Page 100 of Dukes All Night Long

L ucia…

The sound of her playing came to Owen Pritchard deep in sleep as it often did. He would recognize it anywhere. He longed for it. He had searched for Lucia Castellano for months after she disappeared from Rome. Now she only came in fevered dreams.

Owen fought the urge to wake up from his slumber, unwilling to let go of the dream, but the sound of a Beethoven sonata masterfully played on a superior pianoforte shook him awake. The music continued, floating up from far below.

Continued? How vivid this dream… Sudden awareness jolted him to an upright position.

It wasn’t a dream. He leapt naked from the bed and fumbled in the dark for the clothes he’d discarded so carelessly, only to bang his knee on a washstand in the unfamiliar room.

He hopped to the far wall, guided by the faint glow of a dying fire in the hearth and felt for the candle he’d left on the mantel.

Once lit, the candle made dressing easier.

His heart pounded, longing for his Lucia, needing to find the source of the haunting music in the massive, empty manor. Not bothering to find his boots or tuck his shirt ends into his trousers, he grabbed the candle and padded into the hallway in his bare feet. He stopped dead, disoriented.

He cursed quietly, pulling his disordered thoughts together.

He’d come to Woodglen after sunset on an errand for an old friend.

The stern housekeeper, Mrs. Morrit, had led him to a guest room on the third floor, one above the family suites, by candlelight.

It took him a moment to get his bearings and head in the direction, he hoped, of the massive curved stairway he remembered.

Only the sound of resounding chords, growing louder, assured him he went in the right direction.

The emptiness of the house unnerved him in the deep of night.

Not one faint light shone. The rooms were closed up, furnishings under Holland covers, as well they should be with the Duke of Glenmoor and his brother, Owen’s friend—who had the management of the place—both gone, the duke on some mysterious journey and Gideon tucked up in his cozy home in Wales. Where then was this magical piano?

A faint change in the shadows beyond the circle of light from his candle cautioned him to have a care where the stairway loomed. He longed to run toward the sound of the sonata, toward his Lucia, but innate common sense had him take each marble step slowly, holding on to the railing.

Owen reached the first floor, grateful he hadn’t tumbled down and broken his neck. The music continued, wafting from somewhere to his left. He had no idea what lay behind all of the doors he could make out when he waved the candle around. He had only the music to guide him.

At last, certain he was getting closer, a pounding fortissimo echoed off the walls and startled him. He moved abruptly, knocking over a pedestal and vase with a resounding crash. The music stopped.

Damn !

A sliver of light under a door led him to the nearest room, and he flung open the door.

A brace of candles atop a pianoforte illuminated a music room, bright enough for him to see an open window and just catch sight of a fugitive escaping.

One shapely calf and a dainty foot disappeared over the sill; the sight sent heated reverberations through his entire body.

Lucia. He choked on the word and no sound came out. How could it be she? But who else could it be?

He ran to the window to peer out into the moonless darkness.

Whoever the woman was, she had disappeared into murky night.

Climbing over the sill, his eyes adjusted slightly, and he saw that he floundered in some sort of walled garden.

Groping toward it, he found a hedge, not a stone wall, but no obvious opening.

He sucked air into his cheeks and blew it out.

Heart heavy, Owen climbed back in and turned to shut the window. If I do that, will she be able to get back in? He left the window and located his candle, using the brace of tapers on the pianoforte to relight it.

He thought to leave the room’s candles lit for the mysterious musician, but he dismissed that as foolishness.

She wouldn’t be back that night. He’d frightened her off.

He snuffed the light, leaving only the one in his hand, and stared into the shadows while his heart constricted with despair. Lucia…

*

Annie Potter ran like the devil was after her.

Who was that man? A visitor to Woodglen?

She heard no steps behind her, but still she ran. She couldn’t face some inquisitive stranger asking questions. It would surely get back to Uncle Virgil, and she couldn’t risk that.

She neared Nether Abbas, slowed her pace, and approached the vicarage in the shadows, relieved to see no sign of light. Not that Uncle Virgil believed in candles after bedtime.

She put a hand on the latch to the kitchen door, and it opened soundlessly.

Annie was careful to keep the hinges oiled with mutton fat.

She climbed the back stairs on silent feet, stepped cautiously past Peg, their one servant, and slid under the thin blanket that covered her pallet.

She lay in the dark, her fingers tracing the keys of an invisible piano, finishing the adagio movement the stranger had interrupted.