The Piano Tutor by Anthea Lawson

THE PIANO TUTOR
     
    “My lady.” The butler tapped at Diana Waverly’s half-open door. “The piano tutor is here.” He hesitated, a furrow marring his usually placid brow.
    “Well, it is Wednesday.” Diana laid her last black dress in the trunk she had been filling, then carefully closed the lid. “Tell Samantha it’s time for her lesson. I’ll be down directly.”
    The butler remained in the doorway, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “Forgive me, my lady, but it … er, it is not the customary piano tutor. It is an altogether different gentleman.”
    She blinked. “But—Mr. Bent is Samantha’s tutor. We have no other.”
    “I tried to tell him as much, but the gentleman insists.”
    Diana stood, frowning. “I’ll see to him.” They had few callers—the inevitable result of turning down a season’s worth of invitations—and never unannounced visitors.
    Tucking up a stray auburn curl, she started down the hallway toward the wide second floor landing. Mr. Bent had said nothing of this. He was quite reliable—if a bit dour to be tutoring a girl still recovering from the loss of her father.
    At the top of the stairs she halted, pulled from her thoughts by the sound of music pouring from the parlor below. Someone very skilled was playing the piano.
    She rested her hand on the mahogany banister and listened. Note after note tumbled through the entryway, reverberating between the high ceiling and marble floors. Sunlight streamed through the landing windows, making the dust motes swirl and glitter like gilded dancers.
    Her stepdaughter Samantha joined her, her wiry twelve-year old body leaning over the railing. “I didn’t know Mr. Bent could actually play the piano.”
    “It’s not Mr. Bent.” That much was clear, though who it might be and why he was in her parlor was a mystery Diana could not fathom.
    She descended the stairs, the music growing fuller and more present with every step. She paused a moment at the parlor door, then, with a fortifying breath, went in. The instant she crossed the threshold, the music ceased. The magic that had been spilling into the house folded in upon itself and disappeared.
    But its source remained—a broad-shouldered man with brown hair and intelligent grey eyes. He stood when he saw her and bowed with an easy grace.
    “My lady.”
    She studied the stranger. Handsome, undeniably, with those compelling eyes and a smile that seemed genuine. He looked nothing like the stoop shouldered and outmoded Mr. Bent. For one thing, he was a good deal younger—he looked to be no more than a handful of years older than herself.
    “Sir?” She hardly knew what to say. “Please explain yourself.”
    “Viscountess Merrowstone.” The stranger’s voice was rich and complex, the syllables of her title unexpectedly smooth to her ears. “Mr. Nicholas Jameson, at your service. I’ve come to substitute for Mr. Bent, who has been called away unexpectedly.”
    “This is most irregular. I was not informed there was to be a replacement.” She faced him squarely, ready to send him on his way. That was what she intended to do, but the words came out all wrong. “You play quite well.”
    He tipped his head, a smile lifting the corners of his mouth. “That would be a requirement, wouldn’t it?”
    “One would assume so.” Though his bearing made her think he would be more suited to leaping a stallion over hedgerows than giving piano lessons to a twelve-year old.“You’re quite certain you’re a piano tutor?”
    “Let me assure you of my qualifications.” He extended an envelope. “I’ve a letter of recommendation from Lady Pembroke. You’re acquainted, I believe?”
    Diana nodded. Indeed, Lucy was a good friend, possessed of a generous spirit—though she was more than a little scandalous.
    Henry had not approved of their friendship. Diana’s gaze slipped past Mr. Jameson to the portrait of her late husband, Lord Henry Waverly, Viscount Merrowstone. His stern, formal