Alec Mackenzie's Art of Seduction (Mackenzies & McBrides #9)(33)
“Never said I wanted you to do it again.”
Celia laughed softly, a sound that wound through Alec and loosened him. He was a fool—she was his enemy’s daughter. But Alec for the first time in nearly a year felt a thread of happiness work its way into his heart.
Lady Flora appeared after the hour was over to announce that Mr. Finn’s next pupil had arrived. Alec had no other pupils, of course—Lady Flora fabricated their existence.
She caught Alec and Celia bent over the camera obscura under the drape, laughing like children as Celia very competently outlined the scene. Alec hadn’t exaggerated when he’d said Celia had talent, more than her parents or Lady Flora understood.
Lady Flora hemmed loudly, and Celia popped out, her face red, but her eyes starry.
Not until Celia was safely away, Alec watching her sedan chair being carried around the square, did Lady Flora berate him.
“You are taking your time,” she said, joining him at the window. “How much have you learned from her?”
Lady Flora’s thick perfume was a sharp contrast to Celia’s clean scent. “Nothing,” Alec had to answer. “Whatever her father knows, he’s not let it slip to his daughter.”
Lady Flora let out an impatient sigh. “You are to make her pry it from him. At least you have gained her trust.”
“Somewhat.” Alec closed the camera obscura—he’d removed the drawing and placed it into Celia’s portfolio before she went—and folded the drape. “She feels sorry for me, anyway.”
“The duke has expressed a wish to meet you, the duchess says.” Lady Flora folded her arms as Alec watched Celia descend from the chair on the other side of the square, gathering her blue and yellow skirts as she sped across the few feet of pavement into her father’s house. “To quiz you about conditions in Ireland. That would be a disaster.”
“Aye.” The Duke of Crenshaw would take one look at Alec and know exactly what he was, maybe even who he was. “I agree, we must prevent such a thing. I’ll have to be ill or exhausted if he decides to call.”
“I will keep the duke at bay,” Lady Flora said with confidence. No doubt she would. Even the powerful Duke of Crenshaw quaked in his boots when Lady Flora gave orders. “Mrs. Reynolds has much to tell you. I asked her to wait until Celia’s lesson was done.”
Alec nodded, curious to learn where Mrs. Reynolds had been and what news she might have. He watched until Celia had gone inside, a footman closing the door, before he turned and followed Lady Flora from the room.
Lady Flora took him to her private sitting room, which held more treasures than a king’s strongroom. A painting by Rembrandt van Rijn held pride of place, a portrait of his model, Hendrickje, with her shift hiked high as she waded through a stream. On the opposite wall was a painting of Lady Flora as a younger woman, stiff-backed, haughty, and impossibly beautiful. She’d been the most sought-after debutante in London.
The room wasn’t crowded but tastefully laid out with a sofa upholstered in silk damask, matching chairs gathered with it so Lady Flora could entertain an intimate group. A clavier stood near the window, positioned so its player could use the light to see the music. A gilded clock stood on the mantel, gently ticking away time.
Mrs. Reynolds was playing the clavier as they entered, the music floating down the hall to embrace them before the footman opened the door—Lady Flora rarely touched a door handle herself.
The piece Mrs. Reynolds played was lively and complicated, executed with such skill that Alec paused to enjoy it. He dimly remembered music at Kilmorgan Castle when their mother had been alive, in the very brief period he’d known her. Imprinted on his mind was a scene in which his mother played a harpsichord, serene and lost in the music, while his father watched, lost in her. Alec’s father had loved his wife desperately, and had never quite recovered from her death.
The juxtaposition of that memory with Mrs. Reynolds, dark-haired, handsome, her fingers flying on the keyboard, had Alec torn between two worlds.
Lady Flora settled herself on the sofa, stretching one arm across its back as she listened to Mrs. Reynolds. Alec caught his breath as he whirled back to the present—he was in smoky London, hemmed in, relying on a duplicitous Englishwoman for help, carefree boyhood gone.
Lady Flora watched her companion with an expression similar to what Alec’s father had worn while watching his wife. Her face was softened, transformed, the woman of ice becoming a human being for that moment.
Mrs. Reynolds continued to play, her eyes on the music. The beauty of the piece caught at Alec’s heart, the serenity of it like a smile. He saw not Mrs. Reynolds as he listened, but Celia, her eyes sparkling as she beheld the camera obscura, her laughter as they struggled with the drape, the flare of desire when Alec kissed her, her steadiness when she held him.
His heart gave a painful beat. The piece wound to a close, ending on a firm chord. Mrs. Reynolds gracefully lifted her hands from the keyboard and rose from the stool.
“Lovely, my dear,” Lady Flora said. “Your sojourn in Vienna last year was not wasted. Come and sit with us, and tell us all.”
Alec went to Mrs. Reynolds and offered his arm to escort her the ten feet from clavier to sofa. Mrs. Reynolds thanked him and sat down, settling her skirts, which came to rest a half inch from Lady Flora’s.
Alec folded himself into a chair, resting his hands on his knees, trying to be patient while Mrs. Reynolds thanked Lady Flora for her generosity, and Lady Flora again praised her performance.