Midnight Angel (Stokehurst #1)(14)

“I've let my mouth run away with me, haven't I? It hardly sets a good example for the others, to stand here with my tongue wagging.”

There was an ache in Tasia's throat. It hardly seemed possible that the man Mrs. Knaggs had just described was the same cool, self-possessed aristocrat she had ridden with in the carriage yesterday. “Thank you for telling me about him,” she managed to say. “Emma is fortunate to have a father who loves her so much.”

“I would say so.” Mrs. Knaggs stared at her curiously. “Miss Billings, if truth be known, you are not at all the kind of governess I expected His Lordship to hire. You're not from England, are you?”

“No, ma'am.”

“You're already the subject of speculation around here. No one at Southgate Hall has any secrets worth telling—and it's clear you have a great many.”

Not knowing how to reply, Tasia shrugged and smiled.

“Mrs. Plunkett is right,” the housekeeper mused. “She says there is something about you that invites people to talk. Maybe it's just that you're so quiet.”

“It's not intentional, ma'am. I take after my father's side of the family. They're all quiet, and they tend to brood. My mother is very talkative and charming. I always wished to be more like her.”

“You do well enough,” Mrs. Knaggs said with a smile. “I must be off now. Today is washday. There's no end of scrubbing, starching, and ironing to be done. Perhaps you would like to occupy yourself in the library or music room until Emma is ready.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

They parted company, and Tasia wandered through the mansion, searching for the music room. Her tour with Emma last night had been so brief, and she had been so tired, that she remembered nothing except the kitchen.

Purely by chance she stumbled onto the music room. It was circular in shape, fitted with curving mullioned windows. The pale blue walls, stenciled with gold fleurs-de-lis, rose to a ceiling painted with cherubs playing musical instruments. Seating herself at the shining piano, Tasia lifted the cover and tried a few chords. As she expected, the instrument was perfectly tuned.

Lightly her hands wandered over the keys, searching for something that would suit her mood. Like all St. Petersburg society, her family had a passion for everything French, especially music. She began to play a sprightly waltz. After a few bars, she stopped as another melody came into her mind, gently beckoning. She was thinking of a Chopin waltz, a haunting piece that seemed to ripple from the heart of the piano. Although she hadn't played it for a long time, she still remembered it fairly well. Closing her eyes, she went slowly at first, gaining confidence as the music overtook her, building in lush strains.

All at once something prompted her to open her eyes. The music stopped abruptly, locked inside her frozen hands.

Lord Stokehurst stood only a few yards away. There was a strange look on his face, as if he'd received a terrible shock.

“Why are you playing that?” he barked.

In her alarm, Tasia could barely find her voice. “I'm sorry if I've displeased you.” Hastily she stood up and skirted around the bench, keeping it between them. “I won't touch the piano again. I only meant to practice a little—”

“Why that music?”

“Sir?” she asked in confusion. He was upset by the piece she had been playing. It must have some special significance to him. Suddenly she understood. The frantic pace of her heart began to ease. “Oh,” she said softly. “It was her favorite, wasn't it?” She didn't mention Lady Stokehurst's name. There was no need. Stokehurst paled a few shades beneath his tan, and she knew she was right.

The blue eyes flashed dangerously. “Who told you?”

“No one.”

“Then it was just a coincidence?” he sneered. “You just happened to sit there and play the one piece that—” He bit off the rest of the sentence. His cheek muscles flexed as he clenched his teeth. The force of his anger, held in such tenuous check, nearly caused her to back away.

“I don't know why I chose that one,” she blurted out. “I…I just felt it.”

“Felt it?”

“I-in the piano.”

Silence. Stokehurst seemed to be torn between fury and amazement as he stared at her. Tasia wanted to take the words back, or explain more, anything to ease the crushing stillness. But she was paralyzed, knowing that whatever she did or said would only make things worse.

Finally Stokehurst turned and walked away with a muffled curse.

“I'm sorry,” Tasia whispered. She continued to stare at the doorway, realizing the scene had not gone unobserved. In his fury, Stokehurst hadn't noticed that his daughter had hidden herself just outside the door. One of Emma's eyes was visible as she peeked around the edge of the frame.

“Emma,” Tasia murmured. The girl vanished, as silently as a cat.

Slowly Tasia eased herself back onto the piano seat. She thought of Stokehurst's face when she had been playing the waltz. He had watched her with a sort of agonized fascination. What memories had been stirred by the music? She didn't think many people had ever seen him that way. The marquess seemed like a man who prized his self-control. Perhaps he had convinced himself and everyone else that he had gone on with his life, but inside he was still grieving.