Page 22 of House of Thorns
Chapter Seven
A Patron of Music
Nicholas stepped down from his carriage and eyed the narrow townhouse with a censorious eye. Clearly, the place had seen better days. Rust pitted its black iron fencing and he could barely make out the writing on the weathered sign above the door: Mackenzie and Sons, Purveyors of Fine Music.
Removing his hat, he stepped inside.
He heard the notes of a piano first, drifting through the curtains at the back of the shop. The pleasant scent of cedar assaulted his nostrils next. He glanced around. The shop was simple, holding little more than boxes of sheet music, as expected, but nearly half stood empty.
Still, despite its rundown condition, the place held a kind of charm. Oddly. And despite the harsh, venomous soul living there.
The curtains rustled at the back. He turned as a lass emerged.
He recognized her, at once. The auburn-haired lass he’d kissed in his mother’s garden.
She froze, her eyes wide with surprise, and his lips curved with astonished delight.
She was even more fetching than he recalled, dressed in a high-waisted day dress made of a violet-sprigged muslin and a satin ribbon tied snug beneath her breasts. She’d swept her hair back in a loose bun, but a strand had escaped to curl at the nape of her neck—a neck he’d soon be nibbling if everything went according to plan. Was that a smudge of ink on her chin? Why did he find that so damned stimulating? Her skin was white, without a freckle in sight—such an unusual combination with the redness of her hair.
“Howeverdid you find me?” she breathed, a faint flush staining her cheekbones.
He stood there, grinning like a fool for Lord knew how long, and then, the purpose of his visit paraded across his mind.
“I’ve a wee matter of business to settle, lass, and then I am at your disposal.” Indeed, there was no rush to visit his mother any longer when the object of his desire stood before him. “I’m looking for Olivia Mackenzie.”
He glanced around, half expecting to see the old biddy charge through the curtains at the mere mention of her name.
The charming lass frowned. “And what matter of business have you to settle with me?” she asked, her tone curious.
The words took much longer to register than they should have. When they did, they felt like a slap in the face.
Theredheadhad penned the letter?
Nicholas’s playful mood vanished in an instant. Slowly, he retrieved the letter from his waistcoat pocket and dropped it on the counter.
“I’m Nicholas. Nicholas Hunter Blair,” he announced, his voice growing colder with each syllable.
He watched the progression of emotions cross her face. Confusion, recognition, and then anger. Anger? Thechit.
“You?” She swallowed hard.
With a derisive curl of his lip, he raised a brow at his surroundings, and with more acid than was his wont, stated, “At least, the motive is clear now.”
Olivia’s fine nostrils flared. “Pardon?”
“Shall I spell it out?” he asked, his voice deadly calm.
“Please do,” she hissed.
He slammed his palms flat on the counter. “You’re blackmailing me to save your business, are you not? Have music sales soured of late?”
The shock and anger that flooded her face summoned such a sense of guilt that he almost apologized right then and there—despite the facthewas the innocent one.
“So, holding a man accountable to his responsibilities is deemed blackmail in your eyes?” she snapped with a fierce toss of her head.
By God, she was beautiful when she was angry. Those lips could tempt a man into ignoring his better judgment. He unwittingly leaned closer, but as he did so, the curtains behind the counter parted.
A wiry, gray-haired man entered the shop, his brows drawn into a faint line of confusion. “Good day, my lord,” he addressed Nicholas with a bow. “And how may I be of service? What music might you be looking for today?”
