Rhapsody for Two - Theresa Romain Page 0,1

to forget her worries for a while, to sink instead into the latest popular work of delicious scandal.

Never mind. Customers, clients, patrons came first. She left the book on her worktable, then smoothed her black hair and ducked around the heavy curtain into the office where she welcomed clients and carried out simple jobs. She arranged her hands behind her back and prepared her polite, public smile.

Welcome to Fairweather’s, Luthier to the Crown, was what she ought to have said to the prospective customer. Two issues halted her tongue before it could utter the familiar script, so that only an “Oh!” of surprise burst from her lips.

First, the man who entered was neither a liveried footman nor a tonnish papa. Those two sorts of male shoppers, both representing a pampered and wealthy young lady of a musical inclination, were Rowena’s bread and butter during the London Season.

But this man was too young to be the father of a Society maiden, too plainly dressed to be a footman. He looked about thirty, only a few years older than Rowena’s twenty-six years, and was garbed in well-cut but simple clothing.

Second, he was holding a horn. Not a violin, a viola, or even a violoncello. A horn, with nary a string in sight. On the floor, an open instrument case splayed.

For a moment, Rowena fumbled for words. At last, she said, “Welcome to Fairweather’s, sir. This is a luthier’s shop. Is all well with your horn? It’s not the sort of instrument I usually work on.”

“You are the Fairweather of the shop name, then?” The man raised puckish dark brows. “I expected someone older and—”

“Male, no doubt,” Rowena interrupted smoothly. “Before my father passed on a year ago, you’d have got both age and masculinity. But I represent Fairweather’s now, and I’ve had more than two decades of experience building and repairing stringed instruments.”

“Very well. This ought to be easy as winking for you.” He heaved his horn onto the sleek counter between them.

Rowena’s gaze flicked from the brass instrument to the dark eyes of the customer. They were warm and red-brown like heart of rosewood, uncommon for use in violins but a lovely surprise when it appeared. The good cheer in this man’s expression was also uncommon but, in its way, lovely as well.

She tried not to smile. “I assume you are aware that a horn is not a stringed instrument.”

“I am,” he granted. “I’m also aware that something is blocking the flow of sound, which caused me to be sacked by the family that hired me to give lessons to their son. I’ve only just time to get to a rehearsal at Vauxhall Gardens, and I’d prefer my horn to emit notes so that I won’t lose two jobs in one day.”

“A reasonable wish.”

“I knew you’d understand. And when I passed your shop, I thought, well, a luthier is better than no one.”

Now she did allow herself an amused quirk of the lips. “Surely you meant to say ‘a luthier is better than almost anyone.’”

The man’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “Did I misspeak? That’s exactly what I meant to say. A luthier will know how to fix my horn, because luthiers are excellent and wonderful.”

“Wise man. Very well, I’ll look it over. If need be, I’ll take it into my workshop, but I might be able to help you here.”

A horn didn’t have a terrible lot of parts. Either the structure was damaged—and the shining surface looked all right—or there was something caught inside. Crouching, she peered into the bell but saw nothing.

“I played at a musicale last night and the horn sounded fine,” explained the man. “I must have used all my crooks for changing keys at one point or another, so the problem’s not with one of them.”

“Hmm.” She needed something fine to fish about for an obstruction. Rowena considered the tools behind the workroom curtain, then instead plucked a pin from her heavy twists of hair. Stretching the curved bit of metal into a straight wire, she fashioned a little hook at one end, then plunged it into the depths of the horn. She wiggled the pin about, easing it into the innards of the horn to feel for anything that wasn’t as it ought to be.

“Ah. There we have it. There’s something in here.” With her makeshift tool, she tugged at the obstruction.

“Let me help you with that,” the man blurted. “I can do that for you.”

Oh. She’d used her right hand to fashion the hook.