Page 53 of Rescuing Lord Inglewood

Her words came out in an almost-whisper. “Oh? The concert halls then?” Esther had made a game of likening whatever simple thing they did together to the grandest of affairs in London. Given her imaginative and creative nature, it was quite natural and he fell happily into her world of amusement.

“Indeed. I thought I might exhibit myself.” He had the satisfaction of watching the surprise appear on her face. “I play the pianoforte, you know,” he said. “I thought you must, given that I was forced to practice even during your visits.”

“I vaguely recall… You did not let Isaac listen. That was when he would come to find me, or the others.” Esther’s expression brightened, her curiosity sparked. “Why ever would your grandmother insist on such a pastime for a young earl? And why have you not played for me before now?”

“I am terribly out of practice,” he admitted. “I haven’t played since Parliament convened.” He offered her his arm, preparing to lead her back up the stairs to the music room. “And if you will swear to keep a secret, I will tell you why it was important that I played the pianoforte.”

On the landing, Esther removed her hand from his arm to cover her heart. “I solemnly promise never to reveal your secrets, Silas.” Though the words were spoken with amusement, she meant what she said.

“Very well.” Silas made a show of looking behind them in the hall, then down the staircase. “You see, my dear, I actually enjoy playing.”

Esther made a show of covering a gasp. “No!”

“Alas, it is true. I insisted on lessons, so my grandmother insisted that I attend to them even when my friends were about.” He felt the heat rising up the back of his neck. “I am not a musical genius, you must understand. I enjoy the challenge of learning a new piece, of playing it over and over until I feel I understand it. So, if you can stand an amateur performance, I would like to play for you.”

Her dainty hand reached for his, their fingers twining together in a way that had become natural only a few days past. “I cannot think of anything I would enjoy more.”

His heart thrummed happily and his blush receded. “Perhaps after, you will paint for me?” he asked, somewhat hopefully. Though they did not spend every moment in each other’s company, he knew well enough she had not returned to her painting or drawing. Not yet. Something about the practice may have given her greater pain than comfort.

“Perhaps.” Esther lowered her gaze to their entwined fingers. “I cannot say I have wished to paint of late. But—” She stopped speaking, raising her head to look toward the doorway with a frown. “Is that a carriage?”

Silas gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “Probably more neighbors. If you like, you can escape now and I will do my best to join you in the music room shortly.” They had received many calls from neighbors of both the kind and the curious varieties. It was to be expected, and many of their visitors had offered sincere sympathies. Most had experienced their own losses of loved ones.

“I will not leave you entirely.” Esther took a step back. “I will wait right here. If it is a guest, I will come straight away down and stand by you. I believe that is my rightful place as countess.” She lifted her chin imperiously, causing him to chuckle.

He stooped just enough to kiss her cheek at the same moment someone knocked upon the door. Then he sighed and started down the stairs, hoping whoever it was had no intention of staying above a quarter of an hour.

The butler opened the door, as proper as ever, but after that moment nothing made sense.

Old Bailey fell back a step, a curse that sounded more like an exclamation escaping him before he stumbled back further. Silas rushed forward. Had the old man suffered a stroke?

Someone pushed the door open all the way before stepping inside. Silas froze.

The stranger wore Isaac’s face.

But that could not be.

Isaac had died. Been killed in France.

The man stood as tall as Isaac, wearing a military uniform similar to what Isaac had worn before leaving. And he had Isaac’s brown hair and crooked smile. However, the man’s appearance was more haggard, his cheeks almost gaunt.

“Bailey,” the man said. “Are you all right?”

A ghost. That was the only explanation for how the being before him could sound exactly like his old friend.

“Isaac,” Silas said, the name tearing from his throat almost painfully. “You are alive?”

The familiar brown eyes, similar in hue and shape to Esther’s, flickered to Silas. A wide grin spread across the man’s face. “Alive? Of course I’m alive. Just barely, though.”

A sound half shriek and half sob startled Silas enough that he turned away from his friend the ghost. Esther came running down the steps, nearly taking a tumble in her hurry before she remembered to lift her skirts out of the way.

“Isaac! It cannot be—” She flung herself across the entryway, her arms going around her brother’s neck while she eagerly took in his face. “It is you. But how? Oh, Isaac.” And then she was sobbing into his chest, as hard and as violently as she had into Silas’s arms when he brought her the news of her brother’s death.

The presumed dead man had the audacity to appear bewildered as he lifted one arm to loop around his sister’s waist, looking over her head to Silas with a question in his eyes.

“You were reported killed at Toulouse,” Silas said somewhat weakly. “First by letter, then in the lists.”

Isaac’s face went pale beneath the tan he had doubtless earned upon the battlefields of Europe. “Killed? I was in a bad way for a time. And Toulouse. That was ages ago. All this time, you have been mourning me?” He stepped back as much as Esther would let him, her tears subsiding into sniffles.