Lady Aline broke my thoughts. "Let us find chairs, Lacey, before we're forced to stand like rubes in the back of the room." She took my arm with strong fingers and more or less shoved me toward two empty chairs. Politely, I settled her, and asked if I could bring her lemonade.
"I am not thirsty," she said. "I've drunk tea with Lady Breckenridge and her callers all afternoon." She patted the chair beside her. "Sit down, dear boy. I always welcome a chance to speak to you. Your conversation is intelligent. You do not say what you are expected to say."
I smiled and took my seat. "A high compliment, one I am happy to accept from you."
"Never mind the Spanish coin," she said sternly, though she looked pleased. "Donata is no fool; Vecchio's voice is quite fine. Have you heard it?"
I shook my head. "I have been buried in the country since the Season began. I have heard nothing but the bleating of sheep and the shouting of schoolboys."
"How idyllic."
"Not really. Early, noisy mornings, cold draughts at breakfast."
"And murder." She tapped my arm with her fan. "I will not forgive you for not mentioning it in your letters. I had to hear the news from Louisa."
"It is rather sordid. Nothing a lady need hear."
"Do not be ridiculous. I enjoy sordid things. But are you not in danger? Louisa says you do not believe the Romany did it. You never do."
I suppose she meant that I never liked the easiest solution. "Things are not as straightforward as they seem."
In fact, they were a muddle in my brain. The fever had not helped.
"I want to hear the entire story from you, you know," Lady Aline said. "I wanted to tell you that Hungerford, and canals, reminded me of something. There is someone I believe you should speak to."
I turned to her, alert. But just then, the crowd quieted as Vecchio walked past the chairs to the front of the room.
"I will tell you later," Lady Aline hissed.
I curbed my impatience and turned to watch Vecchio take his position near the harp. Lady Breckenridge had seated herself in the first row of chairs. Ostrich feathers drifted back and forth as she slowly fanned herself.
The woman at the harp, whom I did not know, introduced Mr. Vecchio as a new prodigy with the voice of an angel.
The prodigy was little above twenty years old. His black-eyed stare as it roved the room told me he did not think much of his audience-middle-aged women in finery, overdressed gentlemen, bored debutantes-waiting to be entertained. Vecchio needed their approval if he would make a career, but he seemed to hold them in contempt.
The harpist played a few strains. The tenor opened his mouth, and then all contempt vanished.
So did the audience's boredom. From Vecchio's lips came sounds as sweet as any I had ever heard. His voice soared, filling the room with music, shaking the very beams of the ceiling, then it dipped to sounds soft and true as a lover's whisper.
As he sang, the music swept away the remaining mists of my fever. The sadness in my heart, the painful indecision about my wife and daughter, did not leave me, but the sounds touched my soul in a way nothing else had in a long while.
I sat as one entranced. I was sorry Grenville could not be here-he who loved all things beautiful would have been enraptured by Vecchio's voice.
I was not the only one moved. Next to me, Lady Aline blew her nose into a large handkerchief. The lady seated before me wiped her cheeks, and a tear trickled from the corner of her husband's eye.
The beauty of his voice was incredible. He wound to the height of the aria, holding one note high and clear that had us all trembling on the edges of our seats. Then he brought the note down, gave a rousing crescendo, and ended the piece with a flourish of his hand.
For a moment, the crowd sat in stunned silence. Then as one, we burst into applause that shook the room.
The young man closed his mouth, and the magic vanished. He became a petulant youth again, despising the crowd who cheered him.
He entranced us with two more pieces, each still more beautiful than the last, then he made his final bow, and the entertainment was over.
Thunderous applause surrounded him as he stood quietly after his last aria. The harpist, too, clapped her hands, eyes glowing, cheeks pink. The crowd then surged to surround him, each guest vying to get near him.
I did not join the throng. I helped Lady Aline to her feet and reminded her of our conversation before the music started. "You mentioned Hungerford," I said. "Said you were reminded of something."
"Your keenness of mind amazes me, Lacey," Lady Aline said with a smile. "You never forget anything. A friend of mine was complaining of canals to me earlier this week. He is here tonight; let me find him."
I followed Lady Aline while she craned her head to look over the sea of people surrounding Vecchio. She used her bulk and a few loud-voiced "I beg your pardons" to move us through the crowd toward the door.
A tall, thin man stood near the open doorway, conversing with a few ladies who had either already greeted Vecchio or did not want to fight the throng to do so. The man had a long face that matched his long body, and a self-deprecating smile. No one, that smile said, can be as great a fool as I can be.
Lady Aline greeted the gentleman fondly, then turned to me. "Captain Lacey, I would like to introduce an old and dear friend, Mr. Lewis. He is a writer."
Lewis held out a long-fingered hand to me. "Not the famous 'Monk' Lewis, alas," he said. "I am Jonathan Lewis, writer of books for youths. Have you read my Boy in the Yorkshire Dales by any chance?"
I shook my head. "I am afraid I have not."
He regarded me sadly. "The story is poignant, quite poignant, or so my publisher tells me. But young men, Captain, do not want poignancy. They want daring adventure and harrowing escapes, and a bit of skirt does not hurt, either. Oh, I do beg your pardon, dear Aline."
Aline looked amused, not offended. "Captain Lacey is staying in Sudbury, near Hungerford."
Lewis' expression changed from sadness to vast irritation. "Oh, my dear, do not speak to me of Hungerford. Hungerford, heart of my sorrow, fount of my madness. Speak to me not of Hungerford."
I hid a smile. "I found it an atmospheric little town."
"Oh, yes, atmosphere. Old England and all that. I've never been there, myself."
I was mystified.
"Explain yourself, for heaven's sake, Lewis," Lady Aline prompted.
Mr. Lewis shook his head, sighed theatrically. "An evil man did me an evil turn. ‘Give me your money, Mr. Lewis,’ he said. ‘I will make you rich.’ Such a declaration was too much for a writer of stories to resist. Alas, I should have remembered Swindler Tom in A Boy's Days on the Cornwall Coast. Tom came to a bad end, as well he should. But this time, it was I who came to the bad end."
My pulse quickened. "How is this related to Hungerford?"
"Canals, my dear Captain. ‘Invest in canals,’ he told me. ‘It is the future of England.’ ‘It is England's past,’ I said. Canals are everywhere. ‘But these canals will connect other canals, and we shall prosper.’ And so I gave him the money." He shook his head mournfully. "I lost all of it, Captain. Every last farthing."
"An offshoot canal that would stretch from Hungerford north," I said excitedly. "An offshoot that never happened, or never was intended to happen."
"Alas, no. I was a fool. Good God, do not tell me you invested, too? We are fools together, then."
"Who was this man?" I asked. "The one who asked for your money?"
"A friend." Lewis' long face grew longer still. "Or I'd thought him a friend. We had fellow feeling, I thought… struggling to live by the thing we loved most."
He looked across the room, as though thinking deeply on the follies of following one's heart.
"His name?" I prompted.
Lewis sighed. "A Latin scholar. A dear friend. By name of Fletcher."