Page 2 of How to Ruin a Duke
“Very well.This ought to be easy as winking for you.”He heaved his horn onto the sleek counter between them.
Rowena’s gaze flicked from the brass instrument to the dark eyes of the customer.They were warm and red-brown like heart of rosewood, uncommon for use in violins but a lovely surprise when it appeared.The good cheer in this man’s expression was also uncommon but, in its way, lovely as well.
She tried not to smile.“I assume you are aware that a horn is not a stringed instrument.”
“I am,” he granted.“I’m also aware that something is blocking the flow of sound, which caused me to be sacked by the family that hired me to give lessons to their son.I’ve only just time to get to a rehearsal at Vauxhall Gardens, and I’d prefer my horn to emit notes so that I won’t lose two jobs in one day.”
“A reasonable wish.”
“I knew you’d understand.And when I passed your shop, I thought, well, a luthier is better than no one.”
Now she did allow herself an amused quirk of the lips.“Surely you meant to say ‘a luthier is better than almost anyone.’”
The man’s eyes crinkled at the corners.“Did I misspeak?That’s exactly what I meant to say.A luthier will know how to fix my horn, because luthiers are excellent and wonderful.”
“Wise man.Very well, I’ll look it over.If need be, I’ll take it into my workshop, but I might be able to help you here.”
A horn didn’t have a terrible lot of parts.Either the structure was damaged—and the shining surface looked all right—or there was something caught inside.Crouching, she peered into the bell but saw nothing.
“I played at a musicale last night and the horn sounded fine,” explained the man.“I must have used all my crooks for changing keys at one point or another, so the problem’s not with one of them.”
“Hmm.”She needed something fine to fish about for an obstruction.Rowena considered the tools behind the workroom curtain, then instead plucked a pin from her heavy twists of hair.Stretching the curved bit of metal into a straight wire, she fashioned a little hook at one end, then plunged it into the depths of the horn.She wiggled the pin about, easing it into the innards of the horn to feel for anything that wasn’t as it ought to be.
“Ah.There we have it.There’s something in here.”With her makeshift tool, she tugged at the obstruction.
“Let me help you with that,” the man blurted.“I can do that for you.”
Oh.She’d used her right hand to fashion the hook.Damn.She hated this sort of response, when courtesy turned into condescension.
Rowena wasn’t ashamed of her right hand, exactly, but she didn’t like it being stared at.Save for the thumb, the fingers on that hand were truncated and twisted, the nails little chips.She’d been born that way; she was accustomed to it, even if the world wasn’t.Though her fingers sometimes pained her, she prided herself on being as dexterous as anyone with a perfectly matched pair of hands.
So she shot her customer a Withering Look—so withering that only capital letters would do to describe it.“You came to me for help, sir.Allow me to oblige.”
He hesitated, but instead of protesting, he said, “I’m sorry.Of course.You’re right.Carry on.”
A ready apology was impossible to argue with, especially when the person apologizing was reduced to speaking in two-word fragments.So she only nodded, then returned to her work.
She’d never been fishing—one wouldn’t want to eat whatever was pulled from the Thames—but she imagined she was angling for some elusive prey now.Just a little twist of her wire hook, and she’d have it…
“Aha!I’ve captured the Great Horned Blockage.A rare species, I hope.”Rowena fished out a wad of paper and set it on the counter.
Her customer poked at it cautiously.“Thatwas in my horn?Good Lord, it’s half the size of an egg.”
Rowena recalled the troubling passage fromHow to Ruin a Duke, currently reposed on her worktable.“I think someone’s been clever and passed you a secret note.”
“A note.In my horn.”The customer gave the folded paper a dark look.“Anote.It’s because of that cursed book, isn’t it?How to Ruin a Duke.Have you read it?I haven’t yet, but I know the duke puts a note in a violin.My fellow horn player at Vauxhall has been inspired to exchange notes with every woman in London.”
“Every woman?He’s prolific.But I’ve missed receiving mine.How sad for me.”
“If you’d met Botts, you’d know it wasn’t a tragedy.He’s an incorrigible flirt.”
“And you are…?”
He extended a hand.“Simon Thorn.Not an incorrigible flirt, I hope, but newly a great admirer of luthiers.”
He shook hands with her as if they were old friends.As if her right hand was perfectly normal, perfectly worth shaking.Thorn.The customer’s surname suited him, a simple and crisp sound to match his appearance.
“Rowena Fairweather,” she replied.His hand felt good on hers, warm and weighty and broad.But she pulled back after a moment, for she wasn’t in the profession of groping strange men’s hands.She was in the profession of repairing instruments.
