The Hellion's Waltz Page 13

  Then Sophie raised her head and pulled Maddie down into the bed with her.

  For a moment they were a tangle of limbs and movement, two bodies tumbling and inseparable. Sophie spun Maddie beneath her, breathing hard. She couldn’t keep the smugness from her voice when she asked, “Is this debauched enough for you, madam?”

  Maddie’s laugh was thready, almost a plea. “Nearly,” she said. “So very nearly.”

  Sophie grinned hungrily and redoubled her efforts. She was going to use every musician’s trick she had to ruin Madeleine Crewe for anybody else, ever again.

  Composers often wrote tempo suggestions between the staves of sheet music, prompts to the performer about how fast or how slow their fingers should fly at every stage. The language of Maddie’s moans and sighs likewise gave Sophie sensuous cues to follow. Andante was a deep kiss, long savored, Maddie’s mouth opening wide as summer roses beneath hers. Accelerando as Sophie’s pulse and her hands sped up, two sets of legs twining together, Sophie’s tongue curling around one delectable nipple. Allegretto, then faster to a driving allegro, as her fingers stoked the heat between Maddie’s wanton thighs. Maddie groaned encouragement and Sophie shifted down to lick—presto—just above where her fingers plunged.

  No music had ever sounded sweeter than the notes of Maddie’s cries as she came beneath Sophie’s mouth.

  Sophie let them both breathe for a patient five minutes before attempting an encore performance.

  Chapter Eleven

  Sophie woke before dawn—because someone was shaking her. She threw off Maddie’s hand and burrowed deeper into the bedclothes.

  She growled a protest when the coverlet was whisked off and cold air hurried in on every side. “Cat will be in the kitchen by now,” Maddie said. “Come down and meet everyone.”

  “In this state?”

  “There’s tea.”

  The promise of hot beverages was enough to tip the scales. She scrambled out of bed and into her clothes.

  Maddie checked the sunshine-yellow silk one final time as Sophie pinned her hair at her neck. “I hope Mr. Samson won’t mind if I have to keep this a while longer.”

  “Why should he mind?”

  Maddie grimaced. “Because if I’m wearing it, he can’t sell it. Anything he brings us from London takes up space that could have belonged to a garment he could sell.”

  “That sounds like quite the sacrifice,” Sophie said, sliding the last pin home against her scalp. “Why is he helping you?”

  “Mr. Giles has been preventing Mr. Samson from purchasing Mr. Obeney’s factory,” Maddie said. “I don’t quite know why—normally the man’s reasons are painfully obvious—but in this instance he appears to be motivated by pure spite.”

  Freshly dressed, they padded down two flights to the kitchen. The stove was putting out great gouts of heat and the smell of bread lured Sophie like manna in the desert.

  Cat—“Don’t call me Catherine and we’ll be friends for life”—was small in stature but her soul seemed to fill the room to the corners. She kept an expert eye on the porridge on the stove while flirting with John and a sleepy Emma. Sophie watched the casually comfortable way they all touched one another—hands brushing elbows, a touch on a waist or shoulder in passing—and found herself shaken by the sweetest sort of envy. What must it be like, to be so confident in being loved?

  Emma perked up with tea and porridge, and before her bowl was empty her waking eyes were looking closely at Sophie’s green dress. “That’s Judith’s work, isn’t it?”

  Sophie stilled, while Maddie’s expert gaze passed over the ribbon rosettes. “I expect so. Most satin ribbons in Carrisford are.”

  “I found this in Miss Narayan’s shop,” Sophie said. “I thought perhaps it came from London.”

  “Plenty of their things do—but there’s also plenty from the folk right here in Carrisford,” Emma said. “Trying to keep step with London fashions. There’s a lot more money around than there used to be.”

  “Not that any of us see much of it,” Cat added.

  John merely grunted.

  Cat quirked her lips at him and topped up his tea. “Pay no attention to him,” she said with a sidelong glance at Sophie. “He rarely gets words out before breakfast is over. Oh, and this came for you yesterday, Maddie.” She handed over a letter, a single sheet folded craftily to prevent it from being casually opened.

