Whittlesby.
Bayard bowed to the ladies and would have hastened after his sister, but Lady Whittlesby rose and commanded him, “Dommick, it did not occur to me you would be here.”
“I did not realize you would be here either, Lady Whittlesby.” Normally the dowager avoided the dances at the assembly rooms.
Lady Whittlesby sighed and nodded toward a lively young girl, no more than seventeen, who was dancing. “My youngest granddaughter arrived in Bath yesterday.”
At any other time, Bayard would have been pleased to speak to the dowager, who was a celebrated hostess in London. He had hoped to find favour with Lady Whittlesby for her famed annual concert this upcoming season. But he glanced at the open doors to the ballroom, wondering what was keeping Clare so long.
“Come, walk with me,” Lady Whittlesby said.
He had no choice, without being rude. He gave the older woman his arm, and she tugged him toward a far corner of the ballroom.
“I intended to call upon you tomorrow morning to ask for your help,” Lady Whittlesby said.
“I am at your service, my lady,” Bayard said automatically, sneaking a glance at the ballroom doors again.
“I am in need of your expertise in the violin. My friend, Mrs. Garen, approached me today with a curious predicament. Apparently someone has tried to steal her niece’s violin. I would like you to assist the gel to discover what is so particular about this instrument.”
Why would a genteel woman own a violin? Surely she did not play it? Perhaps, like Lady Whittlesby’s violin, it belonged to a male family member.
“I will sweeten the deal,” Lady Whittlesby continued. “If you succeed in discovering the provenance of this violin, I will offer toyou—and to your three friends in your Quartet—the foremost place in my annual concert this spring.”
Bayard’s step faltered for an instant, but he recovered quickly. To be featured in Lady Whittlesby’s concert would guarantee his social success and the destruction of those damaging rumours spread earlier this year. He desired it not for himself but for his mother and sister—he could not allow his reputation to harm them when they went to London.
Lady Whittlesby smiled. “I assure you I am most sincere. Your sister is a musician as well, is she not? If her performance meets with my approval, she will be featured in my concert. I flatter myself that her presence on my concert bill will bring her to the favourable notice of all the best hostesses in town.”
Clare’s performance in Lady Whittlesby’s concert would ensure his sister’s season would be brilliant—she and his mother would be courted and feted by everyone of most importance in the town.
“I thank you with all my heart,” he said to her. “May I ask what prompts your generosity?”
“I am not generous,” she said with a smirk. “I know the Quartet equals any professional musicians I have heard. And I have heard many, I assure you.”
“Thank you, my lady.” It wasn’t the answer he had been hoping for.
“Mrs. Garen is also a good friend, and her niece a particular favourite of mine.”
What was Lady Whittlesby playing at? She had no “particular favourites” in anyone as far as he knew. She loved to gossip and to stir up trouble, and fear of her was the reason why so many of the ladies in town were respectful of her—in public, at least.
“And if I do not discover the provenance of this violin?”
Lady Whittlesby’s smile deepened. “Surely there is no doubt? I have utmost confidence in you.”
“Enough for you to wager among your friends?”
She laughed outright. “You have caught me out. Yes, I love a good wager, and what is the fun of doing a good deed if I cannot have a friendly wager out of it with my friends? If you do not succeed, why, I will offer my concert to Mr. Kinnier instead of the Quartet.”
Bayard had almost been expecting it. “He is a fine musician,” Bayard said in a neutral voice.
Lady Whittlesby
Bayard bowed to the ladies and would have hastened after his sister, but Lady Whittlesby rose and commanded him, “Dommick, it did not occur to me you would be here.”
“I did not realize you would be here either, Lady Whittlesby.” Normally the dowager avoided the dances at the assembly rooms.
Lady Whittlesby sighed and nodded toward a lively young girl, no more than seventeen, who was dancing. “My youngest granddaughter arrived in Bath yesterday.”
At any other time, Bayard would have been pleased to speak to the dowager, who was a celebrated hostess in London. He had hoped to find favour with Lady Whittlesby for her famed annual concert this upcoming season. But he glanced at the open doors to the ballroom, wondering what was keeping Clare so long.
“Come, walk with me,” Lady Whittlesby said.
He had no choice, without being rude. He gave the older woman his arm, and she tugged him toward a far corner of the ballroom.
“I intended to call upon you tomorrow morning to ask for your help,” Lady Whittlesby said.
“I am at your service, my lady,” Bayard said automatically, sneaking a glance at the ballroom doors again.
“I am in need of your expertise in the violin. My friend, Mrs. Garen, approached me today with a curious predicament. Apparently someone has tried to steal her niece’s violin. I would like you to assist the gel to discover what is so particular about this instrument.”
Why would a genteel woman own a violin? Surely she did not play it? Perhaps, like Lady Whittlesby’s violin, it belonged to a male family member.
“I will sweeten the deal,” Lady Whittlesby continued. “If you succeed in discovering the provenance of this violin, I will offer toyou—and to your three friends in your Quartet—the foremost place in my annual concert this spring.”
Bayard’s step faltered for an instant, but he recovered quickly. To be featured in Lady Whittlesby’s concert would guarantee his social success and the destruction of those damaging rumours spread earlier this year. He desired it not for himself but for his mother and sister—he could not allow his reputation to harm them when they went to London.
Lady Whittlesby smiled. “I assure you I am most sincere. Your sister is a musician as well, is she not? If her performance meets with my approval, she will be featured in my concert. I flatter myself that her presence on my concert bill will bring her to the favourable notice of all the best hostesses in town.”
Clare’s performance in Lady Whittlesby’s concert would ensure his sister’s season would be brilliant—she and his mother would be courted and feted by everyone of most importance in the town.
“I thank you with all my heart,” he said to her. “May I ask what prompts your generosity?”
“I am not generous,” she said with a smirk. “I know the Quartet equals any professional musicians I have heard. And I have heard many, I assure you.”
“Thank you, my lady.” It wasn’t the answer he had been hoping for.
“Mrs. Garen is also a good friend, and her niece a particular favourite of mine.”
What was Lady Whittlesby playing at? She had no “particular favourites” in anyone as far as he knew. She loved to gossip and to stir up trouble, and fear of her was the reason why so many of the ladies in town were respectful of her—in public, at least.
“And if I do not discover the provenance of this violin?”
Lady Whittlesby’s smile deepened. “Surely there is no doubt? I have utmost confidence in you.”
“Enough for you to wager among your friends?”
She laughed outright. “You have caught me out. Yes, I love a good wager, and what is the fun of doing a good deed if I cannot have a friendly wager out of it with my friends? If you do not succeed, why, I will offer my concert to Mr. Kinnier instead of the Quartet.”
Bayard had almost been expecting it. “He is a fine musician,” Bayard said in a neutral voice.
Lady Whittlesby
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