exchanged a few more remarks before the two parties went off in different directions.
“I don’t think Flora noticed anything,” Emma said when they were gone.
“Very likely not,” replied Olivia. “And if she thinks she’s going to foist that milksop miss off on me, she’s mightily mistaken.”
Verity and Emma stared. “Do you mean Miss Reynolds?” Verity asked.
“None other. She’s the most priggish girl.”
“She didn’t seem so to me,” Emma ventured.
“You didn’t see her at Salbridge, constantly putting her oar in when no one wanted her opinion. She snaffled a major role in the play we put on, when she should have had the sense to efface herself and let her betters have the spotlight.”
“She wasn’t any good?” Verity asked, a little shocked at her new friend’s sharpness.
“What is snaffled?” Emma asked. “Slang, I suppose.” She sounded resigned.
Olivia made a dismissive gesture. “Miss Reynolds was adequate, when she wasn’t using the opportunity to make sheep’s eyes at Charles Wrentham. Which was nearly always.”
“She spoiled the play?” Verity asked, attempting to understand Olivia’s attitude.
Surprisingly, Olivia giggled. “No. She didn’t.”
Verity remained puzzled.
“She’ll find it harder to push herself forward here in London,” Olivia continued. “I certainly won’t be helping her. I wonder…”
“What?” asked Verity when Olivia said no more.
“We shall see” was the mysterious reply.
“People are looking at us,” said Emma.
“Isn’t that why we’re here?” asked Olivia. But she led them along the path toward the gates.
* * *
Randolph plucked out a run of notes on his lute. He could play parts of the melody now, but the sound was still far from the golden song he’d heard during that strange interlude last summer when an Indian gentleman had chanted in Sanskrit and tapped a drum. The combination had somehow evoked a vivid daydream in which Randolph saw himself in archaic surroundings playing a ballad that still haunted him. On a lute.
By an impulse both inexplicable and irresistible—an uncomfortable duo—he was driven to reproduce those notes exactly. No substitute would do. Not picking the tune out on the pianoforte, or trying to reproduce it with his voice. The whole thing was very odd, and so he kept his practice to the privacy of his bedchamber.
Randolph set the instrument aside with a strange mixture of regret and relief and went down to join his parents for dinner.
“I’ve had letters from Nathaniel and Violet,” said the duchess as they began the meal. “Violet is feeling much better. Nathaniel says she’s blooming.”
“That’s good,” said Randolph. His eldest brother’s wife had been ill at the beginning of her pregnancy, causing the family some worry. Randolph spooned up soup, savoring the complexity of the flavor. His mother’s cook was another attraction of Langford House. He wouldn’t get a meal like this in rented rooms.
One of the footmen appeared in the doorway. He hovered a moment, looking reluctant. “I beg your pardon for interrupting, Your Grace,” he said to the duchess. “A messenger brought this. He said it wasn’t to wait even a moment.” He held up an envelope with the crest of the Prince Regent on the flap.
The duke held out a hand. “Patience isn’t one of the prince’s virtues.”
“I beg your pardon, Your Grace,” repeated the footman. “It’s for Lord Randolph.”
“Me?” said Randolph, mirroring his parents’ surprised looks. “Why would he be writing to me? I don’t know him.”
“I introduced you at court when you were eighteen,” said his father.
“I made my bow. We didn’t speak.”
“What could be so urgent?” wondered the duchess.
“There’s one way to find out.” The duke gestured, and the footman stepped over to hand Randolph the envelope.
Setting down his spoon, Randolph opened it. Inside was a longish handwritten note. “The deuce!” he exclaimed when he’d scanned it.
“What is it?” asked his mother.
“The prince wants me to sing at a party.”
“Sing?” said the duke, suddenly haughty. “As if you were some sort of hired entertainer?”
“Oh, the request is wreathed in all sorts of polite phrases and