Page 5 of The Duke’s Duet

Chapter One

Harper stood motionless before the great windows of his study, his reflection a dark slash against the late afternoon light. Below, in the servants' courtyard of his London mansion, an endless stream of deliveries flowed through the gates: towering arrangements of hothouse flowers, additional chairs wrapped carefully in protective cloths, music stands of polished mahogany, and — his jaw clenched at the sight — a second pianoforte being manoeuvred with excruciating care from its conveyance.

His fingers moved unconsciously against the window frame, marking out the rhythm of the Mozart piece that had drifted through his study wall earlier that morning during Mr. Fletcher's practice session. The pianist's interpretation had been technically correct but utterly devoid of spirit — like watching someone recite poetry in a language they didn't understand. Harper's hands had ached with the need to demonstrate how the piece should breathe, how the notes should dance rather than simply march across the page. But of course, he had remained silent, letting the soulless performance continue while he pretended to focus on estate papers.

A Duke did not correct hired musicians. A Duke, his father's voice echoed in his memory, did not concern himself with such things at all.

"Will there be anything else, Your Grace?"

Simmons materialised at his elbow with that peculiar silent grace that only the finest butlers seemed to possess.

"No, I—"

Harper broke off as rapid footsteps approached his study. A moment later, Mrs. Williams appeared in the doorway, her typically composed features drawn with concern.

"Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but there's a... situation... with the arrangements for this evening."

Something in her tone sent a tendril of unease curling through his stomach.

"What sort of situation?"

"Perhaps Your Grace would prefer to see for himself? In the ballroom?"

The ballroom proved to be a scene of barely controlled chaos. Footmen balanced precariously on ladders, adjusting the great crystal chandeliers that his mother had insisted must be cleaned again, while maids scurried about with vases of flowers, rearranging them for what Harper knew must be at least the third time. The Dowager Duchess stood in the centre of it all, directing operations with the tactical precision of a general managing troops.

"The second pianoforte simply cannot be accommodated, Your Grace," Mrs. Williams declared as they surveyed the space. "Not without removing two entire rows of seating."

"Then we shall manage with one. Mr. Fletcher can hardly play both instruments simultaneously."

The words emerged more sharply than he'd intended, betraying his growing tension about the evening ahead.

"As you say, Your Grace."

She hesitated, clearly wanting to say more.

"Speak freely, Mrs. Williams."

"It's just... I'm concerned about the sound, Your Grace. It carries differently with only one instrument, and given the number of guests expected..."

"Your Grace!" A footman burst into the room, his face flushed with exertion and his chest heaving. "A message, Your Grace. Most urgent."

Harper took the folded paper, noting with growing apprehension the poor quality of the sheet and the smudged seal. He tore it open, and, as his eyes scanned the hastily penned words, he felt the blood drain from his face as the meaning registered.

"Brightwood?" His mother's voice cut through his shock. "You look quite pale. What is it?"

The Dowager Duchess of Brightwood approached across the ballroom, her silk skirts rustling with subtle menace. Even now, with his own title secure and his position unassailable, something in that tone could make him feel like an errant schoolboy.

"Mr. Fletcher is ill." The words fell into the sudden silence like stones into a still pond. "He will not be performing this evening."

The silence that followed his announcement was absolute. Even the footmen on their ladders seemed to hold their breaths. Harper could feel the weight of every eye in the room upon him, reminding him uncomfortably of his father's cutting stare whenever he'd been caught at the pianoforte as a youth.

"Cannot perform?" His mother's voice achieved that particular tone of calm that had always presaged storms in his childhood. "The guests will begin arriving in less than two hours."

"I am aware of that, Mother."

His fingers clenched around the message, crumpling the cheap paper.

"We cannot possibly postpone. The announcements have been sent, the refreshments ordered, the veterans' representatives invited..." She paused, then added with careful precision, "Captain Winters himself has confirmed his attendance."