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dread driving her heartbeat faster.
    “He’s not?” Henrietta injected herself into the conversation. “But how can that be?” Her voice dripped with the same acidic sweetness that had colored Bridget’s earlier tones. “When Miss Forrester here has been telling everyone that Carpenini asked if she would be his student?”
    Bridget turned her mortified gaze to Lord Merrick. “I . . . that is, we . . . had a letter. Written by your son on behalf of Signor Carpenini, saying that they were coming to London.”
    “And when did you receive this letter, Miss Forrester?” Lord Merrick regarded her with a gleam of interest in his eye.
    “A few weeks ago, sir,” Bridget replied, only to watch Lord Merrick’s face fall abruptly, then reconstitute itself into resignation.
    “I thought so. Your letter predates mine.” Lord Merrick shook his head and heaved a great sigh. “I’m sorry, my girl; I had a letter from my son not two days ago. It was brief, but in it he expressly said since he is not needed at home, he is extending his stay in Venice—and Signor Carpenini with him.”
    “But . . . but . . .” Bridget couldn’t tear her eyes from Lord Merrick’s face. If she did, she knew she would see Henrietta Chatsworth positively crowing with delight.
    Lord Merrick gave her a pitying pat on the shoulder. “Neither my son nor Carpenini is coming to England anytime soon.”

    I can do this. I can do this.
    She still had to play. If fact, as Henrietta whispered her delicious piece of gossip to the person on her other side, and it spread in a loop around the table, it became even more imperative that she show them all that she was imbued with real talent and skill. Or at least that was what Lady Worth whispered in her ear before she could slink away into the background.
    “Let them know who you are, Bridget,” Lady Worth had said. “Make them eat their words.”
    And so Bridget, her back straight and proud, still holding on for dear life to the focus she needed to play, walked through the crowd to the far side of Lady Worth’s pink sitting room and seated herself at the gleaming cherrywood pianoforte that had been placed there for her benefit.
    The room grew quiet, stilling itself as the audience arranged themselves in their seats. Bridget felt a nervous giggle bubbling up and stifled it. After all, when was the last time any of the ton was so attentive to a debutante’s musical efforts? They were all so serious, so terribly curious!
    But instead of giving in to a small hysteria, Bridget lifted the smooth hinged lid, revealing the ivory keys.
    She took a deep breath and let her fingers rest lightly on the cool ivory, finding her first position for the Bach minuet as easily, as instinctually as breathing.
    She let her muscles flex—not moving the fingers, mind, not yet ready to play. But just enough that she could map out where she wanted her force and power to go. She let the piece play in her head, let it wash over her, so much that everyone else in the room faded away.
    I can do this.
    Bridget played. She let the melody flow from her fingertips. And for once, it felt as if she might have it. As though the people who were staring at her were not there to judge her, and she were allowed to simply play the way she liked. To lose herself in the music.
    But then . . .
    A giggle intruded on her thoughts. But Bridget could not afford to let it distract her. So she played on, wiping it from her mind.
    It was probably Henrietta Chatsworth who giggled.
    It probably was, and she was probably giggling with Lord Merrick, who had been so sad himself and yet had regarded Bridget with pity.
    Bridget suddenly realized her pace was too fast. Oh dear, this minuet would be over before too long, and Lady Worth would make her play something else, something longer. Better to slow down.
    She changed her pace for the next stanza. But this just made her feel off. The G-major minuet was lively, spritely. But then again, its