  Sophie saw Maddie’s rosy lips go flat. “One of my father’s.” With a few knowing movements of her hands, she managed to get the sharp folds to relax and give up their secrets.

  Sophie sympathized with the paper: Was there anything in the world that could resist Maddie Crewe’s hands?

  Maddie raised an eyebrow. “Actually, it’s my stepmother who’s written.”

  “Is that better?” Sophie asked.

  “Don’t know. I never met the woman.” She skimmed the letter and let out a long-suffering sigh.

  “What’s he done this time?” Emma said with sympathy.

  “It seems he had a brilliant idea about stealing clothes from his neighbors’ washing lines and trying to pawn them practically on the same block. They stopped him with an armful of Mrs. Plumpton’s petticoats and his pockets full of pawnbroker’s duplicates—but he managed to escape arrest. Lord knows when he’ll turn up next.” Her eyes glinted at Sophie’s questioning gaze. “I’m sorry to say not everyone in the family has my talent for criminality.”

  Porridge, Sophie found, was an awful thing to snort up one’s nose in surprise and dismay.

  While she recovered, Maddie finished the letter and set it down, frowning. “His wife is being sent back to Carrisford to apply for relief from the parish here. She asks if we can take her and my sisters in for a time. They don’t know anyone else to ask.”

  Emma glanced at Cat—who glanced at John—who shrugged.

  Emma looked back at Maddie. “Would your stepmother look askance if Cat gave up her room for them and moved in with John and me?”

  “Emma, I don’t mind—” Cat began.

  “But I do,” Emma finished firmly.

  “She’s used to living with my father,” Maddie said, “so I know she’s seen worse things than three people caring for one another. He’s always described her as an absolute nightmare: a scold and a termagant, impossible to please. Then again, I shudder to think what he says about me when I’m not there, so.” She looked up at her friends. “If she makes you uncomfortable, even for a moment, we will find her someplace else to live.” She flattened the letter against the table, though the precise geometry of the creases sprang up again as soon as the pressure of her hand slid away.

  Sophie had always been there for her family—just as they’d always been there for her. She’d always connected that with loving them, as if love and help were synonyms. But now, looking at Maddie, she realized it was possible to help someone you didn’t love—that you might not even like—simply because helping them was the right thing to do. There was a whole new kind of strength there worth admiring.

  Maddie, still frowning lightly, toyed with the letter’s edge. “She says the girls have been offered work at Mr. Prickett’s.”

  “How old are they?” Cat asked.

  “Eleven and thirteen. The older girl has done a stint in a mill before, I think. Their mother will teach them what to expect. She makes bobbin lace.”

  “She can step into our parlor then,” said Emma, trying to lighten the mood. “Between the four of us we can completely outfit any titled lady who happens to come calling in search of clothing.”

  “A countess,” Cat laughed.

  “A duchess!” Emma added.

  “A princess,” Maddie put in wryly. “Which is about as likely.”

  “A princess might come in disguise,” Sophie countered. “All the best ones do, in the fairy stories.”

  Cat looked at her consideringly. “And what do you do, Miss Roseingrave?”

  “Me?” Sophie blinked, as three people’s attention perched on her
shoulders. “My father has a secondhand instrument shop. I work there—tuning instruments, selling music sheets, that sort of thing.”

  “And you teach,” Maddie said, nudging Sophie with a gentle elbow.

  “Oh yes, my one pupil,” Sophie said with a self-deprecating laugh.

  “Two, if I count,” Maddie purred.

  Sophie blushed. “That was a bit of fun.”

  Maddie’s smile widened into pure sensuality. “It certainly was.”

  Emma kicked at her beneath the table. “Don’t embarrass the poor girl, Maddie. I’m sure she takes her work quite seriously.”

  “I do,” Sophie said. “I’ve rather missed it. There’s something about the moment when a student makes a breakthrough—conquers a difficult piece, or remembers last week’s lesson—it’s quite satisfying.”

  “And the pay’s good,” Maddie said.

  “The pay is sometimes good,” Sophie corrected.

