Lady Brougham smiled understandingly. “Indeed, but the instruments displayed are very pretty, are they not?”
“So I’ve discovered.” Stacie shifted to face her ladyship, leaving Frederick to interact with Brougham. “Do you have any special interest in the exhibits?”
“No.” Lady Brougham glanced at her spouse, who was now engaged in a somewhat stilted exchange with Frederick. “I come more in support than with any genuine interest, although in this case, I must admit the artistry of the ornamentation on some of the pieces is eye-catching.”
Stacie and Lady Brougham turned to view Frederick and his lordship as Brougham said, “Have you read the treatise Jolyneaux published last week?”
“I have, indeed.” To Stacie’s surprise, there was ice in Frederick’s voice. “I can’t say I’m impressed—his conclusions seem entirely at odds with the latest discoveries.”
Brougham looked taken aback. Before he could gather his thoughts and respond, Frederick reached for Stacie’s arm, directed a nod at Lady Brougham, and a rather more curt one at Brougham. “If you’ll excuse us, we need to get on.”
Stacie smiled charmingly at the Broughams and allowed Frederick to lead her away. He remained stiff, even after he released her elbow. When he volunteered nothing, she glanced at him and arched a pointed eyebrow.
His lips tightened, then he reluctantly offered, “Brougham and I have known each other since Eton. He’s a rival of sorts.”
“Ah.” Stacie wasn’t sure how that translated into the rigid awkwardness both men had displayed, but it wasn’t her place to prod. Instead, she scanned the nearer exhibits, then waved at one and directed her steps that way. “What an odd-looking…” She halted beside the glass case, looking down at what appeared to be a strange cross between a cello and a lute, but with many more strings and a curious sounding box. She frowned at the thing. “Is it a form of lute?”
Frederick halted beside her. “Not exactly. It’s a sarangi from India. It’s said to be the instrument that produces sounds most similar to the human voice.”
She pulled a face. “It looks as if it would be extremely difficult to master—all those strings.”
“I believe experienced sarangi players are decidedly thin on the ground, at least in this country.”
She chuckled, and his stiffness dissipating, they strolled on.
They continued through the various rooms, ultimately returning to the head of the stairs. Wiggs hovered there; Stacie got the distinct impression he was waiting with bated breath for Frederick’s verdict.
Somewhat to her relief, Frederick paused and commended Wiggs on the exhibition, adding several complimentary comments, and Wiggs visibly relaxed.
“Good-oh!” Wiggs said. “So it seems I’ve got the scholars satisfied—Jordan said it was worth his time as well, as did Brougham. With any luck, the general populace will find enough of interest to chat about and keep the governors happy.”
Frederick glanced at Stacie. “Lady Eustacia has shown no sign of being bored.”
She responded to his unvoiced appeal. “No, indeed!” she assured Wiggs. “You have something sufficiently unusual or ornate in every room to engage the ladies’ interest.”
“Thank you, my lady.” Beaming, Wiggs bowed. “It’s good of you to say so.”
They left Wiggs happier and distinctly more confident than he had been when they’d arrived.
Frederick gave her his arm, and she took it and allowed him to steady her down the stairs. She was still getting used to the somewhat unnerving dance her senses indulged in whenever he loomed that close.
Hopefully, the effect would fade with time—with continued exposure.
They reached the foyer, and Frederick glanced at Stacie’s face. “Thank you for encouraging Wiggs. He gets quite nervous over these exhibitions of his, yet they are always comprehensive and well received, and not just by us scholarly types.”
“I spoke nothing but the truth,” she returned. “His displays were arranged with the right sort of eye.”
He smiled and held the main door open for her. “Perhaps, but I—and I’m sure my academic peers—would never have thought to mention that.”
She grinned, and he steered her down the front steps and across the forecourt toward where her coach stood waiting. As the gravel crunched beneath their boots, he reflected that, other than the brief and unavoidable exchange with Brougham, he’d enjoyed the exhibition far more than he’d expected—indeed, in a way he’d enjoyed few such excursions in the past.
He slanted a glance at the lady whose hand lay lightly on his arm. He was honest enough to acknowledge—at least to himself—that a large part of his unanticipated enjoyment had arisen through his interaction with her.
Seeing open enjoyment lighting her expressive face, answering her eager, intelligent questions, engaging with her in minor discussions driven purely by intellectual curiosity—until today, all such interactions had been outside his experience.
They neared her carriage, and he waved the footman back, held the carriage door, and helped her to climb inside. Drawing her fingers from his clasp, she sat and looked at him inquiringly.
“I have an appointment at my club,” he informed her. “But in light of our earlier discussions, I’ll call at your house tomorrow at two o’clock. Before we make any further decisions, I need to check the quality of your piano.”