Page 88 of Hearts of Locke Hill

Her long-kept secret was out.

Her stomach turned. It was as much a relief as it was a fear. She knew her friends, and there had been no time to explain the details of the matter.

She’d asked for time.

Of course, it was easily granted, given the nature of the Burke family’s current trial.

She turned off the shade-dappled main road and followed the drive to a large willow. Parking next to Cyril’s Sunbeam, she set the brake and leaped from the car.

Holding her skirts, she jogged toward the main portion of the house.

A woman emerged from a path amongst the trees. “Can I help you, miss?”

Violet turned and continued walking backward, the servant following with a basket of turnips on her arm. “Mr. Burke, please?” she said, rushed.

“Of course, miss, but—”

Violet turned and headed up a couple of steps to a small portico and turned the front door’s handle. “Cyril?” she called out.

“Miss! He be in the master’s quarters!” The woman had not yet reached her, so Violet took a guess and turned left, up a short flight of polished wood steps and through a sitting room with tall windows facing the rear property.

“Miss! If you please!”

Violet halted. Not because of the servant’s call but because she most distinctly heard music. Not just music. Violin music.

Mozart, to be precise.

Her feet stuck to the floor, stunned as she was. Her eyes closed.

It was being playedbeautifully. As if the player understood Mozart to the very core. As if the player had been playing his entire life.

As if he’d never quit.

Her eyes opened, and she followed the sound of the music to a large, rough-hewn door.

“Miss?”

Violet glanced over her shoulder at the stricken expression on the servant’s face, then turned the latch andshoved.

Y

The low creak of the wheelhouse door matched the dissonant sound of Cyril’s bow across his strings.

Cyril closed his eyes in frustration. “Mrs. Turner, I asked for some pr—” As he turned, his words died on his tongue.

Violet Whittemore stood just inside the open door, looking from him to his violin and back to him, his missing collar and open top shirt buttons, his bare feet.

He swallowed. “Miss Whittemore.” Remembering himself, he bowed.

Mrs. Turner spoke before he could rise. “I beg pardon, Mr. Burke,” she offered from the doorway, quite winded. “I tried to stop her and have her announced, proper-like.” She curtsied. “But she was right swift on her feet.” She leaned to the side and whispered, quite loudly, “I do believe the lady be bettermost and weren’t sure of my place in tackling her to the ground.”

Violet turned her head away and pressed her lips firmly together.

He nodded. “Thank you, Mrs. Turner. I can manage from here.”

The woman bobbed a curtsy and backed out of the room. “I’ll just be a-leavin’ this door open, then,” she said loudly. Then she went to humming as she remained in the sitting room just beyond the door.

Cyril glanced at Violet, his thoughts whirring. “She’s, er, quite protective of me.”