  “Enough to support you?” Emma asked.

  “Not yet,” Sophie replied frankly. “I’d need more than one pupil for that—or more demand for my services.”

  “Quite a few piano masters in Carrisford these days,” Maddie said. At Sophie’s narrowed eyes, she shrugged. “I’ve been asking around. There’s Mr. Nelthorpe, Mr. Perrin and his son, Mrs. Halban . . . They’re all doing quite well, from what I understand. Carrisford is hungry for piano teachers at present.”

  Nelthorpe, Perrin, Halban. Sophie repeated those names like a descant as she walked home in the rising light of day. Sunrise suited Carrisford: it added rosy tones to the gray stone and brought out the bright silver traces of last night’s rain. The air was fresh and Sophie’s lungs expanded with it; she breathed out on a long silent sigh. Nelthorpe, Perrin, Halban. Perhaps someone in the Aeolian Club knew them and could introduce her. Other teachers were the best way of finding other students—they would know which families paid on time and which tended to let the bills languish.

  Her mother and father exchanged a knowing glance when Sophie arrived just as they were opening up. Her cheeks heated but she kept her head high and her dignity intact. She hurried off to change clothes and took her usual place in the shop.

  Mrs. Roseingrave made one last note in the account book and kissed her daughter good morning. “So nice to meet your young friend last night,” she said. “She certainly is a pretty one, isn’t she?”

  “She is.” Sophie’s blush became a bonfire. Scrabbling for a change of topic, she looked down at the columns of numbers. “How have we been doing on the profits?”

  “Not bad at all, considering we’re so new. And look.” Mrs. Roseingrave placed one slender finger next to a new column at the end of the row. “I’ve started to track your teaching wages.” The first couple numbers were already penciled in.

  Sophie chewed her lip. “Not very impressive, are they?”

  “Not yet.” When Celia Roseingrave’s eyes glinted, Sophie caught a flash of the ambition and fire that had made her such a celebrated performer.

  Her father moved closer so his wife could see his face as he spoke. “You just need more pupils, Soph—that needs time, same as the shop does.”

  “It needs more than time,” Mrs. Roseingrave countered. “She needs a bit of displaying, too. People will be more ready to hire a teacher if they think she is impressively talented.”

  Mr. Roseingrave chuckled. “You already have an idea, don’t you?”

  “It’s quite simple,” his wife said. “We should put on a concert.”

  “Me?” Sophie was appalled. “Perform?”

  “Why not? You’ve done it before.”

  “And it was a disaster for all of us!”

  Mrs. Roseingrave waved this aside with a flick of one graceful wrist. “That goes on Mr. Verrinder’s account—it had nothing whatsoever to do with your talent or skill.”

  Mr. Roseingrave stroked his side-whiskers thoughtfully. “I like it. We could raise funds for some charitable concern or other.”

  “And improve the shop’s reputation in Carrisford,” Mrs. Roseingrave pointed out.

  Her husband grinned. “Naturally.” He cocked his head at his daughter. “You know a few other musicians in town from that club, don’t you? I remember you mentioning a harpist—and of course Mr. William Frampton might grace us with a piece on his violin. His father might be able to secure some attention from his connections in the court . . .”

  One Roseingrave alone could be stubborn enough for three ordinary people—but when they banded together in favor of something, that stubbornness became truly vast and overpowering. You might as well try to soothe the storm by shouting into the gale.

  If Sophie didn’t put a stop to this, they’d have her on a stage by the end of the week—only to be humiliated when she broke down in tears of embarrassment at her own incapability. It was one thing to play for the elder Mr. Frampton, or to imagine performing before a throng of admiring aristocrats in all their grace and glitter. That was a dream, insubstantial and perfect.

  It was quite another to stand up in front of people who already knew her and attempt to demand their approval. She could already feel the burden of expectation pressing down on her—all those eyes, all those tongues so willing to wag. Even if she played well, the praise would sting: Who would have thought she had it in her, the little sparrow . . .

  Desperate, she threw out a lifeline. “How about this: I will put a placard in the window advertising my services as a teacher. Once I get five pupils, I will think about giving a concert.”

