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She didn’t know what this meant. All she knew was that she’d done this for herself.
Because she felt powerful. And free.
And more than slightly wicked.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
When Viola came downstairs the next morning after a few fitful hours of sleep in her bed at the dower house, she went directly to the music conservatory. It looked as though a cyclone had hit. Staff paper was strewn across the carpets, fixed to the walls with nails, and covered every other surface. Her father sat at the pianoforte, working out a melody.
His hair stood on end and his face was ashen, but he looked happy.
“Oh, Miss Viola.” Withers wiped a tear from his eye, meeting her at the door. “It’s truly miraculous. It’s something about this house, I think. I haven’t seen him like this since the old days, in Paris, when the music flowed from him in waves. He’s so close now. Only a few more hours. He’s played some parts of it for me and I can imagine the rest. It’s going to be magnificent.”
“Has he been eating?”
“Voraciously.”
“He hasn’t been asking for me? I’ve been so preoccupied.”
“Don’t worry about a thing. He said something funny the other day, about how you wereoff courting the duke, or cavorting with the duke, or something like that. I’m sure I misunderstood him.” Withers glanced at her sharply. “Correct?”
“Of course. I’ve been preparing the young ladies for the musicale.”
And cavorting with the duke.
“History is being made here in this house, Miss Beaton. And I will be here to witness it.”
A knock sounded on the door and West appeared, looking just as disheveled and sleep deprived as she felt. “Viola, I must speak with you.”
“You honor us, Your Grace.” Withers bowed. “Should I order some refreshment?”
“What is it, Your Grace?” Viola remembered to use his title at the last moment.
His eyes were shadowed and his face grim. “It wasn’t Blanche we should have been worrying about,” he said urgently. “It was Belinda.”
“What do you mean?”
“Please, just come with me. I’ll explain everything on the way. You’ll want a warm cloak and gloves. We’re taking my curricle. I have a coach following behind.”
Viola collected her things and rushed out of the house. West helped her into the curricle and spurred his matched set of bay horses to motion.
“What’s all this about?” Viola asked. “Where are we going? West, you’re scaring me.”
He urged the horses onward, swerving to avoid a collision. “Damn these farm carts. We must go faster!”
“West.” Viola tugged at his sleeve. “The poorhorses are going as fast as they can in this crush. Slow down a little and tell me what’s happened.”
“Laxton’s abducted Belinda. Only she thinks she’s eloped with him and they’re to be married.”
“No,” Viola gasped. “It can’t be true.”
“I’ll say this for Belinda, she’s a good actress. She was quite her normal self this morning, eating more than one helping of toast, expounding upon the new trimmings she wished to purchase for a new bonnet. No one had any idea what she was planning. She left a note behind. It’s only luck that we found it so soon after she left. She said she was going shopping, and she took a maid with her, and I thought nothing of it. She goes shopping as often as possible. Betsy found the note a mere half hour after she’d left.”
“What did it say?”
“She thinks Laxton is in love with her. She went with him willingly thinking they were eloping. Poor deluded Belinda. My money’s on Laxton conveying her to the nearest coaching inn outside London and no farther than that.”
“He won’t marry her. She’ll be ruined.” Viola’s heart lurched. “They’ll all be ruined. Oh my God, West. This is terrible.” If the young ladies were ruined there was nothing Viola could do to save their reputations. “We must go faster!”
