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Rhys lurkedat his ajar study door as the guests filed upstairs, either yawning, laughing or chatting of the evening’s events.
Tapping his booted foot, he tarried until…
“Thank you so much, Monsieur Turenne,” Cousin Elen gushed. “I am most grateful for the encores and your…discourse with the ladies on vocal method. They so appreciated those insights into the flexibility of your tongue.”
“All my pleasure, Lady Elen. And should you desire for…anything at all, I can be found at the inn until Saturday where I would be at your complete and utter service. Third room on the left.”
“Er… Thank you, I–”
“Could I have a brief word, Monsieur Turenne?” called Rhys, stalking into the hallway. “As regards another performance soon?”
“Of course, Your Grace.” He bowed low. Though not as low as to Miss Beaujeu.
“Do come this way…” And Rhys ushered him into his study. “Please sit.”
The tenor made himself comfortable, accepting a brandy and smoothing his moustache. “A most enjoyable evening. I could manage another night but–”
Rhys waved a hand. “Who is she?”
“Hein?”
“Miss Beaujeu. You thought to know her?”
“Ah.” His gaze slid away. “My mistake, Your Grace. Perhaps I should leave after all.”
Monsieur Turenne made to rise; Rhys prodded him back to his seat and delved into a drawer to extract a velvet purse.
He counted out five guineas.
No, he wasn’t above bribery.
“Who is she?” Rhys had sensed Monsieur Turenne would merely need a nudge, his eyes following the coins like a cobra did a mouse. “A past paramour of yours, perhaps?”
“How dare you! Mademoiselle de Beaujeu is a lady. I knew her mama.”
Rhys smiled, circled his desk, perched upon it and steepled his fingers. “So why don’t you tell me all, Monsieur Turenne?”
