Rhapsody for Two - Theresa Romain Page 0,2
Damn. She hated this sort of response, when courtesy turned into condescension.
Rowena wasn’t ashamed of her right hand, exactly, but she didn’t like it being stared at. Save for the thumb, the fingers on that hand were truncated and twisted, the nails little chips. She’d been born that way; she was accustomed to it, even if the world wasn’t. Though her fingers sometimes pained her, she prided herself on being as dexterous as anyone with a perfectly matched pair of hands.
So she shot her customer a Withering Look—so withering that only capital letters would do to describe it. “You came to me for help, sir. Allow me to oblige.”
He hesitated, but instead of protesting, he said, “I’m sorry. Of course. You’re right. Carry on.”
A ready apology was impossible to argue with, especially when the person apologizing was reduced to speaking in two-word fragments. So she only nodded, then returned to her work.
She’d never been fishing—one wouldn’t want to eat whatever was pulled from the Thames—but she imagined she was angling for some elusive prey now. Just a little twist of her wire hook, and she’d have it…
“Aha! I’ve captured the Great Horned Blockage. A rare species, I hope.” Rowena fished out a wad of paper and set it on the counter.
Her customer poked at it cautiously. “That was in my horn? Good Lord, it’s half the size of an egg.”
Rowena recalled the troubling passage from How to Ruin a Duke, currently reposed on her worktable. “I think someone’s been clever and passed you a secret note.”
“A note. In my horn.” The customer gave the folded paper a dark look. “A note. It’s because of that cursed book, isn’t it? How to Ruin a Duke. Have you read it? I haven’t yet, but I know the duke puts a note in a violin. My fellow horn player at Vauxhall has been inspired to exchange notes with every woman in London.”
“Every woman? He’s prolific. But I’ve missed receiving mine. How sad for me.”
“If you’d met Botts, you’d know it wasn’t a tragedy. He’s an incorrigible flirt.”
“And you are…?”
He extended a hand. “Simon Thorn. Not an incorrigible flirt, I hope, but newly a great admirer of luthiers.”
He shook hands with her as if they were old friends. As if her right hand was perfectly normal, perfectly worth shaking. Thorn. The customer’s surname suited him, a simple and crisp sound to match his appearance.
“Rowena Fairweather,” she replied. His hand felt good on hers, warm and weighty and broad. But she pulled back after a moment, for she wasn’t in the profession of groping strange men’s hands. She was in the profession of repairing instruments.
A realization struck her. “Notes! Hidden notes! That’s what happened to—well, I’d better not say whose violin, but a certain customer of mine. The sound post has been knocked out of position four times this past week. She said it was due to vigorous playing—”
Simon Thorn choked.
“—but I’d wager she was fumbling for a note.”
“You could be right. At least you got to collect four fees for your pains.”
“And at a higher rate than usual for providing emergency service.” Rowena grinned. “Do you want to read your note?”
“Yes, all right. You’ve earned the right to have your curiosity satisfied, Miss Luthier Who Can Fix Anything.” He unfolded the paper and read out, “‘Mr. Amorous—you cannot be ruined except by your own folly, and what an entertaining spectacle that is!’”
His brow creased. “That’s not even my name. What is this rubbish? Is it a threat?”
“Mr. Thorn,” Rowena tried out the name delicately. “Someone is flirting with you. That text comes from How to Ruin a Duke. May I?”
She extended a hand—her right, boldly—and took hold of the paper. “ ‘Have many pleasures.’ ‘Essential qualities.’ ‘Cards and curricles.’ Yes, those are from How to Ruin a Duke too. It’s full of alliteration. ‘Meet me at…’ Ahem.” She thrust the paper back at Mr. Thorn, her cheeks growing hot. “If that last bit is from the book, I, ah, haven’t got to that part yet.”
“Clearly, I should read it. It must be a most intriguing book.” With a sigh, he crumpled the note. “So, someone wants to foster a flirtation with me, but without putting any thought into it.”
“Now you’re being alliterative too. Maybe you wrote this note to yourself.”
He scoffed, but before he could reply, a whisper of movement at the curtain had Rowena turning away. It was no person, but a spiny little mammal wandering in from the workroom.
Thorn craned his neck