Whispered Music (London Fairy Tales #2)(18)

“And what about Miss Ward?” Dominique turned to glare at his friend.

“Lost.” Hunter shrugged.

“Lost?” Dominique crossed his arms and examined Hunter. Though he was a fantastic spy and even better master of deception, it seemed he was out of sorts when his actors forgot their lines.

Hunter nodded gravely and lifted hands as if to say, whatever is a fellow supposed to do?

“And the footman, I imagine something dreadful happened to him as well?” Dominique inquired, searching for any of the staff, though he knew it was in vain. The castle had been without a full staff for a great while. It would be up to Isabelle to hire whom she saw fit. Until then, they would have to make due.

“I regret to inform you, highness—” Brinks put both feet firmly to the floor, then remembered his ailment and began limping with the wrong foot, “That the footmen are busy helping the stable hands with the horses. We are, after all, without much help.”

Dominique let out a hearty sigh. “Indeed. Well, where is the girl?”

“Your wife,” Hunter began, putting unnecessary emphasis on the word wife, “is at this moment getting the sordid tale of the origin of the castle."

Letting out a curse, Dominique hurried in the general direction of his retired butler whom he hadn’t the heart to let go when the man grew too old to run the household. Instead he stayed in his employ and often told those who were brave enough to visit, the different stories the walls of the castle held. There was only one place he could be, in the kitchens. For he was convinced that nobody should ever be without a warm meal and drink. If Dominique had any luck at all, he would be able to steal away his wife before she became completely foxed.

Cuppins Port was also a strong believer in spiking one’s tea, something Dominique was convinced Isabelle had never been privy to until this disastrous day.

His quick footsteps took him to the kitchen. Laughter soon echoed off the walls.

“And then, the young master ran through the house with nothing but the skin God gave him, he was such a wild boy that one.” Cuppins laughed. “How’s your tea, my lady?”

Within fifteen minutes of their arrival, the elderly man had not only regaled Isabelle with embarrassing stories, but attempted to get her foxed. If Cuppins were thirty years younger, Dominique would have his head. But as it was, he didn’t have the heart to throttle an eighty-year-old man.

Just as he was ready to step into the kitchen, his eyes beheld something he had never seen before in his existence. Rather than be scared off, put off, upset, or even disgusted that the retired butler would take a well-bred lady into the kitchens and attempt to pour ungodly amounts of brandy in her tea, Isabelle reached out her hand and laid it across the knotty one of Cuppins.

The old man’s grin was enough to send dangerous constrictions to Dominique’s heart; he watched, unable to look away as Isabelle squeezed the man's hand and said, “Tell me more.”

She was mad! But she was also the most compassionate woman to say such a thing, for Cuppins lived for his stories; they were all he had after his strength was taken from him.

So, Dominique, in a moment of sheer insanity, leaned against the wall and listened for the next few minutes as Cuppins told another story. When Dominique thought it was acceptable to interrupt, he walked into the dimly lit kitchen.

The bright smile that occupied his young wife’s face darkened. Suddenly aware that it was his old, retired butler who had brought such joy to her face, and not himself, Dominique wanted to curse.

“Pardon us, Cuppins, but I thought the lady might wish to see the rest of the castle, now that you’ve scared her out of her wits, I’m sure, with your stories.”

Cuppins let out a hearty laugh. “Oh, we were just having ourselves a bit of fun, weren’t we, milady?”

Isabelle giggled and kissed the man on his cheek. She kissed him! Dominique’s jaw dropped. Why was it that he had to steal kisses and she freely gave them to a man more than twice his age! And a servant no less! It just proved the point that women were fickle in their feelings, something he needed to be reminded of after spending a lust-filled ride in the carriage with her.

“Until tomorrow, Cuppins,” she whispered and then turned her beautiful eyes on Dominique. With a nervous throat clearing, Dominique wasn’t sure if he should grasp her hand, offer his arm, or merely snap orders.

Unfortunately he chose the latter. “Hurry along, Isabelle. This way.”





Chapter Nine


At times I wish I had no memory, for then I wouldn’t have nightmares. I would have peace. But my wish is a double-edged sword, for if I had no memory, how could I remember the notes? The Music? And in the end if I did not remember my scars, the very ones that rip away at my soul—then I would have no excuse to be what I am—The Beast.

—The Diary of Dominique Maksylov



Isabelle could not help that her nostrils flared in annoyance. Nor could she help the irritated flip flop of her stomach when Dominique had first entered the room. To think that the man she wanted to stab with a knife was the same one who evoked such desire in her belly was appalling.

Surely she was mad, for he was nothing more than a animal set to imprison her in the cold, dead walls of the rocks around her. It would be so much easier if it were ugly instead of beautiful. Or if the servants were mere shades of Dominique’s personality. Instead, they were lively, happy even. A trait it seemed Dominique hadn’t acquired in all his years.