Miss Marianne's Disgrace Read Online Free PDF Page B

the view of Lady Ellington’s prized rose garden through the far window didn’t calm her as it usually did. She withdrew a red-brocade composition book from the piano bench. The spine creaked when she opened it. She flipped through the pages and the notes bounced up and down on the staffs, punctuated every few lines by a smudge of ink or her fingerprint. It was her music. It had comforted her during the long, lonely hours at Madame de Badeau’s, and afterwards, before her life had settled into the even cadence of Lady Ellington’s dower house.
    Selecting her most recent composition, she propped the book up on the music stand and lifted the cover over the keys. Wiggling her fingers, she rested them on the ivory until it warmed. Then she pressed down and began the first chords, wincing at each wrong note until she settled into the sweet and mournful piece. Through the adagio, she concentrated on the shift of the foot pedal and the strength with which she struck each key and how long she held it until sweeping on to the next. The black notes tripped along in her mind, memorised from hours of practice.
    Finally, the piece reached its slow, wailing end and she raised her hands. The last notes vibrated along the wires until they faded away. Blinking through wet lashes, her cheeks and neck cold with moisture, she studied her hands. They were smooth and limber now, but some day they’d be wrinkled and stiff and here she’d be, with any luck, living under the protection of the Falconbridge family, the scandals as forgotten as she.
    She wiped the tears from beneath her chin and turned the page to one of her slightly less sombre compositions. Crying wouldn’t do any good. If Lady Ellington didn’t think it was hopeless, then perhaps it wasn’t. If nothing else, there was always Lord Bolton.
    * * *
    â€˜There’s a fortune to be made here, Warren, can’t you see it?’ Rupert Hirst, Warren’s brother-in-law, paced back and forth across the rug in front of Warren’s desk. A little wrinkle rose up in the patterned carpet where his heel dug in to make the turn.
    Warren frowned. If Rupert paced long enough, he’d wear a hole in the thing and then it would be another repair for Warren to pay for. The workers were behind enough already, despite the rush to finish before the good weather ended, and the costs were increasing by the day. If Warren didn’t write this book and get it to William Berkshire, his publisher, and collect the remainder of his advance, there’d still be holes in the roof come the first snow.
    Lancelot, Warren’s red Irish setter who chased sleep more than he did birds, watched from where he lay on the hearthrug, not bothering to rise.
    â€˜I can see the potential. I can also see myself losing a great deal of money if your optimism proves unfounded.’ Which wouldn’t be the first time. Despite his brother-in-law’s best efforts, Rupert hadn’t made a go of his last venture and it had faltered. Even his love for Leticia had proved destructive in the end.
    Warren twirled his pen in his fingers. It wasn’t fair to blame Rupert. He’d loved Warren’s sister. If only Mother Nature had been so enamoured. The cruel witch had turned her back on Leticia and her poor little babe, failing to answer even Warren’s entreaties for help as he’d struggled to save them both.
    â€˜I’m committing most of my small inheritance to hiring the best captains and ships to import the tobacco, and securing the crops of numerous farmers, so it can’t fail. I won’t let it,’ Rupert protested, frustration and desperation giving his voice an unappealing lilt. ‘I need your backing, not just financially, but your name. It will attract others and once they’ve invested or become buyers, the risk to you will be minimal.’
    â€˜But not non-existent.’ Warren gathered up a small stack of books from the corner of