  Her parents mirrored one another’s dubious expressions. “That certainly seems like a slower approach,” her father said.

  “It seems like a waste of time,” her mother said bluntly.

  “It will be a very good placard,” Sophie said.

  Judging by their faces, the inadequacy of this argument was as plain to Mr. and Mrs. Roseingrave as it was to Sophie herself.

  She spent the rest of the morning making the placard: clear black letters, a border of musical notes, some splashes of watercolor to catch the eye. Piano Lessons, it read. Inquire Within. She put it in the front window, trying to ignore how small it looked within the window frame. Rectangles within rectangles: the sign contained within the pane, the pane within the window, the window within the shop, the shop within the street, the street within the town. The letters that had seemed to take so long for her hand to trace were but a minuscule speck in the scope of the wide, wide world.

  As small and insignificant as Sophie herself.

  The shop bell chimed; she sighed and put on her most helpful smile.

  Maddie’s stepmother and sisters arrived two days later. Their belongings were meager and their clothes dusty and worn from the strain of the journey. The girls were solemn and shy as introductions were made, then Maddie showed them to Cat’s room.

  Her stepmother nodded her silver head just once, leaning on the wooden cane she used, she said, on account of a tubercular hip. “It will do.” She reached into her pocket and extracted a few coins. “Bridget, take Susanna and find you both pinafores from the pawnshop down the way. Plain ones, mind—you can always embroider them later if Mr. Prickett doesn’t look askance at that sort of thing.”

  The older girl gravely took the coins and her sister’s hand. “Yes, Mama.”

  “And what do we do?”

  “Count the change twice!” the girls chorused.

  “That’s my little nightmares. Now go.” Mrs. Crewe watched them hurry down the stairs and into the street before turning to rake Maddie with a glance that seemed to take in every wrinkle and flyaway strand of hair. Her own thick hair was pulled back as though letting even one strand escape would mean the whole world would unravel at the seams. Her hand tightened on the handle of her cane, the knuckles white. “Thank you for your generosity in opening your home to us. I hope we shall not be trespassing too long upon your kindness.”

  Her stepmother’s reputation was at least a little justified: Lydia Crewe could make even grati
tude sound like a judgment. Maddie smiled without baring her teeth. “You’re very welcome, ma’am.”

  The second Mrs. Crewe regarded her stepdaughter narrowly. She was shorter than Maddie by a good six inches, but the keenness of her gaze made it easy to forget that fact. She looked like a person who went about constantly sizing up the world, as if weighing it for purchase. “There is something you aren’t telling me,” she said suspiciously.

  “There are many things I’m not telling you, ma’am,” Maddie retorted.

  Mrs. Crewe’s lips twitched briefly before she pressed her lips together in reproof. “I’d say you’re as shifty as your father—but from what he says, I suspect you’re a good deal cleverer. I’d like to trust that means you won’t get caught. But I am not, in my soul, the trusting sort.” Her voice was sharp and icy as the northern wind outside. “I intend to watch you, my girl. I’ve had my household uprooted by dishonest behavior: it shan’t happen again, if I can prevent it.”

  “Then let’s find ways of helping you be independent, ma’am,” Maddie said. “So the only honesty you have to worry about is your own.”

  A very startling dimple flashed in Mrs. Crewe’s cheek. “Smart,” she said. Maddie wasn’t sure if it was a reprimand or a compliment.

  They went down to the kitchen to introduce Cat, then retreated to the front room, where John and Emma were already at work: Emma piecing together a gentleman’s embroidered waistcoat, and John adorning satin slippers with tiny silver beads. “I understand you’re a lace maker, Mrs. Crewe,” John said. “I can refer you to a good workshop, if you like.”

  “That’s kind of you,” Mrs. Crewe replied. She lowered herself to a seat on the stool and settled her cane within reach. “As soon as I am drawing a wage, I hope you’ll let me contribute something to the running of the household.”

  John and Emma glanced at one another. “We thank you, of course,” John said, “but wouldn’t you rather save those wages for a place of your own?”