Free Hidden in the Heart by Beth Andrews

at Mrs Bitterwood’s that evening, he gallantly offered them his escort. Naturally, Lydia accepted.
    Though she itched for private conversation with him, Lydia was forced to endure a lengthy period in the carriage with her aunt as chaperon. They were rather late in arriving at their destination, and the performance had already begun. This entailed a further delay.
    First Miss Jane Bitterwood sang a charming folk song in a perfectly dreary and uninspired soprano voice. As the daughter of their hostess (and the godchild of Mrs Wardle- Penfield), enthusiastic applause was an absolute necessity, of course. This was followed by a lively madrigal which garnered more genuine praise for the quartet of young people.
    Finally, Miss Ophelia Scott commandeered the pianoforte and treated them to a truly remarkable rendi tion of a Scarlatti sonata. Lydia had never heard a solo performance which managed to sound so much like a duet in which both pianists were sadly inebriated. Miss Scott’s right hand managed the treble clef tolerably well. However, her left hand seemed to have a will of its own. It mean dered aimlessly up and down the bass clef like a lost lamb, tripping over flats and tumbling into sharps with wild abandon. Her audience, mercifully, was as incapable of recognizing her errors as it would have been of appreci ating a more skilled performance. Lydia, who admired Scarlatti’s complex compositions, reluctantly confessed to herself that she probably would not have enjoyed a correct interpretation half as well, although her lips were quite sore from the pressure of her teeth as she bit hard upon them to keep from laughing.
    Indeed, she almost forgot her mission tonight, until John approached her and drew her aside under cover of the rapturous applause which followed.
    He spoke quickly, an awkward apology upon his lips:
    ‘I did not mean what I said yesterday, Miss Bramwell,’ he stammered, his whole attitude quite at odds with his usual calm demeanor. ‘Of course I think of you. We are friends, are we not?’
    ‘I certainly thought so,’ Lydia told him, rather enjoying his discomfiture. ‘But there is no need to dwell on what happened last night. It is in the past now, and best forgotten.’
    ‘I am glad,’ he said, ‘that you are so charitable. I feared that you would never speak to me again.’
    ‘Nonsense!’ She craned her neck to ascertain whether anyone might be attending to them. Thankfully, the others were all crowding around the musicians, praising and questioning as if they understood what they said.
    ‘What is it that you want of me?’ John asked.
    ‘I need your help.’
    ‘What is wrong?’
    ‘There is still a great deal of talk about Monsieur d’Almain and the late Mr Cole.’
    ‘I know.’ John’s face darkened and his mouth compressed. ‘More than one person last night made it clear that they considered d’Almain to be persona non grata!
    ‘I want you to return to Wickham Wood with me.’
    ‘Very well.’ He did not pretend to misunderstand her. ‘If we can prove that the smugglers were responsible for the murder, d’Almain’s name will be cleared.’
    ‘Tomorrow, then?’
    ‘The next day,’ he corrected her. ‘I am engaged with friends tomorrow evening and will be out too late to accom pany you.’
    ‘Cockfighting?’ She raised an eyebrow knowingly.
    ‘Not at all,’ he said with great dignity. ‘Merely a convivial evening in Piddinghoe, where my grandmother lives. I have a numerous acquaintance there.’
    ‘Can you not cry off?’
    ‘I have no intention of doing so.’
    ‘Not even for me?’
    ‘Not even for you,’ he said firmly.
    ‘I shall go alone, then.’ She raised her chin and stared defiantly into his eyes. ‘I know the way now.’
    ‘If you attempt anything so foolhardy,’ he answered in a level voice, ‘I shall put you over my knee and spank you!’
    ‘You sound like my father,’ she complained, hating to acknowledge that he was being perfectly