Page 7 of How to Ruin a Duke
Damnation.After packing his horn as slowly as possible, letting the other musicians drift away, he strolled through the lessening crush to stand at the conductor’s side.
“Sir?You wish to speak to me?”
Clarke took too long squaring his music sheets, then slipping them into his satchel.As tall as he was broad, he finally looked up and caught Simon’s eye.“It’s about the note brought by that messenger.”
And Simon knew his bad feeling was justified.“From Lord Farleigh,” he guessed, and Clarke nodded.
“I don’t know what you did to him,” said the older man, “but he’s displeased with you.Says you’ve a bad character and he’ll blackball Vauxhall throughout the ton if you’re kept on in the orchestra.”
Simon cursed.
“Exactly,” agreed Clarke.“He’s influential enough to do it.The Barrett brothers are trying to cut costs, to keep Vauxhall profitable.They’ve asked me to reduce the size of the orchestra, but I’ve been fighting them on that.If there’s a chance you could lose them business in the beau monde, though…well, I’m sorry.I’ve got to go along with this.You understand.”
He hadn’t said the wordsYou’re out of a job, orYou’re the one being blackballed.But the meaning was clear enough.
“Oh, yes.I understand very well.”The crumpled letter Miss Fairweather had pulled from the horn was rubbish in Simon’s pocket.
He understood that Lady Farleigh had wanted to live a bit ofHow to Ruin a Duke, and he’d been conveniently at hand.The flirtatious missive had been a scandal of opportunity; he didn’t fool himself to the contrary.
Unfortunately, her husband hadn’t seen the matter that way.And in one day, Simon had lost both his jobs.
His horn was heavy in its case, the handle digging into his hand as he trudged down the steps of the pavilion for the last time.Thinking, thinking.
He had done many jobs besides playing a horn.The question was, which would he seize upon next?He needed money for Howard, and quickly.And with one lesson at a time, one rehearsal and performance at a time, he’d never earn enough.Not while his employment and pay depended on the whims of those with more power than he.
Miss Fairweather, now, she had it a bit better.She took the tasks she wished to and turned down the ones she didn’t.She was her own mistress.It was a striking autonomy.
He wondered whether she might know of anyone who needed music lessons.He wondered whether he ought to be dreaming bigger than lessons and what form that dream ought to take.He had to dream for Howard first, before he dared think of himself.A man owed his old friend that much, at least, if he ruined that old friend’s life and then ran out on him.
After returning to his lodging with his horn, he was no closer to a decision about what to do next.So he settled on the one action he’d promised: He bought a packet of hairpins.
It was early evening before he returned to Fairweather’s, a proud, square-shouldered building on the still-bustling length of Bond Street.At this hour, the door of the luthier’s shop was locked to customers.Unexpected disappointment flooded Simon when he tried the handle.He peered through the glass inset at eye level and caught a glimpse of movement inside—and before he thought better of the impulse, he knocked.
After a moment, a maid came to the door, with Miss Fairweather a step behind.
“Mr.Thorn.”He heard Miss Fairweather’s voice, muffled through the door, and was gratified that she recalled his name.
He held up the packet of hairpins to show her the reason for his visit.“Sorry about the time,” he said, hoping she could hear him well enough through the door.“I didn’t realize you’d be closed.I’ll come back tomorrow.”
He’d wanted to see her, but now he felt slightly foolish to have drawn attention to his presence.
Miss Fairweather bit her lip, hesitating.“That’s all right.You can come in for a bit.”He saw her turn away, say something to the maid, who curtseyed and hung about, dusting idly at a counter that didn’t need dusting while her mistress undid the locks and opened the door to Simon.
“Good evening, ladies.”He touched his hat to them both, then removed it.“Miss Fairweather, I came by with a bribe and a question.”
“A bribe?”She was still in the blue gown from earlier, the one that matched her uncommonly clear and clever eyes.
He handed over the packet of hairpins, enjoying her laugh.“And a question.”
Miss Fairweather turned to the maid.“Alice, you may take your supper in here.Get it from Cook.”
The young maid nodded, and Simon understood: They were to be chaperoned.
Or not quite, for Miss Fairweather said, “Come into the workshop.I’m at a tricky stage and can’t leave my work.”
He had coveted a look behind the curtain, where the heart of the business clearly lay.Now Miss Fairweather tugged it aside and allowed him to enter.
The shop held the smell that had wrapped around him so thoroughly the last time he’d been here: fresh wood, newly planed; something astringent like varnish or glue; and materials sweetly musky from age, like degraded old tapestry cushions and crumbling leather instrument cases.A light well spilled the dusty blue evening sun, the powdery color just before the day resigned itself to sunset.
