Beckham turned toward him. "Your Grace, with respect, you are unfamiliar with the professional arrangements involved."
"Then explain them."
"This is neither the time nor place."
Robert glanced around the room. "Odd. It seemed an excellent place a moment ago when Miss Dracott's character was being discussed."
Hester rose. "No one is attacking her character."
Matilda looked at her. "You said I had become confused because a duke noticed me."
Hester's mouth tightened. "I was defending you."
"From what?"
Hester had no answer ready. That was the first fracture: small, but visible.
Mr. Ellison still held his violin. He looked toward the proof in Beckham's hand. "The final variation," he said slowly. "The printed copy ends four pages before Miss Dracott's rehearsal draft."
Beckham turned on him. "That is irrelevant!"
Matilda felt her pulse change: four pages—the page she had preserved, the unfinished ending. Robert heard the significance, too; his gaze moved to her.
Beckham lowered the proof. "This evening has become regrettable."
"No," Matilda said. Everyone looked at her. She rose from the pianoforte bench. "It has become clear."
Hester's face went pale with anger. "Sit down!"
Matilda remained standing.
Robert took one step toward her, then stopped. "Would you like to leave?" he asked. The question was quiet.
Matilda looked at the doors. Every part of her wanted to walk through them: she could escape the stares, she could postpone the judgment, she could become invisible again.
Instead, she said, "Not yet."
Robert inclined his head. He did not touch her; he simply remained where she could see him.
Beckham gathered the proofs sharply. "The preview is concluded."
"Because the music is unfinished?" Robert asked.