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Before today’s excursion to the steepest street in the isles, he’d asked Mrs Pugh to seek surreptitiously if any of the servants could be responsible for the destruction of Miss Beaujeu’s chamber or if not, to discover deftly if they’d witnessed any suspicious activities from the assembled houseguests.
But whilst dressing for dinner, Rhys’ valet had informed him that Mrs Pugh and Morgan had instead lined the servants up in the kitchen and threatened them with a fate worse than Mrs Pugh’s broomstick if they didn’t reveal all they knew.
Nobody knew anything. And Rhys believed them.
He was keen to implement a similar procedure with the guests but there was only so far a nobleman, even a ducal one, could go within the precepts of accepted society decorum. Besides, if the culprit was as brass faced as to wreck a room in broad daylight, Mrs Pugh’s broomstick would perhaps hold no fear.
Instead he would have to discover the culprit by stealth rather than bluster. But for now, in addition to Madog, another footman would patrol the schoolroom wing by day.
He’d missed Isabelle on their excursion.
Elen’s schedule of events had not required that Mari and her governess huff and puff up the steepest street today, but he’d been pleased to see her take her customary seat at the dinner table tonight.
If Hugh did come to an unfortunate demise with a well-aimed violin bow before the conclusion of this musical delight, Rhys would have to thank him first for his attentive care of Isabelle. For he, Mari and Lady Gwen had occupied her with conversation, anecdotes and copious wine, not giving her time to dwell on the malicious act, her sore foot or her father’s lost cologne.
Smiles had curved her lips, then laughter, and his soul had eased.
Isabelle stretchedher fingers and arranged herself at the magnificent William Rolfe pianoforte. Elegant rosewood crossbanding edged the mahogany case, the maker’s name above the keys within an intricate cartouche encircled by pink roses.
The schoolroom pianoforte was functional and sturdy, as befitting a learning pupil who bashed the keys as though pounding bread, but this looked to be a different instrument altogether – pure in sound, she could be sure, but hence with a penchant for drawing attention to erroneous notes.
Lady Elen had brought the sheet music up to the schoolroom earlier that morn, and both Isabelle and Mari had taken turns in practising the tunes. She’d expected to be accompanying an Irish air by Thomas Moore or a ballad from Charles Dibdin but none of the pieces had been familiar to her at all.
From beneath her lashes, she surveyed the guests and wondered if any amongst them might be culpable for the wreckage of her chamber. If so, she would not give them the satisfaction of seeing her upset, so she pulled her shoulders back and arranged her sheet music.
Lady Bronwen tapped her foot and coughed, which Isabelle took to be her cue so began to play the accompaniment to a song entitled Polwart on the Green.
A merry Scottish tune, the ladies sang it prettily, pronouncing the brogue with relish, acting out the lines and embellishing with various hand actions.
As they warbled “caulder than the snaw”, they wildly shivered, bosoms jiggling. Then they cuddled together, cheeks and more pressed to one another like ardent lovers.
Gentlemen shuffled in their seats.
The young ladies made for a comely sight, and Isabelle peered aside to the duke. Was he likewise enthralled?
But the Duke of Aberdare was staring unswervingly at herself, onyx eyes intense, lips curving, and Isabelle’s breath hitched, her forefinger clattering an F sharp rather than E flat.
No doubt taught from the cradle, Lady Bronwen managed to seamlessly continue with her performance, glare with venom and smile all at the same time.
Isabelle resolved to concentrate on the music.
It was one of those songs.
Not that she disapproved of the more risqué, but she could not be certain that all the young ladies realised exactly what they were singing about. For of late, there was a prevalence of songs that bordered on the indecent – often proposing lurid invites – that innocent girls were permitted to sing because they were merely the instruments for the song and not actually singing it.
And if you understood that, you were a better woman than Isabelle.
With lashes fluttering, Miss Pritchard warbled solo…
“At Polwart on the green,
Amang the new-mawn hay,
With sangs and dancing keen
We’ll pass the heartsome day.”
Isabelle frowned: hay was never a good omen.
