Page 32 of The Duchess Games

“Good.” Her mouth quirked. “May they choke on you.”

Choking, unfortunately, was next on the schedule.

The dowager duchess waited for the gentlemen to join them before declaring a musicale performance would round out the evening. She looked straight at Cat when she spoke. Cat had garnered too much attention already. The balance must be righted. She must be put back in her place, her unsuitability for these games underscored.

Cat knew it. The dowager knew it. Everyone knew it.

And to make a fuss now would only make things so much worse.

Chairs were set out in rows facing a polished pianoforte. It would come as no surprise to anyone that Cat had never learned to play a pianoforte. Where would she have had the chance? And even if they could have afforded such an instrument—which they absolutely could not—where would they have put it? The wolfhounds took up all of the available space. She would have to sleep on the roof.

Three other ladies went first, no doubt to put Cat’s humiliation in proper perspective. Lady Imogen’s voice was soft and delicate and her talent at the keys clearly the result of hundreds of hours of practice. Lady Ruby shone, sitting straight as a sword on the padded bench, her fingers flying with elegant perfection. Lady Siddal was sophistication itself.

The guests smiled, some swaying in tune, some smirking when a note went awry under another lady’s fingertips. Cat only heard perfection, but she could tell by the exchanged glances when a note was skipped or changed. They were used to this sort of entertainment, and they knew these songs as well as they knew the lullabies of their childhood. It was a performance in order to showcase one’s talents, one’s beauty. Romantic songs, sad songs, all chosen with the care of a general entering a battle.

Cat did not know Mozart or Bach.

Cat knew songs about fish.

Songs about tempests and men drowned and naughty escapades. About taking down the revenue men and running them out of town. They were not suitable for a drawing room, nor a dowager duchess.

Ah well. If her father and her brother could face twenty-foot swells and leaky boats and torn nets, she could face this.

If only Callum were anywhere else on earth but sitting in the front row, the candlelight glinting off his dark hair, his expression inscrutable. The ladies glanced at him, glanced away, desperate for even the barest hint of attention. Lord Blackpool lounged beside him like a cat in the pigeon house. He gathered all of the sultry glances, the blushes. They understood him. He put them at their ease.

Callum did not.

Would not.

Lady Siddal curtsied to the applause that was her due and then found her seat. She knew she had done well, golden hair glowing as she sang. The dowager nodded to her and then turned her head, cold gaze spearing Cat on the spot. “Miss Sparrow, do take your turn.”

Cat stood slowly, aware of her simple dress, the key inside her bodice, and the weight of Callum’s gaze though she refused to look at him. She smiled politely. “I am afraid I cannot play the pianoforte, my lady.” Sea shanties were meant to be sung on the decks of rolling ships while hauling fish or pulling ropes.

The dowager sniffed. Someone chuckled. “Still, you will take your turn. Surely you can sing.”

“Like an angel, I’m sure,” Callum said quietly. There was a smattering of laughter.

Cat stripped off her gloves, her plump arms scratched, her nails short. She moved to the sideboard before taking her place on the padded bench by the intimidating pianoforte. If she was going to make a fool of herself, she may as well do a thorough and spectacular job of it.

The Sparrows did not falter.

They did not play the pianoforte. But they did play the spoons, like any family from the village. Musical instruments that could be made from household items or driftwood were a particular favorite. They might not dance choreographed steps, but they danced on the beach, and they sang to make the work go faster.

She was absolutely sure no one had ever sung a sea shanty while playing gold spoons.

She grinned because there was nothing left but to commit to the madness of the moment.

She fit the spoons back-to-back, her forefinger secure between the handles. She struck them down against her knee and then back up against the palm of her other hand. They made a clear beat, not as deep as the wooden spoons she used at home, but pretty, nonetheless. She stifled a wince at the thought of the gold denting.

Nothing for it now.

She lifted her voice, and it was passable, plain, perfectly ordinary, but strong.

“I thought I heard the Old Man say; “Leave her, Johnny, leave her. Tomorrow ye will get your pay.”

It was strange to sing it alone, without a round of answering voices for the chorus. Ambrose had a terrible singing voice and everyone loved to hear him belt every word from his heart.

“And it’s time for us to leave her; Leave her, Johnny, leave her; Oh, leave her, Johnny, leave her.”