night, and Mrs. Julian’s correspondence would go with it. Curious about the identity of her English acquaintances, he halted outside the receiving office to study her letters. He had enormous difficulty deciphering the scrawled inscriptions; the locations were easier to guess than the recipients.
To the Right Honorable Earl of Bumfold, the
Jockey Club, Newmarket, Suffolk.
Lord Frederick Beersleep, Vicar of Kimpton, Hertfordshire.
To the Right Honorable Earl of Rustlip, Grosvenor Square, London.
Miss Harriot Mellon, 17 Ruffle Street, London.
Mica Nelly, Esquire, Lizard Street, London.
To His Grace the Duke of Stallbarn, Muckfield Street, London.
An impressive list—discounting the obscure Miss Mellon and a gentleman who appeared to bear the name of a common mineral. He hadn’t imagined that she was acquainted with a duke, a pair of earls, and a vicar who sprang from the highest ranks of the nobility. If any one of these personages was a blood relation of hers, then she was too aristocratic for a Manx baronet. Perhaps she was wealthy in her own right, a target of male fortune hunters.
Recalling his idiocy last night, he muttered a curse.
Even if he sought information from a borrowed Peerage, he doubted he’d find Bumfold and Beersleep and Rustlip and Stallbarn. Sorting through the collection of letters, he damned the person who had failed to teach proper penmanship to Oriana Julian. Here were clues to her background, and possible proof of her identity.
“Dare Corlett!”
Lifting his head, he found Buck Whaley grinning at him.
“What brings you into town? Lechery?”
“Chivalry,” he replied, holding up the letters. “I’m delivering these to the post office for my Glencroft tenant. An English lady.”
“When you’ve finished your errand, we’ll go to the alehouse for a brandy and a smoke.”
Sorely in need of a drink, the stronger the better, Dare accepted the invitation.
Ned Crowe winced when Oriana spread ointment on his bruised and scratched cheek, but he lay still as a statue while she removed and replaced the linen bandage wrapping his broken arm. What agony he endured she could only guess. After she completed the necessary procedure, he thanked her.
“Mainshtyr Dare will come here today, won’t he?”
“I expect so. What does Mainshtyr mean?”
“Master.” Ned sighed. “He won’t let me return to the mine.”
“Do you want to?”
“7iz. But he doesn’t want me there,” the young man replied with sad resignation.
“You suffered a severe injury, Ned, and need time to recover.”
“I’m the one who slipped and fell, yet Mainshtyr accuses himself of being careless,” Ned said, shaking his head. “He believes he broke his promise to Mummig.”
“What sort of work did you do, before you became a miner?”
“I’m a fidleyr, and make the music at weddings and wakes.” The sparkle faded from his brown eyes, and he frowned at his useless limb.
“I’m a musician, too,” she confided. “I play the pianoforte—the harpsichord as well. And the Neapolitan mandoline, a stringed instrument. I enjoy singing.”
“Eh, I’m guessing you’ve got a sweet voice. I wish I might hear it.”
She moved to the foot of his bed. Clasping her hands before her, she drew a deep breath. “Begone, Dull Care” seemed particularly appropriate—for each of them. As she trilled the familiar notes, Ned’s fingers on the counterpane tapped out the tempo, tangible proof that he shared her craving for music.
So began one of the pleasantest hours she’d spent since arriving at Glencroft. She required very little urging to run through her repertoire of simple airs suited to a capella performance. Her voice filled the small room, and she had the satisfaction of an appreciative listener.
“What was that called?” he asked.
” ‘Triumphant Love.’ ”
“People would pay money to hear such singing,” he told her solemnly.
Oriana couldn’t help laughing, for she earned over a thousand
To the Right Honorable Earl of Bumfold, the
Jockey Club, Newmarket, Suffolk.
Lord Frederick Beersleep, Vicar of Kimpton, Hertfordshire.
To the Right Honorable Earl of Rustlip, Grosvenor Square, London.
Miss Harriot Mellon, 17 Ruffle Street, London.
Mica Nelly, Esquire, Lizard Street, London.
To His Grace the Duke of Stallbarn, Muckfield Street, London.
An impressive list—discounting the obscure Miss Mellon and a gentleman who appeared to bear the name of a common mineral. He hadn’t imagined that she was acquainted with a duke, a pair of earls, and a vicar who sprang from the highest ranks of the nobility. If any one of these personages was a blood relation of hers, then she was too aristocratic for a Manx baronet. Perhaps she was wealthy in her own right, a target of male fortune hunters.
Recalling his idiocy last night, he muttered a curse.
Even if he sought information from a borrowed Peerage, he doubted he’d find Bumfold and Beersleep and Rustlip and Stallbarn. Sorting through the collection of letters, he damned the person who had failed to teach proper penmanship to Oriana Julian. Here were clues to her background, and possible proof of her identity.
“Dare Corlett!”
Lifting his head, he found Buck Whaley grinning at him.
“What brings you into town? Lechery?”
“Chivalry,” he replied, holding up the letters. “I’m delivering these to the post office for my Glencroft tenant. An English lady.”
“When you’ve finished your errand, we’ll go to the alehouse for a brandy and a smoke.”
Sorely in need of a drink, the stronger the better, Dare accepted the invitation.
Ned Crowe winced when Oriana spread ointment on his bruised and scratched cheek, but he lay still as a statue while she removed and replaced the linen bandage wrapping his broken arm. What agony he endured she could only guess. After she completed the necessary procedure, he thanked her.
“Mainshtyr Dare will come here today, won’t he?”
“I expect so. What does Mainshtyr mean?”
“Master.” Ned sighed. “He won’t let me return to the mine.”
“Do you want to?”
“7iz. But he doesn’t want me there,” the young man replied with sad resignation.
“You suffered a severe injury, Ned, and need time to recover.”
“I’m the one who slipped and fell, yet Mainshtyr accuses himself of being careless,” Ned said, shaking his head. “He believes he broke his promise to Mummig.”
“What sort of work did you do, before you became a miner?”
“I’m a fidleyr, and make the music at weddings and wakes.” The sparkle faded from his brown eyes, and he frowned at his useless limb.
“I’m a musician, too,” she confided. “I play the pianoforte—the harpsichord as well. And the Neapolitan mandoline, a stringed instrument. I enjoy singing.”
“Eh, I’m guessing you’ve got a sweet voice. I wish I might hear it.”
She moved to the foot of his bed. Clasping her hands before her, she drew a deep breath. “Begone, Dull Care” seemed particularly appropriate—for each of them. As she trilled the familiar notes, Ned’s fingers on the counterpane tapped out the tempo, tangible proof that he shared her craving for music.
So began one of the pleasantest hours she’d spent since arriving at Glencroft. She required very little urging to run through her repertoire of simple airs suited to a capella performance. Her voice filled the small room, and she had the satisfaction of an appreciative listener.
“What was that called?” he asked.
” ‘Triumphant Love.’ ”
“People would pay money to hear such singing,” he told her solemnly.
Oriana couldn’t help laughing, for she earned over a thousand
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