“Not formally, but I’ve already received all the introduction I need.” He fluttered one hand toward the pianoforte that still vibrated with the concerto’s dramatic conclusion and returned his steady gaze to mine. Something about the unusual sparkle in his eye suddenly made the man seem far from innocent. “You,” he said, in a slow, intentional way, “pierce the darkness with light. Did you know that?”

I laughed, fingering the beads at my throat. “That’s certainly the most original compliment I’ve received.” How could he know to say such a thing? He’d not seen the child version of me hunched and terrified in the dark larder over and over again, clawing at the door, desperate for light. I shivered at the memory of Father’s wretched punishments that still made an odd, lonely chill come over me in the dark.

“It’s something Schumann said—the duty of every artist, he called it. A light such as yours should be taken into the utmost darkness, you know.”

I held my breath, unable to relax. A light in the dark. Yes, that’s precisely how I saw my future—the daring plans I’d only begun to concoct in secret. Make today count. I rose with that notion on my lips every morning, and soon I’d be able to act on it. A new day, a new rescue for one lost soul suffering in the dark as I once had. As my mother had before me. I’d even been tempted to blame her death on my father, on his merciless control over her until the very end, but perhaps that was taking things too far.

“Your light is wasted here in the sunny parlors of the ton. Might I suggest a new, more significant outlet for your music?”

That stare of his continued to penetrate my layers of poise with an unsettling knowing. I studied him back. “Forgive me, but are you certain we haven’t met before? I feel as if I should know you.”

His face lit with an instant smile. “Quite true, you should. I’ve been hoping to make your acquaintance since I first heard you make a showpiece of a Brahms minuet in Lisbon, and I’ve been to every performance you’ve given in England since.”

I raised my eyebrows, my heart straddling pleasure and unease. “How you flatter.”

He smiled tenderly. “Even your voice has a musical quality, smooth and rich like honey.” Then he broke the stare and shook his head as if he’d forgotten himself. “I beg your pardon, Miss Mourdant. I should at least provide you with a name to go with my ramblings, shouldn’t I? It’s Frederick Harford, man of the cloth, amateur poet, and psalmist, lately of Westminster Abbey. Ah, and an associate of the Royal Academy as well.”